Stories to take you away.

Stories to help you find yourself.

The Mistake

The massive headphones created an arc on his youthful head that obscured and became part of his face.  On Skype, it was hard to tell where his dark hair began and the headphones ended.  Only the worried brow revealed his true feelings. 

“My wife thinks she’s coming to live with me in New York next month.”   He whispered this, to be sure nobody else could hear.  To be fair, he was sitting in a cubicle in a crowded office and of course he wanted to keep this conversation private.  “I’ve already quit this job and my new one starts in three weeks.  We can’t live in Paris any more. I gave notice on the apartment.” 

His cell phone rang.  “Bonjour mon amour.  I’m just talking now to the lawyer about your green card.  No, everything’s fine.  Just a few final details.”

He hung up and paused, not knowing what to say next. 

“So, you haven’t told her yet?” I asked.  

Sometimes it's a challenge for an immigration lawyer like me to get the whole story from a client.  They tell you the parts that they think will help their cases, and leave out the bits that are painful.  That’s why I’m careful when I agree to do a green card for a married couple.  I want to talk to BOTH the husband and the wife for this kind of case. Two perspectives, two truths, create a stronger case. 

“No, she’s too busy for this.  And I didn’t want her to know that our wedding has completely screwed up our plans.”

“It’s too bad,”  I said.  “Your fiancé visa for her was just about finished.  She would have been on the plane with you next week if you hadn’t rushed off to get married.  A married couple can’t get a fiancé visa. Now she’ll have to wait in Paris for maybe a year.”

“I know that.”  His vitality of 25 years sapped out of him as he faced the first real problem he’d ever known.    “I just thought it wouldn’t matter”.

Fortunately, we could find a solution. 

The end of DOMA?

By Bob Bragar

On June 26, 2013, I was given a new freedom 

and didn't know what do with it.

DOMA abruptly died --

at least the part of it that for decades

had forced me to live abroad

choosing the man I love in Amsterdam

over the life I loved in New York.

After years of struggling to bring DOMA down   

while at the same time not quite letting myself

miss America

or want too badly to go home

-- because I couldn’t, not with my Dutch husband --

I found it hard to let the news sink in.

Minutes after the Supreme Court’s beautiful words

declared gay people worthy of equal protection,

text messages from New York

started cluttering my cell phone in Amsterdam.

“Congratulations!“

“Now you can come home!”

and “Does this mean we will see more of you?”

The surges of celebration

just made me tired.

What would really change?

My life now is here, not there.

I answered churlishly

“It ain’t over yet” and

“The devil is in the details.”

Only one dear friend said, “You’re being crazy.  It’s really over. 

Why aren’t you happy?”

J’accuse is much easier

than j’arrive.

At 61 I’m just too old.  It’s come too late.

I’ve paid the price of second-class citizenship.

No refunds are offered, just a coupon for future discounts

on a garment that no longer fits.

I already paid the absurd inheritance tax

-- much more than Edie Windsor’s --

when my former partner died.

And for years now

my Dutch husband and I have suffered

the indignities of snide immigration officials

at Kennedy Airport

who implicitly questioned our right

to visit my country.

Two decades ago when I met the Dutch man

who would become my husband

Holland welcomed us; America did not.

I’ve created a new life,

learned a new language,

found a new career in a friendly refuge.

Altruism was never really my motive.

I’m not so fine. 

For me the political battle to end DOMA

was a personal one;    

I was fighting for my own rights

and self-respect

as a gay American with a non-American partner.

Nonetheless, we now enjoy the triumph

of full-fledged citizenship. 

There are fights still to be fought

but the Supreme Court has given us a valuable tool. 

The lasting fruits of this victory, of course,

are for younger generations than ours.

For them, DOMA is dead and buried,

and the doors of opportunity

have been flung wide open.

Obama meets Fox News

Why did he go to the heart of the beast?

What kind of guy would be so brave or so foolish? Surely, his advisers would say: Too dangerous! Too hostile!

But Barack Obama wants to reach out – to everyone.

He is the President - of the whole country, not just the Democrats.

He is a guy who thinks the opponents' views must be taken as seriously as those of people who agree. Or even more seriously?

A guy who thinks consensus is not a means but an end.

A guy I admire every day.

March 2010

- Oh mom, just take the damn vitamin C, Maggie said... If it doesn’t work, you’ll just piss it out.

Karen looked away from her daughter’s remark. We exchanged meaningful looks. She sighed. “It doesn’t come from me”.

I smiled, trying not to seem critical. “You have wonderful children”, I said, “and you didn’t do anything to produce that remark.”

Maggie walked away, pleased at having scored. Karen followed, dutifully.

Having children is more than just endless giving, more than sacrificing your happiness for theirs. It seems to be actually giving yourself away to an abusive lover, to whom you are bound till death do you part.

Being gay and childless, my observations on child rearing and parenthood are perhaps not so interesting to parents and children. What could I know? I haven’t been there. I can only imagine how having a child would change my life. And I can walk away from these gyrations at any moment, and do. I am not bound at the hip to a demanding and ungrateful person whom I have loved with a passion since the moment of their birth.

A dilettante psychologist? Maybe. A dilettante at life? Not at all. Those of us who must construct our lives on the outer rim of society have a very different, and equally arduous, task as those who follow the beaten path.

“Alternative families”. Legal rights for our partners and children. Immigration issues, inheritance issues, emotional issues, employment issues, property issues. All of these things that we fight for are commonplace for regular people who only have to repeat the more mundane challenges of their ancestors.

A homosexual is never fully trusted, even today, in many circles. The pink ceiling is real. Even if we create a lot of it ourselves.

Hatred of Muslims

I do not understand the persistent negative
racist?
views of Muslims in the Dutch newspapers.

The mainstream press seems to think

all its readers are blond

as it slights its readers of color – the so-called allochtonen – daily.


Last week our best journal, the NRC, proclaimed:

"Rotterdam takes on the Antillean people!”
(Rotterdam pakt Antilianen aan)

Describing a city plan to visit 30,000 homes of people of Antillean descent
to make sure everybody was at work or at school
without any criticism whatever of the

racist underpinnings of the city’s policy.

This week, when a courageous and talented Turk won the Nobel Prize, the headline was

“If only all Turks were so fine”
(Waren alle Turken maar zo keurig)

taking a day of Turkish pride, and making one winner

the exception to the rule.

The persistent sub-text is: the ____ problem –

referring to one or other racial groups.

For ____, insert “Jewish” and you have returned to a time

before World War II – no progress made, thank you very much.

This hatred of difference is
the ugly side of Europe. What burned the Jews

could do the same to the Muslims, given proper circumstances.

Must we really concern ourselves with what language people are speaking --- at home?

Must we re-create the crusades?

Is a woman’s veil so threatening?

It’s only a piece of fabric.

About work, and age

At 50, I realized that work is my friend. The alternative is too horrible.

Without work, the world gets very small, and very quiet,

Very quickly.

Without work, there are few people to speak to, and fewer who listen.
Without work, life is about tending to one’s own needs, and almost no one else’s.

So I started enjoying work.



At 52, I realized it’s stupid to be afraid. Fear is a waste of time,

and a

needless self-manipulation.

So I stopped taking fear seriously, and saw it an opportunity to dare.



At 53, I realized that energy is the essence.
As decline and death approach – though still from some distance –
giving full energy is a most precious gift.



At 54, I realized it’s not too late to create a future, while fully enjoying the present.


What’s next?

15 October 2006

About writing



Uncle Phil in Mexico shouted into the phone “WRITE FIVE MINUTES EVERY DAY”
And “EVERYBODY’S BUSY – I KNOW YOU WORK HARD
BUT WRITE AND YOU’LL BE AMAZED
AT WHAT COMES OUT”

Maybe.

my desire to express – literally, to push things out -
mixes with a desire for recognition (love?) and
leads to ---- not very much

words on a computer screen

if a tree falls in the woods, and nobody hears it, did it fall?

Phil and his beloved Carlota are both
Artists

and think I have an ability
to write
a gift, they said

in truth, I think so too
but it also seems that my cynicism – maybe anger
overcomes sometimes and gives a tone that puts people off

the new yorker’s most à propos cartoon featured a
wife who consoles her despondent husband by saying
“MAYBE THE REASON NOBODY READS YOUR BLOG IS BECAUSE
IT’S ABOUT YOU?”

is art unvalued? do only prestige and recognition
count?

that’s like asking – is humanity valued?
more in the breach

the love of words is
an escape from harsh testosterone-driven reality
to a more androgenous world where details matter and nuance counts

with my closest colleague – simone – I share a love of grammar and translation
that rises above the content we consider.
these are the ties that bind.

Ellie Bragar's Second Memorial Service (there were three)

It’s hard to believe a year has passed
without Ellie
The Jewish tradition calls for unveiling
a gravestone, but we don’t have one.

For the last year, Mom’s ashes sat quietly
in a little cardboard box, under a brass Buddha
in the Tribeca loft of my oldest friends, Bill and Peter

We thought she’d like it better there than in Amsterdam.
After all, she was a New Yorker in her heart.
She wanted to live only there and her marital excursions – to New Jersey and California -
were not happy times for her.
The City was the place she understood
Its noise, energy and chaos spoke to her deeply. She understood its logic.

So when the time came to scatter the ashes
it made sense to do it in Manhattan.
But where?

My first thought: In front of TKTS
Got the response – You’re throwing your mother in the gutter?
But Cousin Barbara made the wise suggestion
to scatter bits of ash around town, at places that were meaningful to Mom
an idea which also had the advantage or reducing the bulk of the ash
and thus, to my relativist mind, reducing the illegality of unlicensed disposal.

We made it a two-day affair or, as Joani said, we did it the European way – slowly.
A real family reunion – Michael flew in from California, Rebecca and Stephen drove down with Joan from Massachusetts.

We had luxurious suites on the Upper East Side, by the UN.
Joan brought photos – a wonderful album she created with photos stretching from Granny Millstein in 1900, through my bar mitzvah in 1964, to babies Rebecca and Michael, in the 80s. There was also a touching photo of my beloved Jay, may he rest in peace – all of us whom Mom loved. We admired the photos of Mom’s wedding with Norman, in 1951, an elegant Fifth Avenue affair,
with tables full of immigrant relations, all of whom are now dead.


