Oberstdorf

July 5 - July 23

I am in a state of rebellion. Five days ago, in the middle of the night and in an advanced state of pathological determination to get out a blog post, I worked through the messages telling me that the iPad was diminishing in power. Rather than getting up and plugging in the iPad, I pressed on just wanting to complete the post and send it off. I had just completed the blog post when the power, exhausted, shut off and I lost all my work. I have been so frustrated and angry at myself that I haven't been able to formulate my writing, wanting on the one hand to duplicate what I wrote and was satisfied with before. Alas! I cannot. So, I have embarked to re-write the blog post with a new mind.

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What happens when the 'blogger' loses words and words seem insufficient and inadequate? Or, when you endeavor to be eloquent but written descriptions pail next to visual depictions. I have painfully pursued precise articulation failing completely when compared to the clarity of the conspicuous?

So, I invite you to come and see the beauty and magnificence of this Earth through my eyes.

Walk with me on paths laid by steps over time, not plowed by metal and machine.

​Delight with me amongst the flowers gleefully displaying their glory.

Touch the hard rock, solid and firmly rooted in Earth's mantle

Observe with me the vast sky and gaze upon its ever changing canvas. 

Breathe with me air that sparkles with purity and crackles freshness. Brisk air that nips at your nostrils and invigorates your lungs. 

Follow the clouds; sense their loft and lightness, weight and density.

Turn the corner and be in awe. Each day, the same but different by a subtle shading or hue or level of intensity. Walk amongst the familiar to be ever surprised. Boredom is an absurdity. 

Dynamic and damn overwhelming, I tear at the perfection of it all. I feel not merely at peace but at Source. No longer apart or separate, I can let go and become integral with the totality that is Love.

These are not views of valleys, streams...

hillsides and forests...

mountains and sky... 

These are landscapes of the soul. 

Verona

I have related the tale of Scrovegni Chapel. A tale of heat and sweat, bad timing and good fortune. As a precursor to our stay in Verona, I wish to detail another tale, one of international intrigue, flight attendants, muted whispers, and "under the aileron" payoffs. But, before I do, I must warn you that lives and a great deal of money are at stake.

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Way back, near the beginnings of our planning for this trip, we told ourselves that we would indulge in two or three special international events that we would otherwise never have the chance to experience. The Bolshoi Ballet was first on our list. Buying tickets for the Bolshoi is, at the very least, arduous and involves dealing with brokers, getting your name on a mailing list, responding ASAP upon notification that tickets are available, making money payments over the telephone and receiving assigned seats only after payment is made. It occurred to me more than once that this whole process was a scam. Still, with determination and sheer will to see the Bolshoi, we began the pursuit sometime in January while we were in Costa Rica. We signed on to be notified and waited. We received an email sometime in March that tickets would soon be available. We went online, identified the desired 'section' where we wished to be seated, contacted our agent, put in our request and paid her an alarming amount of money for two seats at the Bolshoi Theater.

When I say 'alarming', it is important to realize certain facts about Russia. Firstly, Russia continues to be a functioning failed state. It ranks 12th amongst world economies behind Italy, Brazil and Canada with under 2% of the total world GDP as indicated by The International Monetary Fund's World Economic Outlook projection, April, 2017. Furthermore, it possesses maybe the world's most deeply entrenched system of institutionalized corruption in the world. Everyone is on the take. Like Greece, there are vast amounts of "dark money" floating around in the economy. People do business in cash to avoid paying taxes, and transactions made by businesses are often without record. Law enforcement is weak because the legal system itself is corrupt. And, who would reveal someone else's digression if it would hurt you personally. So, no one tells on anyone else. It is a closed system.

That being said, it is still a trillion and a half dollar economy. And, where does that money go? Well, 60% of the GDP, six out of every ten dollars earned, is generated by and remains within Moscow. Russia has an overall population of about 144 million people; 12.4 million of the total population live in Moscow and a minority share in this wealth. And, although It's growth is expected to top off at a piddling 0.03% (that reads 3/100ths of one percent), Russian Oligarchs who are making their ill-begotten gains from gas and oil exports and arms dealing, collude with the 5% of the total population that are 'Party' members...the central core of whom live in Moscow. So, effectively, 60% of Russia's total GDP finds its way into the hands of 5% of the total population and those chosen to share in this affluence. No wonder people are keeping what they have to themselves. This rarefied society of criminals and elite live in Moscow. They attend the ballet. And, they can afford to pay the inflated prices for seats.

