WanderLost

September 2007

I wonder what Greece will look like from the air. I’ve got a vague image of blue-blue water and rocky, green land, and white ruins on a hilltop overlooking a city.

***

I’m in Greece now! In the plane, I watched the scenery slide by— beautiful green islands covered with fluffy white clouds and surrounded by beautiful blue water. I couldn’t pick out the Acropolis from the air, unfortunately. Then I took a bus into the city, then a metro towards the hostel, then walked. Greece, or rather, Athens, is different than I expected. It reminds me more of Morocco (Tangiers) than anywhere else. It’s not a “pretty” city, it’s pretty dirty, but it has character. I’ve caught glimpses of the Acropolis on our walk to dinner. Very impressive ruins at the top of a hill. Can’t wait to see them later.

It’s very warm here. The hostel is on the corner of various ethnic areas of the city. There’s an open air food market nearby. The air smells of spices— just like it did in Morocco. Jen and I went looking for a grocery store down our small street, and soon it felt like we weren’t in Greece anymore! The signs were in an Asian language, then in Arabic. The streets, covered in trash, were filled with hordes of dark-skinned men shouting foreign languages, speaking together, etc. It felt crazy! Like we had entered another world. So the hostel’s in a very interesting place. I like it.

I just remember looking over Greece for the first time in awe— this is the infamous Greece! Home of Homer, of Achilles, of all those famous heroes I’ve read so much about. This was the fearsome nation– great naval armies once covered these seas. This was the birthplace of the Greek gods. It’s rather intimidating, plus all signs are in Greek, few in English. It’s the first country I’ve visited (aside from Morocco) not to use a Roman alphabet. I love it here so far.

Sept. 07

Flying above the ocean at night, there’s nothing to see outside my window except the occasional tiny cluster of lights indicating a lone ship. Instantly my mind descends, to the rough chuck-and-slap of water against the boat’s sides. The night watchman walks with soft feet, checking the bearings, the engines, the bilge, then up on deck clutching a warm mug of coffee and breathing slowly beneath the arching starred sky, the smell of the sea on the breeze, the soft rocking of the boat, the creaks in which it speaks. Nothing else is like nightwatch on a boat.

Next day, I wake up early and walk down to Casa Mitla to meet my friend. The sun is just rising, coloring the sky at the end of the street bright gold. The Casta Mitla looks like I remember it, calm and beautiful, like the waves it depicts. We sit and talk on a nearby bench for a while, have breakfast in a café, then take a walk, strolling along a new way to Plaza Catalunya. It’s colder today- windier.  We chat until the bus comes, then part casually, cheerfully.

I return to the metro and take the funicular back up to the Joan Miró Foundation, and spend an hour or two wandering the museum, admiring the exhibits.

In the temporary exhibit (Bodies Without Limits) there is a smallish Rodin sculpture. I  love his work, and like this piece even before I realize it is his. Entitled Man Walking, it’s a bare torso of a man, with strong muscled perfectly formed legs striding along, but there’s no head or arms, and the upper torso is sculpted more roughly than the lower part, so all attention rests on the perfect legs.

One of my favorite rooms has three main exhibits. The first has three blank white canvases, each painted with only a single line, entitled Drawings for the Cell of a Recluse. It brings to mind the life of a recluse– self-imposed exile, and how a recluse couldn’t stand any other portrait, just one line, just one life, unravelled from the tapestry and confusion and color of the others. Solitary and striking. The second is a white canvas with black dripping explosions called Fireworks, no other color, as though too much to represent, so it represents all– seen, known and imagined.
The third is three more paintings entitled The Hope of a Man Condemned to Death, each white with black lines, each portraying a different color: red, blue, yellow. Blue I see as tranquility, hope for heaven. Yellow as hope for heaven as well as hope for release and pardon. Red as anticipation of the event, memory of an evil deed, or the idea or thought of revenge.