It rained.
The heavens poured their sorrows onto us
from a stationary front that lingered over the tri-state area, creating “flood warnings”.
It was perfect, because it reminded us that Mom would say “carry an umbrella” and go forward! So we did.

On day 1, Saturday, a core group of Joan, Barbara, Rik and myself, them that loved her, began the process, with umbrellas, of scattering the ashes, in the places that mattered.

First, #1 Fifth Avenue, Mom’s wedding scene, formerly an elegant hotel, now a condominium. We wandered the original wood-paneled lobby, and scattered ashes tentatively in the red and yellow flower beds on the sidewalk.

We scooped the ashes
from a blue Tiffany’s bag that was protected from the rain by
a white plastic Macy’s bag

using a silver plate serving spoon from Mom’s original collection.

Then to Washington Square, to the flower beds to the east of the arch, to commemorate Mom’s decades as a doyenne of Greenwich Village.

Then to the site of the former Fifth Avenue Center, where Mom became a therapist.

Then to 44 West 12th Street, where Mom lived for 16 years, from 1966 until her departure for California in 1982. I wanted to knock on the door, and take a look, but Joan wisely advised against it.
It’s better to have our memories than to see how the new residents have changed the place.

At each site we praised Mom’s life, and told the sweet intimate stories that are our memories.

Then a taxi up Sixth Avenue, to Macy’s. First we scattered a bit in the lovely flowered garden that is now Herald Square. Then we took the special step of entering Macy’s in a tribute to Mom’s adventure in the handbag department with her beloved sister, Renée, may she rest in peace.

Family lore has it that Mom and Renée, young women in 1943, were en route to see Grandma in Miami Beach, using train tickets obtained at great effort by Uncle Dan Millstein, a macher in the garment center who had connections at Penn Station.

They stopped at Macy’s on their way to the train. Though they already had packed a “steamer trunk” full of clothes for the two week trip, they felt they needed an extra handbag, and at Macy’s found a divine creation, which they then bought in four different colors.

This adventure caused them to miss their train, and they were forced to trudge, hats in hand, back to Uncle Dan to beg him to get tickets for TOMORROW’s train to Miami.
Well, he did. And on THAT train, Renée met her future husband, the late Paul Levin, a handsome soldier who was also en route to Miami to see his mother. Renée and Paul were married in great ceremony six weeks later at the Rooney Plaza hotel in Miami Beach.

So, one could say, the handbag department at Macy’s gave us Barbara, Renée and Paul’s daughter! In gratitude for that, we stood close to a glass shelf next to a patterned, Florida-sort of handbag, and took a photo of Barbara. Thank you, Macy’s!!

Then to TKTS on Duffy Square, which was Mom’s favorite place.
When I came to town, she’d always say “Let’s meet in front of TKTS.” Theater was Mom’s delight. It invented reality, just as she would like to.

At the theatre, she was critical but had catholic tastes – she saw EVERYTHING. And the only thing better than theater tickets were half-price theater tickets.

I was always mildly embarrassed, because she knew the guy who guarded the line (she gave “free therapy”) so she never had to wait on line to pay.

While thousand of tourists waited their turn, my mother would walk straight to the window (my $100 in hand) and get choice seats for the show we had chosen. Then a dash to the theater – we were never later, but never early either – for a couple of hours of happiness.

But TKTS isn’t there any more! They’ve moved it so they can build something else in the spot! What to do? Cops were everywhere, and Barbara warned they would think we were terrorists sprinkling anthrax in Times Square. So, we decided the spot is still important, even though TKTS has moved, and we huddled in a closed circle, hidden by our open umbrellas, and quickly sprinkled just the smallest pinch of ashes on the beloved pavement of Times Square, saying words in memory of Mom’s love of the theater and our happy times there.

Back at the Beekman Tower Suites, we met Rebecca and Michael and Stephen
And drank chilled white wine and ate nuts
Then went to dinner at Montparnasse on 52nd Street
As guests of Barbara and Jim
the air conditioning blew
And we all tasted the tatin au chevre
I had coq au vin
And Mike asked if we ate hamburgers in Holland.

Day 2, Sunday
brought challenging news from the Boat House Restaurant
that our very large party, now numbering 22
would have to choose a pricey fixed price menu
Triple the amount we anticipated.
Ellie would not approve. She hated spending money on restaurants.
A hurried call to Barbara for her restaurant strategy, got us an alternate reservation at Ocean Grill
the restaurant on the West Side where we lunched
after Mom’s funeral, a year before.

At 11:30, we met our guests, our fellow memorializers, at the outside bar at the Boat House
21 strong, Barbara and Jim, Alisha Dimond, Eleanor and Chaim and Ilan, Michael Barrett and his sister, Doris Melikor, Rena Shadmi, Fran Rosensweig came from New Jersey, Paulette, Bill and Peter, Ellis Green, and briefly Charles Evans.

We deliberated as the rain got worse. Should we wait for it to pass?
and finally decided just to go ahead, and climbed the hill to the Rambles
and spread the rest of Mom’s ashes around a big, old, gnarled tree in a large grassy area
I said that the heavens were raining their tears
and that when we were children Mom used to say, when exasperated, “what would you do if I weren’t here?”
Now we have to figure out the answer to that question, every day.

Almost everyone else told a story of their particular memories of Mom
then those who wished to each spooned out the last of the ashes
on the meadow
and Joani and I finished them off, around the tree.
Joan cried.

The rain grew stronger
and we set off for the restaurant, on the West Side, through the Park
which proved farther away, and harder to find, than we anticipated
we climbed hills and crossed lakes
like Lewis and Clarke, explorers in Manhattan
I worried about the older ladies,
but they carried on like troopers
and we appreciated the restaurant all the more when we finally arrived.

For Paulette, it was her father’s 10th Jahrzeit, so she preferred not to join us
but rather to have her private memories.

At lunch everyone perked up. We drank a toast to Ellie
A blond waitress, with a teary face, told me the restaurant staff regretted our loss
and had considered sending us champagne
but didn’t know if that would be appropriate.

Our memorial was a great success
We evoked Mom as though she were alive today, and
we scattered her ashes meaningfully and memorably, in the presence of
a hard-core crowd of people who loved and appreciated Eleanor Ades Bragar

Several asked me if we could possibly
meet again next year.
I would like that.

June 28, 2006

Cape Town
22-30 January 2005

Not quite Africa?

............


During my first trip
to South Africa in 1984
at the height of apartheid
which was invisible to me
walking the streets of Jo’burg
South Africa struck me as
more like America
than anyplace else.

Europe is so tense, in comparison,
communicating less openly
and
South Africa and America share
ebullience, aggressive business cultures, and
comparable racial compositions (though not proportions)
so I felt quite at home here.

It’s still true.
and I still do.

So much so that
Rik and I decided for the first time
to vacation in Cape Town this week
We needed sun
and good prices
and my friend Ingrid
had tips on where to go.
The “free” KLM ticket (on miles)
topped it off.
with a non-stop flight to Cape Town
across the great African continent

hours of brown Sahara.

An Inspiration!
and certainly
not a disappointment.

Rik has never been to Africa
so I had to tell him gently
that he wasn’t going to be in Africa
Now.

The guidebooks say
that most tourists here
remain in the former “white” areas
And that’s very true.

Our guest house
hugs the edge of the towering Tafelberg mountain
which is lighted magnificently
as only a truly rich country
could or would.

Such opulence!
I can’t deny
that we are enjoying it
Especially when mixed with
excursions to visit
extraordinary scenery
and eat wonderful foods
and visit spectacular vineyards
and drink wonderful wines.

One cannot forget
that this wealth lies atop
the vast poverty beneath
our feet

I have to reflect
on why it took so long
for South Africa’s fascists
to realize
as they did in the American South
forty years earlier
that legal restrictions on the poor
are not needed
because the laws of economics and tradition
are much stronger.

In fact, did they do anything much different
than white power structures do elsewhere
by other means?
Was the world being hypocritical
by attacking them for
crossing the line into
legalized racism?

No.
The terrible crimes of the Nationalist fascists
who brutally terrorized the non-whites
for decades
will not be forgotten.
But was that what
inflamed the outrage of the world?


Of course, the racial breakdown in the RSA
is different than in Alabama
and if 80% of the voters
are poor and maybe angry
any democracy might tremble

In South Africa
there now is a surprising alliance
between the new burgeoning black middle-class
and the old white rich one
The ANC has even now merged
with the Nationalist party!

And in Cape Town
the poor
remain mostly out of sight, still segregated
in townships – both coloured and black
and shanty towns
despite ten years
of majority rule.
Interesting.

The post-apartheid regime
has taken no visible steps
to re-populate
Cape Town’s district six
the former downtown neighbourhood
from which people of colour
were forcibly removed
in the 60s and 70s.

Perhaps it took those 40 years
since JFK
for the fascists to realize
that their best friend
would be black rulers
who share their interests.

Of course, I am being most unkind,
uncharitable
and possibly unfair and
or inaccurate.

It is certainly just
for those who can succeed
to do so.
As they have.

And it’s also true.
that poverty is a most sticky condition
unchangeable by legislation, or even money.
I don’t know the answer.
I wish I did.

And I wonder at the patience
of South Africa’s poor
confronted by such splendour.

Will their trust in the ANC continue
after Mandela dies?

And I long
for some displays
of social solidarity
rather than the repeated scandals
that the newspapers revel in.

But is this prosperity built
truly on the backs
of the poor?

Is cheap labour still
needed for South Africa’s success?

Perhaps no longer
except of course in agriculture and mining
Whatever the case
It was on the back of the African poor
that Europeans built their futures here
not so long ago
the English came
for gold and diamonds, needing cheap mine workers.
True conquistadors, despite their pretensions
to being a
civilizing force.

And Empire – Rhodes (was he gay?)
dreamed of dominions stretching
from Kenya to Cape Town
his roadside monument here
remains prominent
and evokes memories
of Franco’s in Spain.

