--I COULD USE SOME GOOD ADVICE

…If you have a phobia, say, an intense phobia as I have when it comes to heights, well, in many ways, to others without said phobia (or perhaps any phobia), you will look once and forever like a wimp, if not even a fraud.  Fraud, because at first these phobia-free stallions can’t grasp what you’re fretting over.  But once they sort of relegate themselves to the consideration that your phobia might be authentic, if even only partially so, they reason and conclude that you’re something of a milquetoast. 

Thus, picture me yesterday, ¾’s of the way up the Notre Dame towers, having unwittingly climbed all that way, now standing quite literally at the very edge of the tower (yes, there was a cyclone fence, but still it was SCARY AS ALL HELL) with rambunctious French toddlers dancing between the legs of adults, everyone taking long-range photographs with the cell phones, saying “Oh my, doesn’t everything seem so tiny from all the way up here?”, me clutched to an ancient marble sphere while the GODDAMN BELLS or Notre Dame are not only ringing, gonging and clanging as if Quasimodo’s pissed off about something, but shaking and vibrating the very frail lattice I’m standing on…

Needless to say, I spent two of the most horrifying hours of my life in a foreign country, in an ancient, alien building.  Maybe I am a wimp.  Maybe I’m some other unflattering things, too.  But what I’m not is ever going up any tall tower steps again.  So help me God, I’m not…

…More on Paris later.

--THERE'S HOPE IN THE MADNESS

…I used to think people exaggerated everything with regard to Paris being so wonderful, but now I get it.

I’m a believer.

Just about everywhere you look, there’s something interesting (or evening fascinating) that catches your attention.  There is incredible architecture and history all around, lovely neighborhoods full of eclectic yet indigenous fare (like the Marais district with its strong Jewish foothold and the one-of-a-kind Deli bakery, Florence Kahn).  The foot is delectable, the people (for the most part) remarkably stylish, some wearing scarves even on the hottest days.

Traffic gets snarled just like in NY, but unlike NY, no one ever honks their horns.  It’s as if Parisians understand that life moves at its own pace and therefore impatience is just wasted energy.

Today is Notre Dame and tonight is wine tastings.  I feel more than a little spoiled.

…This is a short piece I had published the other day at In Between Altered States:

                                               How We Got Here

            We wear hand-me downs and each other’s shoes, even if they’re too tight and pinch.  To save money, father buzzes our hair down to bristles with shears that rattle and sometimes catch patches of skin.  We eat in silence, the only sound metal chinking on plastic plates, food being chewed and swallowed.

            After supper, we lay on the shag carpet watching black-and-white TV, listening to a family that’s nothing like our own, hearing how happy they are, noticing what a fine car they drive, how big their dining room is.     

            At night we three sleep on the same mattress.  We never dream, or if we do, we never say.  In the mornings we rise before the sun and make it to the fields, row after row of the same bushes, flocked with blood-red berries glinting against green.

            We work on our knees, filling the flats as fast as we can because it’s cash money they pay here.  Afternoons, we stand in line with the other migrants, wilted and sweaty, each person taking his turn, handing over a punch card and receiving berry-stained bills in return.

            Years later, one brother steals a car, another brother robs a convenience store, and I break into a house.

            Now we wear orange uniforms, sit in similar cells, stroll in sunlight for a single hour each day.  At night we lay in cots.  We imagine freedom, beaches with chalk-colored sand, a skiff bobbing on waves.  

--SOMETIMES MIRACLES HAPPEN

…Nice is beautiful, stunning really, a seaside resort for the carefree and—one would think from merely glancing around—rich.

The hills overlooking the surf are covered with buildings, opulent hotels or mansions whose architecture evokes Italian influences.  In a little over two hours, I counted more than 100 Mercedes automobiles on the streets.  Being that land here is extremely valuable, everything is packed together closely, tightly, and there is certainly a claustrophobic quality to the city planning, especially where the narrow roadways are concerned.  How buses are able to negotiate some of the turns are anybody’s guess.  Pedestrians, as in Rome, flee for their lives.

People swim in the curved bay below breath-taking cliffs, going way out toward wobbling buoys or splashing shore-side.  A few paddle standing up on the water.  Even as early as 7am, rows and rows of folks have lined up on the rock-covered beach with their striped towels, claiming a section as their own.