The last room is my favorite– huge paintings. One of the most simplistic has the longest title, about a lark’s wing meeting a poppy in a field with diamonds. One is intense orange, but not the kind that offends my eyes– it is the opposite, my eyes wanted to drink it in, literally. It has some black lines, and is titled A Drop of Water on a Pink Shore. Another is green with orange splashes and glows– A Hair Being Chased by Two Planets. Vivid colors striking the eyes, drawing me in rather than repulsing.

Next, mind filled with art, stomach filled with lunch, I wander back over to the Olympic Stadium, snapping some daylight pictures. The wind is strong, whirling leaves, pushing me roughly as I walk.  I make my way toward the Telefonica communications tower– just as futuristic-looking in the daylight as at night, and walk round the odd square with its small banzai-type trees in raised concrete boxes, and tall cylindrical yellow light poles that make odd clapping sounds as the wind roared around them, as though whispering for the ghosts of the Olympic crowd. I cross the street to the Art Museum (sadly closed) and sit on the steps for a bit, looking out over the city, listening to a guy play the guitar, alone and content with my thoughts.

Finally, I retrace our steps from last night, walking all the way back to my hostel (lots of walking– my feet ache!). I gather my backpack, say goodbye to the nice girl at reception, then walk to the metro, and now I’m here in the train station, waiting to go back to Valencia.
As I was walking today, I pondered many things. It was nice, in a way, to be alone, though I definitely missed my friends. It was all right to be walking solo among the streets of Barcelona, especially along the trees and fall leaves lining the road at the top of the hill near the Foundation and the stadium. It’s good to have times alone, to yourself, especially in intriguing places like Barcelona. Then in the future, when I’m settled and comfortable and in good (yet perhaps crowded) company, I can say, “I walked the streets of Barcelona alone. I had my time.”  I will know that I have lived.

    Following a brisk walk to the train station at 4:30 am, past groups of revelers enjoying the holiday and planning to push their Friday/Saturday festivities into the late a.m., I arrive at the train station. I’m early, only to discover that the train, in true Spanish fashion, is scheduled to leave at least 20 minutes late. The place is empty in the middle, great floor polished and shining, with people clustered round the edges, in groups, pairs, or solitary. I sit down on a peripheral bench, and contemplate my upcoming trip.

Despite having ample amounts of time, I still feel on edge– that near-departure nervousness that only recedes once in one’s assigned seat. The thrum of a warmed up train vibrates through the air like electricity, and the girl at the end of my bench taps her foot nervously, sending more vibrations through me. I practice deep breathing techniques, then lean back to watch the station slowly begin to fill up, and the clock hands inch onward.

The train arrives at 5:30 am, hissing up to the platform. When I enter, the light in the car is muted, with that special almost-hush that hangs around groups of strangers sleeping together. I have a window seat, the other empty, and snuggle in by myself. Warm air comes from the vents– comfortable and soothing. At first I watch the scenery roll by in the gray dawn, but then the gentle rocking lulls me asleep. I half doze, and half contemplate– past, present, future.

Dawn breaks ahead of the train and I see pink sky and clouds. Small towns roll by, overlooked by stone castles on hills, some with towers crumbling, but all whispering back to a past of clanking armor and lute music. On the other side, the Mediterranean Sea spread sout in a flat silvery shiny sheet.

I get into Barcelona on time, despite the late start. In the metro, construction is holding up the line. Nearby, a group of English-speakers try to get information out of a nearby metro employee with little luck.
“Doesn’t anyone here speak English?” one asks in exasperation.
“I do,” I respond after a moment’s pause, stepping forward, and repeating their question to the woman. We begin a relay of words, English-Spanish-English, with me in the middle. The tourists, not wanting to wait for delays, argue among themselves and leave. The woman and I chat for a few moments, then the metro appears (almost as though mocking the impatient Americans). She says goodbye, making a light-hearted comment about wishing she spoke English, and warning me about pickpockets. I step inside with a smile on my face.

From the metro station I find my hostel, chatting with a nice girl from Peru at the desk. Walking back down the street, I recognize the architecture and realize I am in the immediate neighborhood of Gaudi’s Casa Mitla. Happy about that, and happy joining my friends a few blocks down.