Interesting how the Dutch – my Dutch
seem to have had softer ambitions
here
sending their own poor farmers
to grow renewable resources
to feed passing merchant ships
en route to the Indies.

Of course the English, in 1806
ended the slavery that
the Dutch had used for 150 years
but replaced it quickly
with an indentured servitude
not so very different.





Tuesday, 25 January.

We arrived Saturday night at midnight and, after a long
line at customs, we
were picked up by a snazzy Mercedes with a uniformed
driver. My dream of
having a person bearing a sign with my name on it to meet
me at an airport
was finally realized.

We stayed Saturday night at Acorn House, a VERY charming,
small guest house
in Oranjezicht for a very good price. Keep it in mind.
The slight, black
hostess, Janelle, was perky, informative and charming.


We transferred Sunday to Die Tafelberg Guesthouse, run by
Belgians Ann and Chris. It is spacious and modern and has spectacular views of the city and the bay.
And rather too much marble.

Our room is large and sexy, with a Persian open shower built
for two, and with
lights over the bed.
Did I give that impression on the phone?

Sunday, we walked down Company Gardens into town,
stopping at the South African Museum of Fine Arts
to view Dutch masters
and tribal art.

We went shopping at Edgar’s because
I needed walking shoes
but my poor feet are too big
for any stores outside of
America.


Then we went to the marvellous mountainside arboretum at Kirstenbosch
(founded by an ancestor of Ingrid)
and heard the Sunday outdoor concert
on the vast lawn
surrounded by hundreds of blond families.
How can even this beautiful thing
be SO segregated?

But the concert and setting were
Delightful!
I napped. I am finally feeling my pent-up
fatigue.

Returning to the guest house, we had a crazed but
friendly cab driver, who
wanted to take us to a gay bar called The Bronx, and told me
to "hou Rik vast"
when the other boys see him. We didn't go.

We had dinner at Kennedy’s Restaurant (good) on Long
Street downtown (which felt threatening).

Monday, we took the revolving cable car to the top of
Tafelberg.
Spectacular!! Views of the Cape, and oceans and marvels!

Monday evening, I took a cab to Woolworth’s and got us
food for dinner,
which we ate on the terrace at the guest house, admiring
the spectacular
clouds and moon over the bay, and swallowing two bottles
of lovely white
wine in the bargain. Bosa Nova music was playing.
and I hummed
Moon over Miami.

Tuesday, we rented a car, and went to the historic
vineyard Groot Constantia (beautiful!).

As late as 1800
There were only 1000 whites here
planted by the Dutch VOC
to feed their ships
en route to Asia.
Only then did the VOC realize
that South Africa’s wines
could be sold at great profit
in Europe and they controlled the farmer’s
prices on wine
until the farmers rebelled.

We tasted and bought delicious
wines, and most of the other visitors
were also gay couples
It seemed.
It’s so nice that we are protected
by this country’s
Constitution.

We drove from Groot Constantia
to Stellenbosch town (sunny) (the winery there had just
closed), then drove
(N310) across the peninsula and along the costal road
(M6) winding our way
past spectacular beaches back to Cape Town, climbing
Chapman’s Peak and
stopping to eat good steaks at Marc’s Grill in Houtbay. The
waitress there was
quick, kind and charming.


Wednesday, 26 January

We went to the bottom
of the continent
Cape of Good Hope
more or less
And sampled unpopulated vast sandy beaches
and drove back
the only tourists ever (probably)
to drive Chapman’s pass
and eat at Marc’s Grill in Hout Bay
two days in a row!
The only difference was
that I had the filet (best ever!)
instead of T-bone
and Rik had 8 giant prawns
instead of the line fish
of the night before.


Thursday, 27 January

Our tour of the Townships
with Mandisa of Pride Tours
was special because
she told us her girlhood story.
Her mother and father – who were dark, black
reclassified her and her brother
to the lighter, more privileged “coloured”
to enable them to live in the nicer
coloured townships and use those schools.
The price of course
was that they could not speak
their own Xhosa language
with its distinctive “clicks”
even in their own home
because the neighbours, if they heard, would realize
that they were really black
and they would lose their home.
Even at school, as a girl,
Mandisa did not want to be seen with her darker parents
for fear
of being revealed.

She now struggles
with the bigger, white-owned tour companies
that get the lucrative groups
I regretted that Rik and I
were only a group of two.


Saturday, 29 January

After 2 lovely days
lying by the pool + dinner
+ reading Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion
we ventured out
to dinner at Franschhoek
an hour east – past Stellenbosch
in a rented red car
for one final evening
before our departure.

I drove on the left, with a manual transmission!
very well, and considered that this
shift to driving in the left lane
is one of the few times
that a person ever
actually changes his paradigm
reversing all of the assumptions
about movement, expectations, dangers
maybe because
your life depends on it.

Franschhoek is a dorp so beautiful
that its sole main street
is lined with attractive restaurants
some very fancy
We had mussels in white wine sauce
and duck à l’orange
40 euros for 2, with wine.
such a bargain!
This place is so terrific
that Sotheby’s Real Estate
has already set up operations
to sell great properties
to the rich.

We flew back to Cape Town
along the N-1
descending into the city
in time to pack and make
the midnight plane
non-stop flight
back to the rain
of Amsterdam.

But we’ll be back!


…………………………
Bob Bragar
31 January 2005

Attack on the World Trade Center – 9/11 one week later.

Amsterdam Schiphol Airport – 16th September 2001

a silent camaraderie surrounds those of us
boarding the first plane to New York
since the attack.

for six days there were few flights
westbound over the atlantic
and seats were scarce.

at 5:30 a.m. 200 apprehensive passengers line up
to check in at silent and empty schiphol
for Singapore’s 8 am flight to Newark
with an odd mixture of joviality and a sense of
meeting with destiny.
despite the massive television coverage
uncertain what we’ll find on the other side
watching every passenger of colour
have their bags extensively checked
by security


Letter from New York – 18th September 2001



Few things are more beautiful
than New York on a nice day.

The sun is shining and the air is
warm and clear
except for the column of smoke and dust that
rises stubbornly from downtown
visible even a week after the attack
and five miles away.


In midtown, people are trying to
return to normal
which is an act of defiance that
says we will not be defeated.
The traffic on Eighth Avenue is much quieter than normal
no cars are honking – which is eerie in New York.

There is also the quiet that comes from
the deep sadness that sticks
to everything and everyone
and there is

the quiet that comes from fear.

In the large, silent dining room at the Howard Johnson’s Hotel
at 8th Avenue and 51st Street
for two days in a row I am
the only person eating
breakfast at 8 a.m.

5400 people are missing
218 are confirmed to be dead in New York
179 people have been rescued but
not a single one has been found alive
in the last six days.

The television reports that there must soon be
the painful decision of whether and when
to change from a rescue and cleanup operation
to the much swifter
just cleanup operation. That is,

when to declare the missing to be dead

when to give up hope.


The rescue workers - thousands strong
are valiant and none wants to
quit working around the clock.
The restaurants have joined together
to cater food to the rescuers.

They are serving 20,000 meals every day.


Though 50,000 tons have already been removed
the mountain of debris is hardly smaller.
Rescue workers have trod gently – using dogs
to sniff out signs of life.

Hope centers
on “voids” in the rubble where people might survive.
The fire department has allowed fires in the wreckage to burn unchecked,
for fear that water would drown trapped survivors.

But the mayor and his aides
– as though trying to break the news gently –
are frequently on television with ever more pessimistic messages
about the possibility of finding survivors.

Stories of courage abound
about the hundreds of unsung heroes:
the cripple who was carried by his co-workers
down 77 flights of stairs
the firemen – 300 of them have been lost –
who rushed back uptown to handle normal fires
in the midst of the crisis.


Today’s NY Times editorial praised the teachers
who evacuated 8000 children from nearby schools,
walking through smoke and chaos,
without sustaining a single serious injury.

One school was so close to the towers
that it was damaged by fiery debris. The Times said:

“Their achievement was even more amazing given that the disaster occurred on the third day of the school year, requiring the teachers to deal with frightened children that they hardly knew. Some students and teachers took shelter in a parking garage to avoid falling debris. Many of the children were screaming for parents who actually worked in the towers. As one teacher stepped into the street, a small child saw burning bodies falling from the tower and cried out ‘Look, teacher, the birds are on fire!’ The teachers at Public School 234, on Chambers Street, had to evacuate 6- and 7-year-olds during the most harrowing part of the disaster, just after the second Trade Center tower collapsed, enveloping the school in a debris-filled cloud. Taking some students by the hand and carrying others on their shoulders, the teachers plunged through the rubble-strewn streets that were clogged with adults running for their lives. With their small charges in tow, they walked 40 minutes north to the safety of the nearest safe school in Greenwich Village. Some children whose parents could not get to them by the close of the day went home with teachers with whom they stayed until their mothers or fathers could be reached by phone.”


And everywhere on the streets
there are homemade notices posted on walls
by relatives searching for the missing.

HAVE YOU SEEN JULIO GONZALES?
AGE 27 – WORKED AT BROWN AND WOOD, 87TH FLOOR.

And people have placed
high piles of flowers of gratitude
in front of fire and police stations

On some street corners people have
spontaneously created memorials
laying flowers and candles and photos
on tables.

People applaud as rescue workers walk by.

On the subway platforms
the city has stationed many transit workers
who wear bright red vests
to guide people
through the system that changes
as every day different stations downtown are open
or closed. When you ask directions
people are elaborate in their
kindness and want to
walk with you until you reach
your train.

There are lots of trains
they are clean and not crowded
but if the train you are in
stops unexpectedly in the tunnel
near World Trade Center
you can’t help but wonder whether
that tunnel might collapse and everyone
becomes very quiet.

My cousin Barbara
told me that people jump, startled by ANY loud noise or siren.
That’s what terrorism does.


Mayor Giuliani , scorned for years as a tyrant
is the calm hero of the day.
Many who hated him till last Tuesday
now want to cancel the mayoral election in which he cannot participate
due to term limits
and let him stay on as mayor for another year.

--

Downtown - lower Manhattan
- is very different from midtown.
There is no “normalcy” here.