There are couples and families but mostly there are young people who come to Nice, particularly at night.  Last evening, a group of 70 or so, paired off into smaller groups of ten each, laughed and regaled themselves in darkness merely light by the moon and its reflection beaten off the water by waves.  These kids seem quite giddy and nonthreatening, as if they have it all and are going to enjoy it all in a leisurely pace.

It’s impossible not to be affected by Nice’s beauty, but it’s also difficult not to imagine what the area would have looked like before it became the man-made tourist mecca it is today.  Nice reminds me of a naturally beautiful woman who becomes a model, loses all her weight, takes to wearing excess make-up and accessories, has her hair done by stylists while donning stilettos with impossibly high heels.

I’m not sure what you’d think about her.

--THERE'S NOT A PLACE I WOULDN'T GO

 …“If you want to see some real miracles, come around the square at 5:00 when all the cripples start walking perfectly normal, until tomorrow morning when the tourists show up.”

That was what our tour guide said as a beggar--whose feet seemed irreparably turned inside-- shook his cup, asking for money.

In a way, the quote sums up a lot of what I didn’t like about Florence.

…I think the beauty of Florence lies on the outskirts, in the country sides, beyond the festering city center where hordes of tourists scrabble over the same set of worn marble tiles, viewing the same cathedrals, dining at the same over-priced Trattorias, jamming generic designer houses—Gucci, Fendi, Armani, Chanel, Ferragamo, Prada, Versace—no different than toddlers waiting for free handouts of cotton candy.  This is not to say that city center-Florence is unappealing.  On the contrary, there is a ton of energy both emitted and absorbed within a ten mile radius.  There are one-of-a-kind dishes, museums, frescos, wonderful architecture.  There is a lot that demands your attention, that pulls on your senses, be they sight or smell.

But the city center is also dirty (almost every church could use a good scrubbing) with graffiti that should be gotten rid of and pungent sewage odors wafting out of curb-side grates.  The streets are just as narrow as those in Rome, yet the drivers here seem bent on creating pedestrian carnage.  Also, a lot of the shopping and dining (which is endless) seems sadly redundant and unoriginal (perhaps those last two descriptions make me redundant), and after some time, selecting a restaurant seems a bit like playing roulette.

But south of the Arno River, detached from the actual “city” city, it’s a different world.  After passing over the water and turning a corner down any street, you get a sense of calm.  It’s cleaner.  It’s more mysterious.  It feels more intimate.  The food and shopping are considerably more varied, and the father you walk, the greater this becomes, unlike north of The Arno.

It’s unquestionably beautiful on the south side of the river, especially when one gets a view from high up where you can then see the city at a glance while also catching (behind you, or side-to-side) the rolling southern hills, replete with olive trees and vineyards braided across hillsides, stucco homes standing like proud mastheads, an occasional castled poking up from the greenery like a giraffe’s neck made of ancient stone.  It’s magnificent, every square foot.

Today, at an altitude higher than the famed Florence city-center dome, I happened upon Fort Belvedere, opposite the dome, across The Arno.  The views from there were spectacular, even for one afraid of heights (like me.)  Later on, chugging up a grueling steep slope, I came upon a church built in the 10^th century.  Like most of the most magical cathedrals, this one was ominous, yet it wasn’t so large so as not to also feel intimate.  There were frescoes on the walls and ceilings, gold leaf, marble floors with inscriptions, gardens outside, and off to the side, designated mausoleums for the deceased elders who had served the church.  There was someone inside playing the pipe organ as a paltry crowd of thirty (in downtown Florence the smallest crowd you’d have in a church such as this would be 300) listened while seated on a 1,000 year old pew.

So I guess the larger take-away is: break away from the beaten path; do the unexpected; take a couple risks and don’t worry if it’s going to screw things up; find the “self” that few others get to see. 

--TAKE IT ANYWAY YOU WANT

…There are only two kinds of pedestrians in Rome: fast pedestrians and dead pedestrians.

I had heard that before arriving, and now that I’m here, I see firsthand how it’s completely true.  The sidewalks are remarkably narrow, the roadways not much better.  Mopeds, motorcycles, and even vans, scream, full-throttle through every intersection, down every alley, whether or not there’s a viable opening for them to get through/past.  If you’re not alert, you can easily have one of your buttocks ripped off, an elbow unhinged, or your feet thrown out from under you. 

There are plenty of similarities with Europe and America, but, of course, there are differences, some subtle yet huge: In Europe it’s “guilty until proven innocent.”  In Europe, “Hey, you, better watch the hell out or I’m going to run your ass over and not bother looking back.”