Fast forward. Adele and I have a nine and a half hour flight from Shanghai to Moscow. Our scheduled flight ETA is 4:30 PM. This would, theoretically, allow us to collect our luggage, pass through customs, find our driver and car, make it to the hotel, shower and change in time for a 7PM start to the performance of "The Legends of Love", a ballet in three acts.

We boarded the plane, excited and ready for takeoff. But, take off we would not. An announcement advised us that due to air traffic control in Moscow, our departure time was delayed one hour.
 "So, we don't go to the hotel", I problem solve with Adele. We hop in a cab and head over to the Bolshoi Theater directly. Never mind that I was in hiking pants, a light weight, "wicking" short sleeve shirt, hiking boots, unshaven, and a little 'moldy' from travel, if you know what I mean. And, now there was no guarantee that we would even get to the theater in time for the start of the performance.

Be I ever so humble, not willing to forego what has cost us a bundle, and with about two hours left to the flight, I drew the attention of a flight attendant and finely detailed for her our dilemma. I indicated that we were strapped for time and after having paid a considerable sum of money for the tickets, in celebration of our 32nd wedding anniversary, were afraid to lose that money. And, (shrug) could she (sigh) in some way (weepy) help get us through customs (pleading). That "sum of money" was an amount I stated openly hoping to garner some degree of sympathy for our potential loss. But, no. No sympathy. She heard the amount and her monetary Geiger counter was ticking at a jack rabbit's pace. The flight attendant basically, flat out, denied having any ability to get me through customs and told me to take care of it with the agents 'on the other side'. "However, (her mind racing) I will speak to the crew", careful not to impart any hope. I thanked her for listening to my predicament.

We are now in Russian airspace, about one hour away from the Moscow airport and the attendant returns to my seat and asks me to come with her. We go back to the space between first class and economy, as private a space as is available on a Boeing 707 and, with a gentle, polite gesture for me to come closer, whispers a suggestion. "You have American dollar, No? We need speak too many people help you. Ees difficult. Need reason for to do. Maybe you give $1,200.00, and crew give people what need and be able assist you."

Possessing some experience as negotiator and deal maker, knowing that I only had a certain amount of money on hand, I said, "I don't have that kind of money on me."

Without disappointing me. "How much do you have?" 

"Four hundred dollars?"

"Oh, I don't think enough for all people we need talk to. But, I will see." 

We departed our secret rendezvous. I returned to my seat; she to the cockpit. Ten minutes later she came back to my seat, leaned over as if to serve me some tea, and whispered that we don't have a deal, in a kind of single movement swoop so as to not really stop and proceeding as if we didn't say anything to one another in the first instance. Done!

I had no real intention of paying the money, but was inescapably intrigued. The outcome was to my mind anticipated and relieving, since if I bated them and they accepted, what would I do? I may not be here today if they accepted and I reneged on the offer. I might have ended up on another flight to Siberia or Outer Mongolia in the belly of a Russian aircraft and forced into hard labor until I was able to play Autumn Leaves on a shofar. Such was my fate in the hands of pilot and crew. But, alas, my bluff was not called and we landed in Moscow at 5:35 PM.

To say that Russian customs is s-l-o-w would be an understatement. A sloth is slow and only comes down from the tree to s _ _ t. Russian customs is paranoid, pathetic and lackadaisical. I could sense the tension and desperation in the lives of people having to deal with corruption on a daily basis in a society where everyone is out for themselves. Oddly enough, we were fortunate to get our luggage very soon after flashing the light began to blink and the carousel commenced to circulate. But, now was the challenge. Getting through customs. Adele and I grabbed our bags and rolled them as fast as we could toward the customs area. Outside the baggage claim and at the top of the stairs where we would need to descend to customs, there was a young lady who was directing traffic. I approached her and briefly, with droopy eyes (as much attributable to my exhaustion as to my acting ability) told her the story of our 40th wedding anniversary (I upped the ante) and tickets to the Bolshoi performance, flight delay and our need to get through customs.