Thousands cannot go back to their homes.
My dear friends Bill and Peter
watched from their 12th-floor roof garden in Tribeca
and saw people leaping from the towers.
They saw the cloud of dust 6-storeys high approach – but not reach –
their apartment building which is
now uninhabitable due to
lack of electricity, water, gas and phone service
and due to an abundance of
foul air. They have left and taken refuge
with friends a hundred miles away in the country.


The stock exchanges on Wall Street have reopened.
Office workers fill the narrow streets.
They show ID to get past police barricades to their offices
and they wear surgical facemasks to protect them
from the thick haze of dust that
still is in the air and that has whitened the buildings.

Skyscrapers that normally house tens of thousands of workers -
Marine Midland Plaza, 140 Broadway, Chase Manhattan Plaza,
appear to be entirely abandoned.

30 older buildings around the World Trade Center
have been structurally “compromised”
and are empty.

Dozens of surrounding stores
and hundreds of offices
have been closed.

Soldiers line the streets
and you can’t get closer than two blocks
from where the world trade towers stood

but you can see the 5-story, white, curvy shards
that still stick up like a haunted forest
in the ghostly mist of dust.

A city of the dead.
You can see them
but not without shedding a tear.


Downtown you realize
that this was an act of war.

Downtown you see
that a monstrous thing has occurred
that cannot be forgotten
and will not be forgiven.

Downtown you can understand
the anger and desire for revenge
that live together with the sadness.

And life will go on. It always does.

But the return to normalcy will cover a
deep wound.

…………………..

Bob Bragar
September 18, 2001

All Rights Reserved
Robert Bragar 2005

Poland, Slovak Republic, Hungary

August 2005





Palace of Culture
Warsaw
















19th August 2005


1.

rik and i were unexpectedly thrilled
when 10 new eastern nations
joined the eu all at once
last summer


we wanted to jump in a car
and rush east to meet and greet
our new neighbours

perhaps this eu expansion was unwise
joining ten relatively poor countries
to the prosperous west so suddenly
it caused great consternation in the old europe
that needs a little more time to gell
and whose governments conspicuously failed
to consult their citizens about this big step

in fact the new europe is very much the old europe
from many years ago
not yet prosperous, often poor
and still riven by ethnic divides
old hatreds
and nationalism of the sort
that fueled WW1

eu accession presents
such tremendous opportunities for peace and prosperity
and maybe a few extra waiters
to improve the service in amsterdam’s restaurants?

mr. bush is quite right that
east of the oder
lie america’s opportunities
for new trade and new political initiatives
maybe that’s what he means
by "new"?



2.

up at 7, final packing
straighten up the apartment for
rik’s parents, hen(drik jan) and hen(drina)
who will use it to enjoy amsterdam
while we are away

we’re in the taxi at 8:30
(an odorous young driver)
and arrive quickly at the distant gate at schiphol
by 9:10 (including a stop to buy magazines)

czech airlines is comfortable and friendly
but a half hour late.
which makes our connection in Prague
very tight
we run to the next gate
the agent has already cancelled our seats
but she quickly re-instates them
and manages to get our luggage
on the plane. Well done!!



3.

to jewish friends and family, I apologize
for vacationing in poland
where europe’s largest and most historic
jewish community – a center for learning and culture
since the 1500s,
3 million strong
was completely exterminated
by nazi germany

the extent of polish collaboration - and of polish kindness and courage
are covered
by the haze of soviet domination
that rewrote history
to serve its own ends

one polish jew, stanislaw krajewski, wrote
the poles didn’t do it
but many probably also did not regret
that the germans did

my dear friend paulette whose mother was born in krakow, said

blood was on every field – blood flowed in every river.

a veritable Rwanda
jews constituted 30% of warsaw’s population
virtually none survived
hardly a vacation spot
especially if anti-semitism still thrives

as in Rwanda
the allies did almost nothing to
stop the holocaust
they did not bomb the train tracks that led
to the camps, it is said
we are not fighting a jewish war, FDR is said to have said

but there is good as well as evil
everywhere
and no country has completely clean hands
if the truth be told
poland is a large and important brand new member of the european union
that I want to understand

it leapt from the warsaw pact to nato
in 10 short years, from 1989 to 1999

the savagery of the war oppressed both gentile and jew
Poland lost 6 million of its citizens, half of them jews, and half not
2/3 of warsaw’s population was killed
hitler boasted inaccurately that he had eliminated
the entire city


so I decided that
then was then and now is now
and I will allow that people in Poland can be fine

as an open homosexual, that’s a
challenge I face almost every day
gay people are born not made
and prejudice against us
is pure racism
that deserves no sympathy, but maybe
pity

--

4.

at warsaw airport
the hotel’s driver meets us
a short walk to his comfortable, new mercedes van
he speaks almost no English
the highway is clean and modern
we drive by expensive car dealerships / audi / porsche

our hotel, the polonia palace is right downtown
elegant, atrium lobby
renovated last year
in subdued and good taste
pale shades of yellow
attentive staff
a four-star hotel
available for only USD 67, including tax and breakfast
on the polish website
(half the price of western websites)
says a lot about the bargains to be had
in the new europe

three trim shirtless men
are working atop the high glass atrium
cleaning it
with machines that make a loud rude noise
in the lobby below
and we wonder if its dangerous for them
to walk directly on the glass rather than the frame

in our spacious corner room
we take a quick nap
then set out to view
the big city

stopping in a shop
to buy 2 apples and wasa crackers
all for less than one euro, less than a third of the price in amsterdam
the staff speak no english whatever

warsaw is rich in history
its architecture speaks volumes
about the nazi devastation
and the communist re-building.

we walk through warzawa centralna
the vast train station
located on ul. Jerozalominskie, Jerusalem street
so-named after the jewish village it used to lead to

we wander through the underground arcades
surrounding the train station
bustling with shops and activity
you can buy train tickets at little kiosks
we examine the yellow schedule, posted on the wall
deciphering polish words
to decide which train we should take
to go to krakow in two days’ time.

at the station’s tourist center
where English is spoken
we get clearer information about the trains
and we learn there is a 3-hour city tour
leaving in just 45 minutes
from the marriott hotel, across the street.

we book it, and wander off
to the stalinist palace of culture
once the highest building in europe
constructed by the communists in 1955
this old-fashioned, ornate spired tower
looks like something built in new york
in 1915 – maybe the woolworth building or 230 park ave.
those stalinists sure had
conservative taste in buildings

in the palace of culture
the ticket lady speaks no English
but it’s apparent that she wants to warn us
that the museum closes in only 30 minutes
I think she’s speaking russian and not polish- she says da , I think, for yes.
but we are all just guessing
we buy the tickets
and meander through a collection
of ancient technology, stretching from old-fashioned steel manufacture
to an impressive assortment
of 19th? century household appliances – old clothes washers (including a bendix)
one friendly lady guard (the same large lady sort who guard the museums in Russia)
turns on an old, electric, wood-tub washer and we watch the thing go around while the mangle squeezes invisible cloth.
A young blond mother showed her two blond children basic elements of physics
that were on display

--

5.

at 5:15 promptly
we were at the marriott hotel ready for our tour
seated in the marble lobby (garish compared with the tasteful polonia)
at 5:25, our guide appears
jerze, blond, about 30, painfully skinny shoulders
loquacious and well informed
talking with a desperate persistence
leads us to our car
again, a large, comfortable mercedes van

he leads us through the extraordinary
łazienki park
we walk on paths centuries old
and admire “the royal baths”
and handsome garden palaces of former monarchs
and talk about politics and history



we stand in front of the neo-classic belvedere palace
which jerze explains was not destroyed by the germans
because the ss wanted it as
their headquarters





he says

after the change, we made a mistake – we forgave the leaders of the old regime. we were too christian

and

we need a viable political left, but the left is now dominated by too many of the old faces, and we cannot trust them

and

chamberlain appeased hitler;
churchill and roosevelt appeased stalin

hard feelings still exist

toward Russia, whose troops in 1944
stood passively by across the river
to let hitler finish the job
of destroying polish resistance and Warsaw
it is said


but not toward germany who sent food
in the 1980s when it was needed
after communist farm management
began to starve the country
the germans won our hearts, jerze told us
we stopped believing russian lies
that germany is the enemy

he talks at length
about the movie the pianist
he says it's a true story
and the book is better
jerze says the pianist was a rare
assimilated jew who spoke polish well
and so could find support from gentile friends
because he had them
i'm struck by the story’s humanity
showing the german officer’s tenderness in the context of barbarism

poland's jews were largely unassimilated
and spoke only broken polish
dressing differently and living apart from the other poles
much like some of today's muslim's in holland and france
and arousing the same sort of hatred

such hatred of ethnic differences in one's midst
is the ugly side of europe

jerze tells us of poland’s lengthy, honorable and tragic history.
Beginning in the 1500s, when poland was the first in continental europe
to allow republicanism and even
to elect its kings
and granted liberal freedoms to jews
centuries before any other european country
hence attracting the jews of the diaspora
who were escaping from the Iberian inquisition
to settle here



we visit the site of the jewish ghetto
which was completely demolished
all that remains is a grassy city park
with a few trees
crossed by footpaths
and now marked by an impressive black monument
to the 300,000 herded within the ghetto walls by the nazis
who died here
from starvation and disease
and a smaller monument
to commemorate the sewer opening
through which some escaped

it’s striking
how unimpressive the site is now
life does go on, sort of
does the suffering of the past
mean anything?