We have coffee, then take a walk down Las Ramblas, chatting the whole while. It’s crowded, but just as I remember- people, street performers, and flowers flowers flowers. We stumble upon the Plaza de George Orwell, with a modern sculpture. Follow small streets to the front of the cathedral where large groups of Sardona dancers perform. Then twist through the crowd at the Christmas market. We find a restaurant, order a huge dish of delicious paella, and talk over it for hours.

We move on– the Sagrada Familia, Poble Espagna, the Joan Miro museum, the Olympic stadium. We marvel at the gorgeous view of orange sky and pink clouds over the bright city, a strip of the Mediterranean shining on the horizon, lampposts around us glowing in the darkening light. Later followed food, more talk, and ice cream under Christmas lights strung through pedestrian alleyways.

11-29-07

cold nights
walking close to the side of the sidewalk where the restaurants have put out heat lamps to shield their diners
responding to a directions question in rapid-fire spanish
walking past the old stone church
feet sliding on smooth cobblestones
footballers playing in the park, shouts, punt-sound of kicked soccer balls
graffiti
waiting for the light to turn
splash of fountains
squares of yellow lamplight, auras
tiny dogs on leashes
home

7-31-07

The sweetness of returning to Spain– remembering the palm trees, understanding the foreign speech around me. The moment I exited the subway station and came outside, I knew I liked this city. It all embraced me suddenly– the heat, the sun glancing off the Spanish-style buildings, dusty orange trees, that special feeling in the air one can only find in the south of Spain. I took pictures of the cathedral in the Plaza de la Reina but none of them can capture the warmth of the air, or the sweet smell of white geraniums on the breeze, or the ringing church bells. I easily imagined myself wandering around, going to the beach, writing, reading. Working, living. Prague had been new, all new, but Spain is an enticing mixture of familiar and new– adventures recalling fond memories. A good choice.

I realized as I sat on the tram last night that I would miss all this– the foreign babble surrounding me (at first scary and intimidating but now comfortable, familiar, like birds or the wind), the passing by of old buildings and famous monuments, the rumble of cobblestone streets. The memories will haunt me and won’t stop until I go back, until I start to travel again. I know this.

8-26-07
My last day in Prague. I don’t really feel compelled to do more sightseeing. I’ve been walking around a lot lately, and it feels like enough. The city is beautiful, I like it. This evening I went to the Letna beer garden (on the hill), looked out over the lights, shining under a full moon– a perfect summer night. It’s strange not knowing when I’ll be back, whether in 5 years or 10 or 50. I wonder if it will change much, and how.

8-27-07
Early morning, and I take a taxi to the airport. As we drive, I think about how different this ride is from my first taxi ride into the city. That was late at night, now it is early in the morning. Then, everything looked strange and new. Now it looks familiar– I recognize places I’ve been, tram routes I’ve ridden. A good transition.

So here I am at the Prague airport for possibly the last time– the last for a while, that is. On my way to Valencia, finally. This past week went by pretty slowly, but I guess I’m suddenly here, so not that slowly.

We rise up into the sky and slowly the landscape fades below me, into white clouds, as though in my memory as well, not forgotten, but far below, part of the past. My new horizon is a stretch of clouds beneath a torquoise sky– blue as only sky can be this high, deep fading to white where it touches the clouds.

I wonder if standing in my new apartment, surrounded by all my things, will feel the same as I’ve been imagining it. Will it look how I remember it? What will Spain do for me this time?

Today I watched Prague fade away below me as I rose among the clouds.
Now I roar through the air towards Valencia, a new city with new possibilities, new experiences awaiting me.
I could not have come to where I am today without Prague, yet I know it is time to move on.
I say farewell with fondness and few regrets. I look forward with excitement and joy.

Layer of pearly clouds above. To the east, dramatic peaks emphasized with snow. The rising sun turning the sky orange-pink behind them, sending streaming fingers of light to thread through the trees and houses below, stretching miniature shadows. The beams reach straight ahead too and touch us. I watch the ribboning river and roads, admire the tiny houses and think, “This is the world from 10,000 feet.”