"Let me see. (Thinking to herself) Follow me, please." Well, when a Russian tells you to follow them, you listen, regardless of the circumstances. So we followed...down the stairs, through a passage; and into a...OMG!!! This smallish area must have been inundated with passengers from three or four flights all having just arrived. Literally, hundreds of people. And, not just waiting on long lines. They were vying for position, pushing, arguing, complaining. It was a mob mentality. Frustration and anger and impatience ruled. The people I saw were ready to press 'the nuclear button' at the very first provocation. And, into this hostile environment walks a cute, short, smiley, diminutive attendant and a most notably unassuming Jewish couple with four pieces of luggage. 

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me." She repeated several times as she finagled and finessed us to the front of one of the lines. She spoke a few words to the customs agent, bid us farewell and walked away. At that moment, I feared for our lives. I mean, if we were notables, say famous personalities, like Elton John or Brad Pitt or Kate Middleton, I would not have felt so threatened. I would assume that as recognizable figures and noted personalities, people would defer to us, demonstrating respect and expecting the full service of the Russian government to assist us. But, we are not recognizable and, (sometimes even in my own mind) not anybody in particular. Yet, this 'line creep' manipulation to the front got the attention of the room. Attention that I didn't want. The seconds it took for the person in front of us to have her passport stamped seemed like an eternity. I cowered, lowering my head so as not to look anyone in the eyes lest they realize our unimportance. Truthfully, I completely forgot that I needed to pee, so severely distracting was the situation. Yet, we were able to get through customs in minutes, like honored guests of Vladimir Putin. Absolutely miraculous. Literally, miraculous. You cannot imagine the hundreds of people crammed into this space, and were it not for the favor of this understanding and strong individual, the only ballet we might have patroned was the 'back alley ballet' in one very short act.

We were in our car at 6:12 PM. We have hired cars to meet us at airports to take us to our hotels. A car to the Bolshoi Theatre should take about one half hour. With traffic, though, it was clear that our trip was going to take longer and that if we made the theater it would be just in the nick of time...or not. So, I called the agency through which the car was hired and suggested that the driver instead of driving us to the hotel as originally planned, drive us to the Bolshoi, and then go on with our luggage to our hotel. That agreement set, we sat back and accepted our fate. Our trip lasted (no B S) 45 minutes getting us to the theater with three minutes to spare.

Honestly, it is not modesty causing me to choose not to reveal how much the tickets cost. It more is my sense of literary intrigue. Let's just say that we were not in the bleachers, rather, we sat with the Oligarchs. And, even though in Moscow, as in most of the world, theater attendance is more greatly egalitarian, and has leveled the sartorial playing field so that tuxedoes and jeans find an amicable existence, (even at London's Claridge Hotel's High Tea, casual dress is quite acceptable), our section comprised the 'Gala' set, those who play polo; commodity traders and night club owners; party beauracrats and owners of gas pipelines. Thus, as you might expect, we passed gentlemen donned in finely custom, made to measure suits and tailored tuxedoes and ladies wearing taffeta and silk ballroom gowns.

"Prestitsa, prestitsa". We excused ourselves on our way to our seats, center section in the first elevated row, in a sartorial display of captivating polyester, Teva hiking boots, flannel sweat shirt by Columbia and day old body odor. And, we weren't even noticed. Not disregard. Simply disinterest. I guess when you are a pawn on the chess board, your value only derives from circling to preserve the king. Otherwise, you are expendable. Understood necessary, but not critical to know.

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How do these events, Padua and Moscow, resemble one another and relate to Verona? They were events that, by chance, took place on the same evenings as our arrivals into these towns. And, so it was with Verona. The evening we arrived we had tickets to attend a performance of Aida at Verona's Arena. Arena is a Roman Coliseum constructed in AD 30. And, what remains is remarkably well preserved and original. Situated in the vast Piazza Bra, the 'Arena' historically served as a 'ludi' or performance space in which operas were performed to a capacity crowd of 30,000 people. Today seating is limited to 15,000 for safety reasons. Piazza Bra is a parabola shaped plaza encircled by restaurants and cafes.