I only see a mother
strolling her baby across a lawn

but the sadness of the place
is palpable

we tour the old town, stare miasto, which is in fact completely new
rebuilt since the war
a recreation of the national heritage
much like the palaces that were rebuilt
near st. petersburg.

it cannot be entirely healthy
for a country’s thoughts
to be so focused on the past
or does it just seem that way
to me the visitor?

are we being fed a grizzly history
as a macabre tourist attraction?

after 4 hours of voluable touring
we say goodbye to Jerze and the driver
in the old town
and have dinner in the restaurant
jerze recommends
he says even I could afford to eat in that one

---

6.

it’s an elegant, step-down place called u dekerta restauracja
rather like a wine cellar
located on the reconstructed square
in the old town
where you would expect a restaurant to be
overpriced and touristy
but it was not

I start with wild mushroom and beef soup
rik has blini with mushroooms and creme fraiche
then as a main course
I have roast duck with plums
and rik has goose
all in generous portions
served with baked apples filled with cranberry sauce
and sweet red grated cabbage
and fried potato-like puffs
and salads
really delicious
with polish beer to start
and Spanish wine during dinner

we walk beyond the walls
of the old town
and negotiate with taxis
as jerze instructed
not to pay more than Z20 (6 dollars)
the second cab we find
agrees

we sleep very soundly that night
in elegant repose
there’s nothing quite like
a really good hotel
for a good night’s sleep



Saturday, 20th August 2005

7.

the hotel’s gym
is small but complete
and I’m the only one to use it

we breakfast in the rather grand
louis seize-ish restaurant
I think of peter schlosser
who likes meals that have
lots of different things to taste
he’d be happy here
cheeses, breads, various smoked fishes, meats, fruits, omelettes
really a feast
we make the most of it

we set off to tour
first a stop at the internet café
to record these notes
then to the orbis travel agency
for train tickets to cracow, Sunday
2 hours 45 minutes non-stop in the ICE service
first class for
30 euros – not bad
then to the supermarket across the street
very large and
abundant with beautiful foods
then to enjoy the view at
the observation point of the stalinist
palace of culture
31 stories above
the city

it’s too easy to call this city
ugly
as the guide books tend to
is new york so lovely?
the aesthetic judgment is as much a condemnation
of the prior leaders
as the architecture, I think.
warsaw is a city
with wide avenues
and lots of shops and restaurants
and clean sidewalks
swept by the shopkeepers
they are cleaner than in Amsterdam
and large plastic arm chairs
at every bus stop!
all in all, a reasonably pleasant place
at least downtown
of course we have had
exceedingly good weather
which makes any town
look good.

dutch trade is well-represented
albert (ahold polska) is next to
c&a which is by
ing real estate who is brokering
the very fancy new office towers
across the street from ing's daughter
nationale nederland
oranje boven!

ikea and tesco are also here
to serve the growing middle class

having started a bit late
the day is growing short
we take a taxi
to a bit that remains of the ghetto wall

the taxi leaves us
to find it in a residential district
surrounded by modernist, pre-war
apartment buildings

we ask a burly man for directions
though he speaks no English
he knows exactly what we are looking for
and gruffly leads us on our way

when we arrive at the brief bit of bricks
containing a plaque that commemorates the visit by Israeli leaders
during a state visit in 1988
just after Poland and Israel first established diplomatic relations

an old man approaches us
in his fenced garden next to the wall
he says he is 84 years old
and shows us the many pages of his book
containing grateful messages/letters/postcards and photos from the many people
including some dignitaries
to whom he has shown the wall
he tells us the story of the wall in broken german
that i can understand
others approach to listen




his black iron garden fence
has very sharp points if you touch it
but he places his book
on a small wooden platform
installed atop the fence
for this purpose



a group of Italian tourists walks by
and gets their history lesson
from their Italian guide
why do Italians always seem
so happy?

After ten minutes we
thank the gentleman
Rik writes a note in the book
and we pay him for his service.

we then set out
to find the synagogue on Twada street
the map of the ghetto that the old man
gave us show twada street
only a few steps away
but of course the ghetto streets no longer exist
and twada street is now much farther away
at first a drunken and rather dirty man tries to lead us
but he falls away (or rather, I say thank you rather forcefully)

a parked taxi driver
gives us precise directions
to the ornate and large synagogue.
it is astounding that it is still there, and intact
that the Nazis did not destroy it first thing.
this voice from long before the war
now an abandoned structure
supported with donations from
an american jewish foundation.

regretful that we cannot visit
the jewish historical institute
with its graphic ghetto history
because it’s closed on the weekends

i stop at an internet café
alongside the hotel
to work on this journal
rik is tired and
wants no part of it
and he returns to the hotel

--

8.

we inquire about concerts but it’s summer
and only tourists are here
so we sign up for a “private” concert / only for 14 tourists
at the łazienski palace, back at the royal gardens
in the ornate ball room we are seated on little gold and white chairs
played by grey—haired Professor Maciej Poliszewski
who trained at julliard in new york
and in moscow
he is marvelously talented – reminding me of mr. horvath, the
hungarian piano teacher of my youth
powerful hairy fingers work their way through chopin
the first half of the evening is
largely in minor keys
ballade in g minor
mazurkas in e minor, a-flat minor and c-sharp minor
and finally a scherzo (no.2) in the dreaded b-flat minor
after intermission, i change our seats so we can see his hands better
and the music goes to major keys
ending with a waltz and then
the famous polonaise, both in a-flat major

we bought the cd
the professor stood in the corner of the ornate chamber
and silently but graciously signed it
he speaks little english

we dine with two delightful english ladies / dominique and anne
whom we met at the concert
we plow through the trendy nowy swiat street/ passing sushi and pasta
to find a polish dinner
we have a wonderful time
agreeing volubly on so many points: camilla’s dress, tony blair, iraq, the bbc
and much of the charm comes from not
exchanging names or numbers
so it’s just a pleasant memory / and not a relationship

Sunday, 21st August 2005

9.

on the 3rd day of any trip abroad
my brain slows down and
stops racing through interpretations/ opinions/ evaluations/ and judgments
of everything i see
so i can begin to see where we are
a little more clearly

tourists view everything / but see little / and understand nothing
we bear heavy baggage that blocks our vision
but it’s still much better
than staying at home

for me, business travel is better than tourism
because then i interact more meaningfully with local people
working to accomplish defined goals
the local laws and business realities become visible

for me the oddest travel is to america
where i am both at home and with rik a tourist
that’s where i feel most foreign, now
i see and understand more about america
than i ever did when i lived there
werner erhard said: a fish never sees the water
that it swims in

--

10.

rik exercises at the gym early
we quickly pack and check out so as to
arrive at the national art museum when
it opens at 10

rik finds the plain 1930s structure an example
of fascist modern
i know what he means but
i just think it’s modern

the collection is a fine display of
polish artistic prowess
stretching back almost 700 years
starting with fabulous triptychs from the 1200s
and an awesome life-sized wood carving
of a bleeding emaciated christ
dying stretched over a grieving mary’s lap
there is an impressive collection of painting and sculpture
from the renaissance to the modern age

we breeze through in an hour
then walk quickly back to our hotel / get our bags
and cross the street to warzawa centralna
for the 12:05 ICE train to krakow
on track 4
a polish tourist worker on the platform
asks if we needed information about hostels
in kracow / we don’t
but I am impressed that she is there

the cars are a little old fashioned
but upholstered and comfortable
tracks bumpy near warsaw and kracow
but smooth and fast in between

we share our compartment with
one lady with black hair sitting by the door
dressed in a white suit with embroidered top
who silently reads a mathematics paperback
and reminds us of paulette h.

there is no air conditioning
and it is a bit warm
so we use my water bottle
to prop the window open
in the passage

a young thin man pushes a cart down the corridor
and offers us one of water tea or coffee / at no charge
a first class amenity

another young man sells sandwiches and drinks from his cart

a third young man wearing a vest saying tourist information asks if we need free tourist information
about krakow / we don’t

rik reads actor stephen fry’s new book the liar translated
into dutch / a birthday gift
it would be more interesting to read stephen fry
in english.

i read guidebooks to krakow
and magazines

--
11.

krakow is lovely
one of UNESCO’s top 12 world heritage sites
a treasure trove of history and culture

a huge and exquisite town square
second only to piazza san marco in venice
is lined with attractive restaurants and
teeming with prosperous tourists

but the main historical attraction
seem to be the jews
who are no longer there
street musicians play havanagilah
and songs from fiddler on the roof

is this just for the tourists
who might relish the macabre history?
does this have anything to do
with modern poland?

a healthy life is rather like a shark
one could say
it must move forward to survive
morbidity produces little

at funerals a few close mourners are truly bereaved
but i suspect most people are thinking primarily
about lunch

one wonders when poland’s attractions will shift from
its past to its present and future

--

Monday, 22nd August 2005

12.

Auschwitz Birkenau

the very name should convey horror
the statistics are inhuman
gas chambers killing 24,000 per day
millions slaughtered – jews, poles, political prisoners, gays, gypsies, russians,
and some people the nazis just wanted to kill

a city of horror
and possibly poland’s biggest tourist attraction

our solemn and silent bus ride through silesia
just an hour’s trip from krakow
riding parallel to the infamous railroad tracks
passing the IG Farben plant
that was built to exploit / slave labour

the problem with visiting auschwitz birkenau is
not that one is sad
but that one cannot be sad
enough

it has no human face

is it obscene for well-fed tourists
to walk through these paths?

does it honour the dead?
or exploit them?

the biggest mistake the world can make
is to say this was a german thing
a flaw in their particular national character

shouldn’t this exhibit
be combined with a lesson on
more modern fascism? the signs to watch out for? the ease with which
majorities will ignore the oppression of minorities
to save their own skin? the tell-tale traits – restricted press, designated enemies, evilizing the opposition?
wouldn’t that give this a purpose?