Wrinkles of tree-rich hills below, a wealth of green marked by brown road necklaces. Ahead, a jagged mountain rises, cloaked in snow. A herd of clouds advances, hides it from view, keeping its secrets safe even from modern passengers of silver metal birds. My prying eyes will discover nothing- the price of a plane ticket not enough to earn it.

The clouds roll below, obscuring earth from view. We are now in-between people, in limbo between earth and sky, left to our own thoughts. False angels, strange birds.

Why would they not want to look out the window? It isn’t every day you become a bird.

Aug. 21, 2007

Prague and I, we know each other now, more than just acquaintances, though we still have secrets from each other. My practiced eye glances casually over the facaded bulidings as I walk down the street, the Czech money feels normal in my hands. Easily I wend my way through my neighborhood, walking the same streets the natives walk, in the same way. The bakery on the corner sells rolls at night, fresh from the oven, for two crowns each and they melt in your mouth, bread-fresh and salty. I run in the park or walk in it, greeting the statues like old friends, happily casually looking out over the splendor of the city– red roofs and dark spires, threaded through with golden sunlight, the sky blue with white puffy clouds, the river a shining ribbon below.

4-23-07

The Dancers exist in a circle near the center of Prague, only a block away from the school where I work teaching English to Czechs in small classrooms with big windows. My building is blue, and down the street from it stands a magnificent synagogue with rising columns, a rose-pink facade and trimmings of blue and gold. Farther down is a charming dark-stone church with tiny windows, an obliging spire and small surrounding park with grass, benches and a blooming cherry tree. The steeple echoes an even taller tower across the street. A brooding stone remnant of medieval times, it stands in somber perplexity as electric trams rumble past its base.

And down the street from this . . . are the Dancers.

Four of them encircle a small fountain, raised on individual stone pedestals. They are also musicians, each with their own instrument, each frozen in the motions of an intricate stone dance. Water casts scintillating reflections on the bases of the pedestals— the visualization of unheard notes in the air.

The Dancers are blindfolded. Cloth entwines their arms and legs, hangs off their shoulders, covers their faces. The Horn-blower’s head is completely covered, yet still raised, the mouthpiece pressed against clothed lips, raised to the sky. The Piper and Mandolin Player, too, have heads closely wrapped. The Violinist, however, tilts her head to the side, cheek lovingly pressed against her instrument. The cloth has fallen away from the bottom part of her face, revealing the tip of a nose, and the merest hint of a musician’s smile.

The fifth Dancer is not around the pool but far away at the other end of the square. This one is the True Dancer. No instrument, for his body is his instrument. Head down, arms up, one leg lifted— the most exquisitely entangled of all, in ropes of shining gold. The sun setting behind me streams through the four clustered Dancers and makes the gold glint. The others are wrapped in gray-green, the color of their own muscled bodies, but the Fifth is tangled in gold. Entrapped, entwined, captive to the gold.

The Dancers enchant me. Though they never move, I can’t stop watching. They seem to be dancing out of their bonds yet at the same time tangling themselves further— the impression of freedom and bondage simultaneously. Their bodies are bound but their minds are not, floating away with the music notes. They are blind, but they don’t need to see. The music is their ears, their sight, their rhythm of life. The Horn-blower raises his head high, chest puffed out with effort. The Piper bends low, leg lifted, fingers poised. Across the water the Violinist stands upright but cocked sideways, arm out with an invisible bow, face resting against her violin. The Mandolin Player’s back is to me- the only one not playing. She holds her instrument by the neck and behind her, gazing up at some point in the sky, arm upraised as though warding off a blow, or blocking out the light. Or perhaps she is beckoning to the Fifth Dancer, beckoning to come join in the Dance. Perhaps to come lead the Dance. The Fifth Dancer seems to be trying to step out of his bonds, yet one feels he’s not free completely, that there’s a danger he might trip on his golden bonds and fall . . . ~