Verona's "Arena"  dating back to 50 A.D.

The interior of 'Arena' with its seating capacity of 15,000 

 Part of the original structure.

Setting up for the next performance... 

Verona has a little bit of everything to offer. It's central area is larger than that of the larger city of Trieste. It possesses the quaint charm of Padua along with its canals. If you are a shopper, there are plenty of opporutnities to enjoy the duly honored sense of design of the Italians. Their clothing is superbly tasteful; kitchen items ingeniously designed for form, function and beauty. And, it is a city of culinary delights. Yet, one can eat only so many cannollis. What had a most endearing and lasting impression on me were the colors of Verona: deep ochre and burnt umber; cinnamon and burnished copper; sun bright yellow and dusty golds. They provided a great backdrop for me to photograph my sweetheart.

That's my honey-bunch.

Our apartment was in the center of Verona.

One of the many bridges in Verona

A beautiful corner balcony.

There is currently a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit of posters and engravings in the Verona Museum of Art. Well staged, the show had many of his most famous posters including "La Revue Blanche". 

In the hills of Verona 

Splitting Split

Events of June 20

Adele and I are leaving Split, Croatia today. Earlier in the week wishing to act responsibly on our own behalf, Adele and I paid a visit to the Enterprise auto rental outlet to confirm our reservation. Yes. They had our reservation. I requested that we be picked up at our apartment as we had a good deal of luggage and our place was a scant 4 minute drive from their location (that could not be walked) They told me that Enterpise Europe does not offer that service as in America. However, after a bit of coaxing it was decided that someone would pick us up at 8AM on the way into the agency offices. He made a point, "Be ready and downstairs at 8". That suited us since we were driving to Rijeka, a four hour trip one way, in order to catch a 1:40 PM bus to Trieste. That would, theoretically, leave us enough time to grab a lunch or screw up and still find our way to the bus terminal in time. However, we couldn't calculate the series of unforeseen occurrences that were to take place.

At 7:30AM we descended the four flights of stairs to street level displaying 'strong man and woman' circus act facilities with our baggage. Not expecting the car for a half hour, we stepped across the street to our local cafe and had our first, eye-opening cup of coffee. At five minutes to eight, we paid the bill and stood by the door to our apartment building with our luggage racked up against the facade obstructing morning pedestrian traffic. We were still waiting at 8:20 AM. I called the number given and a manager answered. I inquired as to our ride and he said he would check and get back to me. The call came within minutes, and in a too calm voice explained that the driver got lost and would be there in three minutes. Our driver arrived at 8:28 AM. A half-hour late.

"What happened", I inquired. "I was specifically instructed to be out front at 8-"

"Sorry, I got lost", he proclaimed, with a dumb smile. 

"How can you not know where Tomislava St. is?" (It being a major street leading to the entrance of the old city and the Diocletian Palace. 

He nodded, "And", with a smirk, began as if telling himself an inside joke, "My name is Tomislav". He liked himself enough to laugh our loud as if we had cause to share the humor of this dubious irony.

"Were you born here"?

"Yeah"  

Oh, well. We drove to the auto center to complete the necessary paperwork and didn't get in the car until about 9:15 AM. Off we went, realizing that our odds of an on-time arrival have been significantly, statistically diminished by this incident. I knew, if I may use the vernacular, I had to 'haul-ass' and make up some time on the road. Rather than having the advantage of an early, pre rush-hour start to the day, we ran into traffic getting out of the city. That delayed us somewhat. but, finally we were on the road and off to Rijeka. Rijeka, distinct from Dubrovnik and Split, is not a tourist town. Industrial and residential, it is a large city surrounded by hills that move traffic along river beds, through innumerable tunnels and traffic circles. Under the best of conditions, it would be challenging to navigate into and out of Rijeka with changing road numbers and infrequent signs. But, on this day we found ourselves going through this maze of tunnels and round-a-bouts trying to decipher the 'overheads' at speeds that made missed turns more likely and precision driving all but impossible.