--


13.

dinner at wierznek restaurant, on Krakow’s main square
termed “ essential” by insight guides
wierznek occupies 3 large renaissance houses
an elegant place

we invited ian england and allan crofts
an australian gay couple we met on the tour
delightful companions
ian is ebullient and outgoing – loves life
allan is reticent and intelligent

after dinner we part
again without even a suggestion
of exchanging names or phone numbers
the best way

Tuesday, August 23rd

14.

traces of Judaiasm is the title
of the tour we have booked
our guide is a short, red-haired lady, mildly explosive
who reminds me of my great-aunt, fay tush
it’s almost a private tour
to view jewry’s noble and tragic
history in this city
where oscar schindler operated his factory
and saved 2000 jews
only one other couple is with us
a mother and daughter from portugal

first a stop at an early reformed synagogue
ornate and church-like
strangely, it contains a balcony for the women
I thought the reformed jews banished the gender separation
perhaps not at that early stage

the synagogue was refurbished after the war
with finances from the ronald lauder, son of estee
his foundation has been active here

this synagogue is completely unused
only 120 jews remain in this city
most of them are quite old

we stop at the one operating shul
with its ancient cemetery
where black-coated israeli chassidim are visiting in groups
and praying / some dovining/ in front of the grave
of an important tsadik
that is in a fenced little area
mostly filled by a very large tree

the nazis removed many jewish tombstones
and used them to pave roads
these were removed from the roads after the war
and placed on a wall that lines this cemetery

plaques outside the cemetery
erected by the foreign family of survivors
commemorate the dead
one family lost 88 members
tears come to my eyes
in the presence of such loss

sometimes it seems that god created jews
orthodox/chassidic/zionists/separatist/defiant
to test the christianity of the world
a test the world has often failed

15.

our tour companion, maria jezu
is 60 years old but looks younger
a thin woman with short black hair, light tan skin, and piercing eyes
her style reminds me of my sister, eleanor
she is a professor of semantics and syntax in lisbon
and says she earns little money
she’s staying in a hostel
says her family have been atheists for generations
she has named one of her daughters with an arab name, jemila,
and the other with a christian name, cristina.
maria jezu has married a former catholic monk.
love breaks all the rules, I say.
maria jezu says she wonders if giving her daughter
an arab name might create problems for her, in the modern world.

jemila is with her on this tour
26 years old, a sultry beauty
who speaks english better than her mother
but seldom speaks

maria jezu has fought fascism her whole life
her friends left portugal to escape salazar
she taught portuguese for 3 years in
soviet moscow, when they needed to train people
for angola

maria jezu says in portugal we never registered people's religions
i say it might not have been needed. almost everybody was catholic
maria jezu agrees with this, and realizes that
when she was a girl every student in the public schools
had to attend catholic classes
she says, you could only be excused from this
if you wrote a letter to the ministry of education
and in that letter you had to say what religion you were

if you were an athiest, it was a problem
because athiests were presumed to be communists
her family was athiest

our tour guide shows us
the ghetto the nazis created to starve the jews
and the impressive monument
in the city’s former concentration camp
now an empty field
where 70 thousand were brought
from hungary en route to death camps

i ask her if there was
a polish nazi party
and she forcefully says no
and that the poles hated the nazis
i’m not so sure

16.

after the tour
we invite jemila and maria jezu
to be our guests for lunch
in a jewish-style restaurant, called klezmerhojs
in the old quarter
where the dining room resembles
somebody’s victorian living room
with couches and straightbacked chairs next to the tables
that are covered by a sort of giant knitted doilies

we have delicate and flavourful gefilte fish
that is served with a red horseradish (rather sweet) and gelatin
and little loaves of golden challah
followed by soups / matzoh ball and kreplach
and we finish with coffee and hamantaschen
the coffee is weaker than maria jezu normally likes
but lunch is a success

as we will all be together on the next tour
to the salt mines
and we have a half hour to fill
we stop in a book store
the helena birinbaum book
she was a camp survivor
that rik wants
is out of print in english
but we buy her dvd entitled: hope dies last
and a wood carving of 10 chassics entitled “minyan”

and a book: poland and the jews reflections of a polish polish jew
written with intelligence by a former polish communist
stanlislaw krajewski
who discovered his faith only as an adult
and who discusses the polemic surrounding how to display Auschwitz

--

was it a jewish holocaust or also a polish one? is it a jewish symbol or also/ for others?

the trouble with the question is that either answer tends to belittle the suffering
of the other side – which misses the whole point, i think


krajewski argues that for jews it was a death camp – where whole families were mostly gassed immediately upon arrival for reasons of their faith-
including women/children and old people.

For the poles it was a labour camp – a prison, where one member of a family
was interned for political reasons and might be worked or abused to death,
but he might be released, and he could receive parcels.

the nazis wanted to destroy polish culture and political institutions
but not to kill all polish people
in contrast to the policy to mass-murder the jews

90% of those killed
were jews

concentration camps are a 20th century development; death camps are a subset therein

products of industrialization – the industrialization of killing

the poles call themselves “the christ of nations”
for their suffering – which has been very real
and their religious devotion

the jews call themselves “the chosen people”

everybody says they were a victim/it seems to be a universal
does it make any sense? does it move things forward? perhaps not.


--

by the square in kazimierz the former jewish quarter
maria jezu, jemila, rik and I visit the jewish cultural museum
which is really a photo exhibit of the chassidic movement
stretching back to 1900
rik finds the book “the pianist” and buys it.

then we all get in a taxi/ in the square
and ride to the cracovia hotel
to join our tour to the salt mines
all in all, it’s a disappointment
though the depth of the mines is truly marvelous
taking you hundreds of feet below the surface
to salt mines hundreds of years old
the tour is touristy and kitchy
and displays rather too many catholic statues
and too little technical information about this
impressive site

the most attractive aspect
is our rosy-cheeked guide
who has a casual air
and whose english is a mixture of
american-sort slang and incomprehensibility
but the tour isn’t so interesting
that we need to know what he says

the bus returns us to the town center
and we say goodbye by maria jezu and jemila
again without exchanging names of phone numbers

17.

dinner, as recommended by ian and allan
is at Szara, a classic/trendy place with high arched ceilings
on the main square
our waitress has a bright sunny smile
service is quick
i miss that in holland
i have a big bowl of rich asparagus soup/
rik starts with salmon tartare
we both continue with
house salad (salade a la szara) with salmon, shrimp, tomatos and sliced eggs
on lettuce with creamy dressing and served
with thick pieces of crispy garlic toast
big textured glasses of red wine
we share a crème brulee for desert

in this large crowded restaurant
two other tables have groups (6 or more) of gay men in their 30s
and a gay Portuguese couple / men in their 50s
are seated at the table next to us
is this the new europe? very nice!
rik asks: where are you from?
they’ve been to a family wedding in Gdansk
and they say that Gdansk is wonderful
one, an arrogant sort, wears blue jeans with colourful suspenders
and is imperious toward the waitress
he holds out his hand in expectation of the menu
that she hands him from behind
and makes no eye contact
strangely he says that the girls in gdansk were so beautiful
that at the wedding they called him ping-pong
because his eyes kept going from girl to girl
his partner, a large man in a white shirt
seems long-suffering

Wedneday, 24th August

18.

i’m growing a bit tired
of organized tours but we’ve booked
this one of the central city

the most interesting aspect
is our fellow travelers
one apparently old and Chinese man
has a very long beard, scraggly jacket and a soiled knitted cap
carrying his possessions in 2 plastic grocery bags
like a street person
I imagine he understands little english and that he has come from china
spending his tiny life savings
to see the world once before he dies
wrong again! in fact, he’s jamaican, lives in london, and travels very often.

next to me is a a pair of crisp short asians, in their 60s, with tan skin, friendly
they live in honolulu but come from manila
he’s a realtor/she’s a doctor
he says: Hawaii real estate is in a bubble
they own apartments in hawaii that give them income
and a home in manila, with a driver and staff
it’s a non-stop flight from hawaii to manila

an elderly elegant gentleman in a seersucker jacket and blue necktie
is traveling with his wife who walks with difficulty
both are overdressed for this tour
he has been an advisor to the canadian prime minister
and is very familiar with dutch foreign affairs

we stop first at the jewish quarter at kazimierz
a quick review – we enter no sites
again, a tear in my eye at the power of the place
but most of our time is spent in the royal palace
where rik is very impressed by the
beauty of the place
with its leather wallpaper
and i like the mini-concert by a trio
of a soprano singing medieval music
accompanied by a violin and a sort of accordion

Thursday, 25th August

19.

the tatras mountains

after some city traffic
and a few wrong turns
the drive to zakopane was quite lovely
green forests/rising mountains
fields laden with haystacks
that stick straight up – rather phallic
in long rows

as the 2-lane country road climbs
we stop for coffee at a road-side place
with new, heavy, unstained wooden chairs and tables
that are elaborately carved

our hotel, the redyk, is about 5 km from zakopane
off the main road, on the way to zab
1023 meters above sea level, high in the mountains

we stop along the mountain road
where the few cars are driving
extremely fast
to take pictures of the view
and while we photograph
one front tire goes entirely flat

the hotel is very new/ the young women at the front desk
don’t know how to check us in
they call the boss, a man equally young
foppish, dressed in fashionable black with hair in sweeping curves
his father owns this hotel
he arranges for a taxi-driver
to change our flat tire
and repair the hole

setting off to tour
we avoid zakopane
which is teaming with tourists
and head in another direction – up the mountain
we get lost in the hills
in a particularly lovely spot and take photos
of haystacks and valleys and cows

then we drive to chocholów to admire
its row of typical wood houses by road
that use rope as an insulator
between the wide exterior planks
that seem quite new

then to orawka to see the 16th C wooden church
of st john the baptist
with its fantastic wall paintings on wood
including a biblia pauporum – a visual bible
that shows the ten commandments in marvellous
pictures of medieval scenes
do not commit adultery was shown as a man
walking away from a woman’s canopied bed
as she held out her arm
one couldn’t tell from the picture
if he was avoiding adultery
or had just committed it
it might have been clearer
to show the man walking outside the house
passing an open door and a woman in the window


while we admired the wall paintings
a small crowd - some 30 people - gathered for mass
mostly older people, women
but a one middle-aged man and his two teenage sons
and a few old men

we stayed for the mass
which was quite beautiful
and rather long
and had lovely singing

they began by singing the entire rosary
a priest who is out of sight sings the responses
while another priest switched on the light in his cabin
by the door
and took confession from a girl and from the middle-aged man
all in church took communion
except us
by lining up on their knees the length of the church
as the priests walked by to deliver the wafer
it was clearly not the moment
to photograph the lovely wood paintings

we stopped to use the toilet
at a roadside restaurant where the gruff owner
charged me 2 zloty


Friday, 26th August

20.

the day starts cloudy and grey
the great tatras mountains that you can see
at a distance from our room
are the highest peaks
between the alps and the caucuses

our comfortable room in
this newly built chalet
has a pretty little balcony facing the mountains

the modern glass door to the balcony
converts to a window hinged from the floor/opening only slightly
if you twist the handle down
very clever, and useful in snowy
winters
when no one will use the balcony.