I wonder how many accidents there are each day.

But who knew Rome could be so wonderful.  Wow.

It’s like NYC with some of the voltage stripped away, yet effervescent, claustrophobic in the way that big cities are (and have to be), full of diverse people, with scenery (shops; displays; that weird whose face is painted gold) constantly calling for your attention.

The shopping is endless.  Every major designer, and then some, is here.

The people-watching is riveting (if, like me, you enjoy that sort of thing).  You can hear all sorts of different languages in the din.  Most of the crowds, except for the Americans, are dressed pretty stylishly.  There are no homeless people, just every now and then a stray woman in full dress, bend over, lying on the cement, head down to the stone, moaning, with an upraised cup in her palm.  She shows up in crowded areas, at the entrance and exits of churches, at the Coliseum…

Religion--specifically, Catholicism--has left its imprint somewhere on virtually every block of the city and the surrounding areas.  The cathedrals are magnificent, maybe too much so.  In the Vatican you get a clear picture of the power the papacy holds—power and wealth—and to me it was a bit unnerving.   Excess is everywhere, gaudy excess, the opposite of what you‘d expect to find if you visited Jesus’s.

One of my new favorite things is the sound of Italian kids talking.  It has to be the cutest sound in the world.  When I hear them, it makes me want to go up and give them a hug.

Now it’s onto Florence, then Nice and Paris.  I’m here with my wife.  We’re celebrating our 30^th wedding anniversary.  Seven days down, nine more to enjoy.

--I'M JUMPING IN HEAD FIRST

…Tomorrow I head for Europe.  I’ll be gone for 16 days and likely won’t be posting here until I return.

I hope you’ll miss me, just a little.

…This is a post-9/11 message from comedian George Carlin, shortly after his wife died:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but
shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but
have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller
families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less
sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems,
more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little,
drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too
little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our
possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and
hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to
life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but
have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer
space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom,
but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but
accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more
computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we
communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small
character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of
two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes.

These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one
night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to
quiet, to kill.  It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and
nothing in the stockroom.

A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can
choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

Remember, spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going
to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who
looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and
leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the
only  treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most
of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep
inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment
for someday that person will not be there again. Give time to love, give
time to speak, and give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.


HOW TO STAY YOUNG

1. Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let
the doctor worry about them. That is why you pay him/her.

2. Keep only cheerful friends. The grouches pull you down.

3. Keep learning. Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening,
whatever. Never let the brain idle. " An idle mind is the devil's workshop."
And the devil's name is Alzheimer's.

4. Enjoy the simple things.

5. Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.

6. The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person who is
with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.

7. Surround yourself with what you love, whether it's family, pets,
keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever, your home is your refuge.

8. Cherish your health: If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable,
improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9. Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, to the next county, to a
foreign country, but NOT to where the guilt is. 

--IF YOU GET HURT I'LL TAKE YOUR PAIN

…I finally saw “Fruitvale Station” starring Michael Jordan of “Friday Night Lights,” “Parenthood,” and “The Wire.”  He was outstanding in every way, as was the film. 

There were only seven people in the theater and the movie played only once, at 9:55 am on Sunday morning.

It breaks my heart to think that great little films such as “Fruitvale” get overrun by mindless Marvel Comic movies.

…On television, “Breaking Bad” continues to astound with each new episode.  Last night’s entrée was a brilliant study in subtlety and the use of facial expression to do all the talking that need be done.  With, sadly, just six more episodes to go, I’m dying to see how Walter and Jesse go out into that dark night.

“Dexter” on the other hand, feels tired.  It’s redeemed itself somewhat this year, but they probably should have closed up shop after the fifth season.

…Here are a few things I like to start the week:

"We have worked at full speed since May.  And that is I'm persuaded the root and source and origin of all health and happiness, provided of course that one rides work as a man rides a great horse, in a spirited and independent way; not a drudge, but a man with spurs to his heels." (Writing in her journal about her life as a publisher and

writer.) Virginia Woolf

"Never love anybody who treats you like you are ordinary." Oscar Wilde

"The way to learn to do things is to do things. The way to learn a trade is to work at it. Success teaches how to succeed. Begin with the determination to succeed, and the work is half done already." J.N. Fadenburg

"I am thankful for small mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends who expects everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything is less than the best, and I found that I begin at the other extreme, expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate goods." Ralph Waldo Emerson

"People will stare. Make it worth their while." Harry Winston