When we were convinced that we were going in the wrong direction, we called the Enterprise, Rijeka office. It was now about 1:10 PM. Even though I have made good time, our chance of reaching the bus terminal to catch the bus was dwindling. However, the Enterprise agent asked us where we were and said, "Proceed in this direction and I will meet you and you will follow me". So, we did as instructed to meet him in minutes and trail him back to the offices. It was now 1:20 PM when we learned that the bus station was in town center, and although the rental agency is called Rijeka Downtown, it was on the outskirts of town, and the drive to the terminal would take 20 minutes. Too long for us to catch the bus.

I was upset, to say the least. It was now my turn to let him know the cost of Tomislav's bad joke. The bus we missed was the last bus of the day to Trieste. We would be forced to incur the cost of the hotel in Trieste; we would have to add the cost of a hotel room for the night in Rijeka; and, we would need to re-reserve seats on a bus to Trieste for the next day...if seats were available. Although sympathetic, the agent explained that there was little that they could do. I insisted that I was in a bad situation that would significantly add to our cost unnecessarily due to this error and delay. He said that he would call the other agency in Split.

The other agency confirmed that the pick-up was late. So, the agent suggested I write a letter of complaint to Enterprise citing the delays and he would look into what 'Corporate' could do to resolve this situation. "But it might take some time", he added with caution.

"How much time" A few minutes"? 

"No. It would have to be submitted to Enterprise and they would consider compensation..." he trailed off.
BLAH. BLAH. BLAH.  

"Look", I said. "I have a problem that needs to be addressed, NOW"

So, we looked at other options which I will not belabor you with. They were all unsatisfactory.

I began to write a long letter to Enterprise and address it to the local agency within whose office I sat. The letter was not complimentary and addressed both the complaint and the long-term relationship I had with Enterprise that would soon end. I also asked for specific compensation that I was about to incur. As much as the request for recompense might have upset him, it was going on record with a complaint that evidently struck a nerve. 

The gentleman assisting us, who was really a decent guy who, I am sure, had limited ability to make a real difference in this situation, disappeared for some minutes. When he returned he said, "I think I have a solution to the problem. The owner of the agency's father, [my age], in his retirement, sometimes drives clients when there is a situation like this at hand. He says the owner would be happy to call his father and ask if he would drive us to Trieste. However, there were three conditions. First, pay the cost of gas for the round trip. Second, I would need to tip the driver (for which we agreed upon an amount). The third condition was that, "You do not write any social media review about this incident." I agreed within a fraction of a second. We originally anticipated arriving in Trieste at about 3:45 PM. As it turned out, we arrived at our hotel's door at @ 4:47 PM. In other words, the same time we most likely would have arrived at the hotel if we made the bus since we would have had to hail and pay for a taxi to the hotel from the bus terminal. Fate was with us.

Trieste is lovely. Busy with tourists but not so touristy. Situated in the Northeast corner of Italy as it makes it final Southern swoop into Croatia, Trieste is only seven miles from Slovenia. Not surprisingly, Trieste is a blend of Italian, Slav, and Croatian cultures where most of the inhabitants are multi-lingual. For Adele and I, Trieste was the gateway, through Padua and Verona, on our way through the Italian Alps to finally arrive in Oberstdorf, Germany on July 5. We found the town to be very livable. Without the sights of Rome or spectacle of Venice, absent the artistic wealth of Florence and the quaint, color tinted landscape of Tuscany, Trieste can and is, often, easily dismissed, and thereby missed. However, it is the kind of city that you can honker down in and become part of. It is welcoming, unpretentious, and quite unto itself. It has inspired many artists and writers to settle in this city. I understand why.

On that same day we arrived, we dropped off our luggage and set out to familiarize ourselves with the immediate surrounding area. Within a short time, we needed directions having lost our orientation on our way out of a church, which I imagine is a not infrequent occurrence.(LOL) We came upon four people chatting away on a street corner and politely interrupted their animated exchange asking for directions. One of the women (three women and a gentleman) who was clearly energetic and spirited, grabbed our city map and commenced with a long, detailed description of optional points of interest and potential walking tours.

Our last night in Trieste. Arriverderci!