at our abundant buffet breakfast
we smile at a toddler, a little girl
who gazes serenely at us
on wobbly legs
next to a small indoor rock fountain

the skies clear and we walk to the top of the hill
to have a look at the village there
from my cell phone I call pavol – my colleague in nitra slovakia,
who sounds happy that we will visit that afternoon

driving toward slovakia, we choose the scenic route
winding through the high mountains
covered with pine trees, reminding me of Yosemite
or a chevrolet advert from the 60s

the alpine border-crossing to slovakia
is picturesque and uncrowded
a single officer stands next to a stone-fronted building
and waves us through quickly

--

21.

slovakia seems poorer than poland
we drive west, the mountains to our right
sometime on modern highway
but mostly on 2-lane roads
that are choked by slow-moving trucks

drivers are playing a dangerous game
of passing the trucks at any
possible moment

we stop for coffee and cake
at a highway stop
and can pay the bill
with polish zloty

as we approach Nitra the fields are
filled with sunflowers whose heads are
bowed as evening approaches
our trip – 6 hours - was much longer
than we expected
descending the gentle slope to the city in heavy traffic
dozens of soviet-style apartment blocks
fill the horizon

this city’s architecture has suffered
mightily from communism

pavol meets us at a gas-station at the edge of town
and kindly leads us to his office
in the agro-institute, another
stalinist prize

at 34, pavol still has the winning smile and boyish enthusiasm he had in his 20s
when we first met
but has matured / his wife is now pregnant with their second child
a difficult time, he says. She suffers from morning sickness

seated on the small, semi-circular sofa, we talk about the region’s economy
and the fate of oikocredit’s projects
pavol, with his mba from england and holland, brings a wealth of intelligence and
information

after drinks at an irish pub near the town square, we part and follow
pavol’s precise directions to
our hotel in bratislava
an hour’s drive away

we check in at the marina botel
docked in the danube
alongside a wide and busy city thoroughfare
during a light rain


22.

the river is fast-moving and brown and choppy from mountain floods
in austria and romania
but the boat that houses our hotel is firmly secured to the shore
by latticed steel girders
and no one in the hotel seems alarmed

after some circling, we find the hotel’s “protected parking”
that is required by our car insurance
and located just on the next street
by the Caribe restaurant

the "protection" is a large, barking dog
that would scare anyone away

setting out on food to the old town
we pass the urban world of the night
taxis and busses parked
under highway overpasses

the old town’s restaurants seem
entirely intended for very young people
we finally find a nice place on the main square
with white table cloths and arched ceiling
although loud rock music is pouring in from a concert outside

at the next table is a group of 8 english tourists
6 are our age and 2 are in their 20s, a young man and a pretty young woman
the young man is explaining why it’s necessary for
clubs to stay open until 4 am
by the time one gets home, eats and changes clothes, you can’t get to the pub
until 10 or 11, he says.
the elders at the table smile
a woman at the other end of the long table says,
in my day we didn’t drink so much. we just smoked dope.
as they leave, one english man smiles at me. he knows I’ve been listening.

our waiter is professional and courteous
attentively watching our table
without being obtrusive
we communicate in german
rik starts with goose liver and asparagus (spargel)
i have chicken livers with thin slices of apple
but both dishes are covered with the same brown sauce
rik then has shashlik and I have sliced duck breast with
grated red cabbage that more sour than in Poland
again, the brown sauce

on the main square after dinner
we watch a marvellous band
two young women are the lead singers
dressed in crazy colours, like little girls
each wearing two pig-tails
sing charming melodies
and dance inventively
with minimal movements
i think even Madonna would admire their artistry.

a little girl, maybe five years old
is watching the singers, enraptured
and imitating their dances
she almost cries when her young
father and mother lead her away.

saturday, 27 august
23.

a leisurely slow start
we breakfast slowly
sitting outside on the deck of the boat-hotel
watching the brown wide river rush by
I read some emails
then we decide that
bratislava is not so very interesting
we’ll head for hungary

as we leave at 11
the sun is starts to shine
and the river is rushing by perilously

the protected parking
is now completely open and unguarded
in the daylight I see that this street
squeezed between the highway and
lying below the royal palace
is as authentic and charming
as almost any in the old quarter
and it boasts a museum of slovak culture

at the highway border crossing to hungary
the guard sees our dutch passports
doesn’t look at them, waves us on
i don’t move fast enough, so he says
goodbye! goodbye!
to make his point

the highway to budapest
which in fact originates in vienna, not far from here
is modern and fine
we speed along

but our goal is to avoid the motorways
and stay on local roads
to see as much as possible


24.

Hungary

passing gyor, we make a left
to find route 10 that runs alongside the danube
but the roads are more complex
than our map shows
and we end up on a 2-lane bridge
crossing the danube and returning to
slovakia

just before the border crossing on the slovak side
we make a sudden u-turn
and return head back to hungary
i half-expect suspicious, armed agents to come running after us
but that’s of course nonsense
these days it’s shoppers and not spies
who are crossing the border

we find route ten
and drive through old hungarian towns, slightly worn
but not without charm
and stop at a dizkont supermarket
that is closing at 3 for the weekend
the shelves are largely unstocked
and we are shocked by the prices
until we realize we are reckoning in slovakian and not hungarian money
rik buys liqueurs for his parents
and i buy water, fruit and crackers for the trip
we pay with mastercard, the international currency
and get cash from the atm outside

continuing down route ten
we stop to photograph
the former, crumbling ioxid aluminium works
trying to capture its beautiful tones of rust and brown
and decay

then on to ezterzgom
recommended by my friend bela mecs
to climb to the top of the
vast and marvellous basilica
and admire the extraordinary view over fields
and mountains and the great river
i wait below while rik climbs
to the highest bit
I watch a wealth of domestic activity on the plaza facing the broad steps
a large wedding party marches by
with a band
and grandparents are shepherding children
who play on the fountain and steps of the huge church

we stop for drinks at
the pretty little restaurant at the side of the basilica
a group of Spanish cyclists
load onto their bikes
with many full containers of water

as we walk below, back to the car
a solitary French horn plays haunting tones
from the basilica
amplified over the whole village

esterzgom has an exquisite, perfect beauty
that reminds me of austria
we dawdled there almost the whole afternoon
then drove quickly to Budapest
in order to arrive before the hertz place closed
at 7
regretfully skipping stops at visegad and szentendere
that bela had also recommended

25.

hungary is delightful
like poland, it seems to have taken communism
as a foreign influence
to be resisted
with a heavy grain of local salt
and I realize that slovakia might well be
the poor cousin of the region
where communism had the greatest hold
and perhaps did the most damage

one can’t avoid reflecting on
the difference between communism and a free market
at least in their purer, untainted forms
capitalism makes you produce stuff
that somebody else needs and wants to buy -
that’s the efficient bit -
communism produces stuff
that somebody should need, theoretically,
but actually, where the jobs are needed
more than the stuff-
it must have been quite a shock
when communism fell
for tens of millions of people suddenly
to have to find something to sell
that another person actually wanted


26.

entering budapestwe get quite lost
this is a large city
and we end up taking a wrong turn
into a large island park, in the center of the danube
asking help from the many passers by
produced almost nothing
because almost nobody we meet speaks english
just like in Poland
even young people

i assume the educational system
would want to teach english
but maybe it couldn’t switch from teaching russian to teaching english
so quickly? In a mere 10 years?

finally, one young man, about 17,
speaks american english perfectly
he has attended the American Christian school, since 1990
and he talks just like an american kid
even though he and his hungarian parents
have never been there
he says: the Christian schools came here first, right after the change
and my parents wanted me to have a good education
he speaks a little explosively and seems confused
but is friendly
he kindly gets into the car and leads us right to our destination
which is completely on the other side of town
and gets out without asking for compensation

the downtown apartment we’ve hired at Aranykéz Street 6 is a disappointment
a burly but friendly man wearing a black tee shirt
shows us around.
i ask: does it have a large bed? And he says liberally
no problem - everything goes in budapest
the worn post-war entry has a paper carton
by the elevator door, where people leave their trash.
the main door to the apartment
faces a balcony and inner courtyard
and is jammed shut
we have to shoulder it open
inside the apartment things are
old and worn, poor
but as clean as they could be made
it’s depressing. we’ll stay tonight, but leave tomorrow.

the marriott hotel, across the road
is a large white-block building facing the danube
much too big for the neighbourhood
apparently originally built by the communists
perhaps a former orbis hotel?
Now made glitzy and expensive

after enquiring about rooms there
(much too expensive, and anyway not our sort of hotel)
we stop at their business centre
and look on-line at hotels for tomorrow

we stop and have drinks
at an open-air terrace
on the corniche of the river
next to the marriott
facing the royal palace on the opposite bank
huge and brilliantly lighted

families are strolling with little children
while 2 young male hustlers are leaning on the iron fence
by the river
they wink at us – hoping for business
rik is visibly offended that they tried to make
contact with us, who are obviously a couple
i’m surprised that such trade goes on
in such a middle-class setting

an immense man is sitting at the next table
wearing a bright white t-shirt
of the expensive sort

the rock music from the outdoor bar is much too loud
and the waiter lowers it
after we ask a second time

i’m still in a funk about the crummy apartment
so we dine grandly
at coast grill – an new york-sort of place
excellent grilled fish, trendy setting, handsome waiters dressed in black
fast service, not cheap
we start with Thai Tom-Yam Soup
then
rik has “chilli-glazed tuna with wokked vegetables”
I have 200 grams of grilled salmon with bastmati rice that has raisins in it


27.

sunday, 28th august

sleeping late, we arrive at 11
at macdonalds, on the corner of Aranykéz Street
too late for breakfast
but rik wisely chooses yoghurt with fruit
and a grilled chicken salad and coffee
to make a nice brunch

as alain de bouton points out
in the art of travel
any place is interesting, if viewed carefully
this macdonalds is elegant
the exterior bronze doors have art nouveau handles
and matching bronze squares line the face of the building
inside the tables are faux terra cotta and expensive
smoked glass walls divide the sections of the restaurant
on one side a wood-panelled coffee bar sells fancy pastries and nice coffee
the screechy young waitress who took our order
brought our salads to the table
our friend philippina later told us that
macdonald’s won that location only because
they promised to use it so nicely

aranykéz street, which is grubby at first glance,
has other points of interest
the entrance to the basement car-park opposite macdonald’s
is lined with painted murals
rik notices fragments of picasso’s guernica
and there are scenes from cervantes’s don quijote
that we stop to photograph


opposite the entrance to our apartment building, at #6
is a large sign “traditional thai massasz”
a woman, fully clothed, is sitting demurely in the shop window
one wonders…

leaving macdonald’s, we taxi to our hotel, the
andrassy hotel, 5-stars, classy
i’m shooting for a contrast here
we are offered champagne
while we wait to check in
andrassy boulevard, formerly stalin boulevard
stretching far into Pest
is elegant
the city has planted young trees along this avenue
that leads to the imperial hero’s square
a fantastic circle of bronze-green statues, of magyar idols
some monumental, most bearded and
seated on horses that are rather too small for their loads

in marked contrast to this
gallery of rugged warriors
at the top of one column
is a particular young man, in a chariot pulled by teaming horses
affecting a rather graceful pose, with his scarf swirling behind
he gives a nice balance to the presentation

behind the square is the city park
and its neoclassic thermal baths, which we set out to visit
hungarians use baths to maintain their heath
and linger there for long periods
men play chess while standing
in the steaming water

budapest, once the hungarian capital
of the austro-hungarian empire
reminds me of how the mighty can fall
as she did in 1918
and then struggle to rise again
as she is doing now

we wander through the great park
directly behind hero’s square
seeing lots of loose litter
which is unusual in this very clean city

following the crowd
we climb around a metal fence
that blocks a construction site where they
are renovating a classic fountain and pond
to save a 100 meter walk
around the empty pond.
An old and large lady
who reminds me of my grandmother, shirley zeleznik,
steps around the loose fence nimbly, better than me.

descending into M1 metro entrance
by the side of the thermal baths
we ride the short train
through very pretty and small stations
that are walled with white tiles with red borders
and nice 19th century-style woodwork/
quite different from the deep and modern subways
in the rest of the city
that take real people to work

we ride to the center of town
at the river
mistakenly getting out one stop too early
where everybody else gets out, to connect to a different train
then we walk across the historic chain bridge (1870)
which was built by a wise king
as the first bridge to connect buda and pest

we then circle around to board the fernicular
that climbs the hill to the vast royal palace
we stop for cappuccinos at the pretty outdoor restaurant
just inside the palace entrance
with its sweeping view of the opposite bank
elegant, and reminiscent of paris
and only marred by the
oversized white-hulk, the marriott

we wander slowly across the large courtyard
taking in the view of the city
and the visible history of the place
in a far corner a large, outer-wall sculptures
from former times
images of graceful women and muscled men
are lying flat in a small puddle
they have so many treasures here
that a few just lie fallow.

guide michelin says there are 3 good museums here
we begin at the national art museum
an entry hall that is startlingly
soviet modern
flat sheets of marble in shades of beige and brown
cover the walls and vast floors
and lead to an imposing and broad 50s modern staircase

the communists stripped away
all original interior decoration of the palace
in an effort to create the new society
they used this palace as an office building
but apparently didn’t dare to deface
the outer walls

I must admit
I like some of this soviet-grand interior décor
that is now freshened up by the free market
it has a restful quality
that is refreshing after all that baroque stuff

as museum admission is free today – Sunday
why must we queue at the cashier for a needless ticket
that the ticket-taker 5 meters away
will then only slightly tear
before waving us in?
do communist employment practices continue?

the oil paintings in the museum
are strikingly dramatic
containing pathos, love and war
in almost every scene
admirable use of colour and light
make this a really memorable exibit
in one picture an older man is consoling
a tearful younger man with whom
he is seated at a small table
while officials wait in a small group beyond
the old man seems to be saying
“our love is over – you must find someone your own age”
but the painter’s title is “the forgiveness”

the dark haired, smocked, middle aged, coat check lady
is certainly a communist relic
who works only when and as she wishes
she curtly refuses to let 2 young women get something
from their checked bag and then recheck the bag again
- the tyranny of the petty functionary

but we successfully collect our checked shoulder bags
we return to the court yard and circle the palace
stopping for a full five minutes to admire
the king mathias fountain (1904) and the story it tells
a large green-bronze wall-side affair
displays a compelling story of a valiant male hunter
whose massive prey – a slain big-horned deer
lies prostrate at his feet
not far away stand his trusty falconer and the stable man
on the far side a lovely goddess is sheltering
a big-eyed frightened doe from harm

a large group of some 20 prosperous tourists
speaking Korean
passes with their private guide
a reminder of how a poor country can become rich

across the courtyard we enter the Budapest city museum
just to find a toilet and here
the soviet – style, modern interior is
even better than in the art museum
more intimate – with better uses of shades of brown
and attractive lamp fixtures and a strikingly simple white underbelly
to the staircase
all in remarkable contrast to ornate, stone, palace exterior.

leaving the palace courtyard
we give coins to a young woman who plays violin
with an empty baby carriage at her side
down the road a man - her husband? - is also busking
they seem to be a couple
but no sign of the child

we are momentarily lost trying to find a stairway down the hill
that seems to be on the map, but that isn’t there
I try to photograph the massive art-nouveau gates that lead to the exterior drive


28.

it’s a little strange to be where we
have no comprehension of the language
few people speak english here
outside of hotels and restaurants
but most speak
at least pigeon german


rik and I speak english, dutch, french, spanish and (rik) german
so any romance or germanic language is usually decipherable
but hungarian is sui generis except for
suspected links to Finish
so we are often lost without special translation

the other site we’d like to see
is the statue park
locate outside of town

at the palace gates a chubby taxi driver
wearing a gold bracelet and ring
gesturing his fat arm and hand energetically
said he would take us to the there
for about Fl 5-6000 (EUR25)

the taxi stops for us at a bank machine
and then drives through countryside
we pass a fair number of busty prostitutes
sitting alongside the country road, looking for business
I guess it’s logical for them to work on lonely roads
but I’ve never seen it before.

The park is an outdoor display of communist statues and public art
about 30 pieces – some monumental, some small
celebrating lenin, the hungarian-soviet friendship, the proletarian revolution etc
that the city of Budapest collected after “the change”
because they thought it would be “undemocratic” to simply discard them
says Insight Guides
many are interesting
some have artistic merit
after 20 minutes we’ve seen enough and board the public bus back to town.


29.

I thought that dinner with my colleague bert calis and his partner philipina
who live in Budapest
would remind me too much of work but I was wrong
it was really a pleasure, being with friends
who picked us up at our hotel, the andrassy,
we drove for a while, then walked through town
they took us to a charming restaurant, gerloczy kavehaz
located on a small city square
we sat at a white-clothed table next to the open window/door
that faced the outside terrace
only for locals - not a tourist in sight
delicious food and wine
later we wandered through the student district
and a maze of buildings in the university
some of which badly need maintenance
and ended at a large, outdoor student pub
in a long interior square surrounded by lecture halls
where we drank local beer
and watched the students drink, dance and flirt

philippina said that being with bert’s children
made her notice her age
being childless gives one the illusion
that time is not rushing by
but having a 20-year old around
makes one realize that one is over 40.

returning by taxi to our hotel
rik and I go for a final midnight walk
to admire the magnificent bronze-green Field of Heroes
now brightly illuminated in the vast square.


30.


Monday, 29th August

rik woke early and took the baths
at the thermal spa in the nearby park
while I lounged in the very nice hotel room at the Andrassy

we thought EUR 20 pp was too much to pay for the hotel’s breakfast
so we took glistening wet green apples from the bowl at reception
and headed into town by metro
after changing some cash at a bureau whose change window was on the street
we breakfasted at the great indoor food market we stumbled across
at first the arched roof made me think it was a train station
and the great space inside could certainly accommodate big trains
we sat upstairs on the terrace
facing the spectacle of picturesque food commerce below
a group of dutch tourists were noisily enjoying themselves at the next table
we had bread and fruit salad and youghurt
and I wondered if this food came from the vendors in that market.

then we walked over the danube, on the chain bridge
and went to the ornate, 19th C gellert hotel, which michelin gives 3 stars
for the unique thermal baths, I guess
and I took a dip
first tepid at 30 degrees C., then much warmer at 32, and briefly hot at 38
an old-fashioned place, with a lot of older people
while rik waited outside
bert c swears that the baths are good for your health
he’s a convert, he said


31.

to end our vacation
with rustic beauty
we took a taxi to the not-near metro
then boarded a screeching train
to head out of town

across the aisle a young mother sat with her little boy
- maybe 2 or 3 years old – very blond
the boy obviously in love with his mother
wooing her with his smile, a real flirt
burying his head on her lap and shoulder
She loves him just as much

40 minutes to the last stop
at szentendre, a charming village
that hungarian people love

stopping at the supermarket by the train station
I buy an apple pastry
then we climb the slope to the village

szentendre has a gentle beauty
it’s a place for families to relax
quite different from the (Austrian?) perfection of esterzgom

people and family groups eat ice cream cones while
walking along the shaded gravel path that lines the danube
lounging on benches to watch the world go by
the river here – too – is brown and high
from the floods in romania

we visit the margrit novaks museum
with its vast collection of her ceramic work
a fantastic variety of styles and messages
we silently thank bela mecs, my mother’s good friend
who steered us here and buy a postcard to send him
that has a picture of a novaks sculpture with 3 pretty women’s heads

at the wine museum’s small restaurant
just 4 tables under a canopy of mature vines
we eat just starters – 2 warm, 2 cool
mushrooms stuffed with goat cheese, salad with tuna
each big enough to be a main course
with two sorts of wine – one riesling and one chardonnay
and spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing silently
on a park bench on the shady gravelled path by the river
watching happiness walk by

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communist statue museum
















baths - gellert hotel







szentendre