After a good 15 minutes, during which time she all but ignored her friends except to ask for clarification of locations, we set off into the early evening. It was not another fifteen minutes into our walk that we again ran into this same group down by the canal near Piazza Erbe (refer to photo) We all had a good laugh, bumping into one another for the second time, and as they were on their way to have an aperitivo, they invited us to join them. We spent a lovely time by the canal getting to know two exceptional ladies and meeting a charming couple who live on the Galápagos Islands as tour guides.

Before I leave, we were fortunate to have been in Split during the days of The Mediterranean Film Festival held in Split each year. We actually saw three terrific films: In Between - the story of three, very different yet comparable young Palestinian women in Tel Aviv who are trying to find their own paths; Last Man In Aleppo - a disturbing and harrowing documentary about a team of volunteers called The White Helmets, citizens of Syria who have dedicated themselves to save as many people as possible following bombings. Their extractions of people buried in rubble have saved countless of lives; and, The Nile Hilton Incident - about the many levels and depth of corruption using the Egyptian government as metaphor for what is occurring all over the world.

FIRST episode in the Triest:Padua:Verona Story..NEXT EPISODE NEXT BLOG POST. 

Just outside our door...

Adele and I have been fortunate to stay at hotels that are lovely, graceful and accommodating. And, they are also so beautifully situated that I thought to share them with you by taking short, local walks and inviting you along.

Our first stop outside of Hanoi was Mai Chau at the "Sol Bungalow", located in a hillside valley of extremely well manicured rice fields...right in our back yard. We took a couple of splendid walks in Mai Chau.

Morning invites the lightness of being.  

A breakfast in the rice fields. 

Ninh Binh (below) is a high 'tourist' area, yet, worthy of interest. Ninh Binh is in the Red River Delta in northern Vietnam. Duc Thuy is an inspirational mountain whose beauty has inspired poets throughout history. As well, its waterways pass through volcanic rock formations, grottoes and caves that make for exciting and leisurely floating by 'feet' paddlers.

Our "captain" is a young man who paddles with his feet. We took a one-hour journey down the delta and explored caves and rock formations.  

Atop a monastery in Ninh Binh.  

Halong Bay is known for its emerald waters and thousands of towering limestone islands topped by rainforests. Junk boat tours and sea kayak expeditions take visitors past islands named for their shapes, including Stone Dog and Teapot islets. The region is popular with tourists who throng onto day boats, speed boats and overnighters to experience the cliffs and rocky edifices that dot the waters. Literally hundereds of tourists boats idle during the day and park at night to be amongst the beauty of the surrounding bay.

A Halong Bay island rock face. 

Hue began a shift away from the big city to smaller villages.  We stayed at the most exotic "Hue Ecolodge". In the middle of a tropical forest The grounds of the Ecolodge were nestled between the Red River and cornered by a maze of village streets.

 An ancient bridge in Hue.

Hoi An was a relief in many ways. A smaller, sophisticated city, Hoi An shares a colorful downtown with a world class beach. A shuttle bus took us for a 10 minute daily ride to the beach. We walked along paths behind restaurants that were fronted on the beach. Grab two chaise lounge chairs for the day as long as you buy a soft drink or beer and have some lunch. The beach is white sand, broad, and with the convenience of "Soul Kitchen" and "The Muong Sisters" restaurants we sunned bronze and ate well.

Hoi An also possessed an array of colorful, albeit commercial streets. At night, all visitors to the 'old city' meander the streets eventually crossing a central 'Japanese Bridge'. They may stop by a performance area where traditional Viet folk singers perform, or a square where a comedic group conducts night-time bingo in which the population participates. Add to that an endless array of stores and restaurants, cafes and bars and you have a formula that attracts the young and older alike.

The Almanity Hotel

Hoi An Beach

Colors abound in Hoi An and set the stage for passers-by. The contrasts and stark and beautiful. It was difficult not to grab the photo. I was lucky to get some shots that both describe life in Hoi An and the vibrant beauty of life.

A man who was teaching himself English. I love this man. He reminded Adele of 'Uncle Bernie' for his curiousity and constant love of knowledge and learning. 

A sanctuary in the hillside. 

The markets held endless fascination to me.

An 82 year old lady who worked the rice fields her whole life, now teaching at a government museum of rice.