Big Matty

Eating in Galicia

Pulpo Gallego, also known as Polbo a Feira, in all its soft, succulent, salty, Spanish Olive-oily goodness, served in a crowded, dimly lit restaurant late on a rainy Saturday night in Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, Spain.

It's octopus, grilled and tossed in olive oil, paprika and salt and served on a wooden serving dish. It is tender, juicy and salty, tasting of the sea and Spain and legend and romance. With each bite the Celts fire up their bagpipes, Cristopher Columbus crosses the ocean and Pablo Picasso paints Guernica. For me, the dish captures all of Spain (or at least the portion of Spain I have known) in one large, charred, flavor-packed plate.

We had arrived in Santiago from Madrid at about 8:30 PM. By the time we had checked in to our hotel, freshened up and started walking through the refreshingly cool streets to the restaurant, it was almost 11 PM. - a.k.a time for dinner.

Marcos y Miriam took care of ordering, of course, but we spent several minutes planning what to have. Caldo Gallego - the traditional Galician Soup, razor clams, a plate of sliced sausage and lomo, bread, wine and, of course, pulpo.

Marcos conveyed all of this to the waiter, in Galician, which sounds like a mix between Spanish and Portuguese. At the end of his instruction, the waiter paused and then, in a voice that conveyed concern even to those of us who did not speak the language, began to tell Marcos something of import, and in a very convincing way. Marcos concurred, or at least acquiesced, with a bit of a chuckle, stating as the waiter left, 

"So Galician"

We pressed for details. "You know, we ordered all of that food" he said, with a grin, "and at the end the waiter tells me, 'I don't think that is enough. You will be hungry, you should order a steak,' so, we are getting a steak as well."

He went on to explain, "He is not trying to boost sales, he doesn't give a shit about that, it is just very Galician to feed someone. More is never too much. This won't be the last time we have to deal with this, you will see."

He was not wrong. But after the Caldo Gallego (pictured above) and the razor clams and the charcuterie and the pulpo, a steak really was to be too much. We caught the waiter in time and cancelled the steak. Enough was enough.

This pattern repeated itself as we traveled throughout Galicia. We went to a spot known as "The end of the world" due to its distinction as the western-most spot of continental Europe, for a lunch of fresh fish. It was early so we got to walk through the kitchen and look at the fish on the grill...

...everything was fresh and simple and lovely and huge. See the platter below. Much more fish than four people should eat. But eat it we did, and I can feel the sweet, juicy flesh on my lips and tongue as I write this. Just the right amount of too much, perfectly cooked, perfectly fresh fish to last in my memory for the rest of my life.

We were in the region for three days, and I never, ever, even a little bit, felt hungry. The best place for eating, though, was the home of Marcos' parents, in the countryside outside of Ferrol.

In a beautiful house on beautiful grounds, all of which had been painstakingly developed and improved over 35 years by Marcos' father, we ate a couple of meals that will live on in the history book of Big Matty's Best.

The first was dinner, the evening after a long drive along the coast from Santiago to Ferrol. We were tired and, frankly, not feeling hungry after such a long, winding drive. But once the food started getting laid out, our appetites returned.

We had veal, a dish reminiscent of Ossso Buco, but Spanish and homestyle, deeply flavorful and tender. We had Tortilla Espanola, and salad. And we had steak - because, why not, we were in Galicia, right? I pictured Marcos' mother, shaking her head like our waiter the night before, deciding we needed steak because of course there was not enough food already.

It was a moment, sitting in this lovely old home, surrounded by a kind and generous family I had met only once before, who didn't know me from Adam, really, but who were treating my wife and me to a fantastic family dinner. I could have stayed at that table for the rest of my life.

Fortunately, there were leftovers, and we did the whole thing again for lunch the next day. And yes, we had steak then, too.

BigMatty and the Block Rockin' Beats

We had gotten there just after the doors had opened. The hangar section of the San Francisco Armory, - a huge, open space in the century-old historic building that once housed the National Guard, was used to film the original Star Wars, and is now home to Kink.com, a producer of fetish-oriented adult entertainment.

It was a Thursday night, but we rarely get the chance to go to shows like this, so we said, "aw, what the heck, let's do it." I was tired from a busy week and not enough sleep but was optimistic that this would be worth standing in a crowd for three and a half hours.

The opening DJ had started and the mood was mellow and nice. The cavernous room was maybe a quarter full. There was a large bar in the center and what seemed like dozens of bars lining the perimeter of the room. We had come with Martin and Jennifer and spent time chatting near the back of the room as it slowly began to fill. We didn't have anything to drink - a show during the week or out for a drink during the week, but I am too old - and was too tired - to do both.

Towards the end of the first set, we decided to move closer to the stage. Plans were made to - if we got separated - meet back at our original spot by 11:30, just before the end of the show.

As the second act played the volume grew and more of the lights were used. A few times I felt the deeper bass notes vibrate in my chest. I was getting a taste of what was to come. By the end of the second set, the final one before the headliners, the volume was getting pretty loud and the crowd pretty thick.

The warm-up acts ended and a small army of people started rearranging the stage. A set that looked straight out of the Death Star was being rigged up, with computers and mixers and all manner of electronic gear while rows and rows of lights and lasers were unveiled and tested with cool efficiency and speed.

Twenty minutes later the room went dark, a cloud of fog enveloped the stage, and two DJs appeared in the center of a cone of green lasers, the two we had all come to see, the Chemical Brothers.

Then all hell broke loose.

"Hey Boy, Hey Girl" was the opener, and the crowd leapt with the words "Superstar DJs, here we go!" Lasers began shooting around the room while an immense, striped, seemingly three-dimensional figure danced above the stage. As, I assume, the engineer used the opener to test the mixing and equipment, the volume continued to grow. By the time the first song had ended, this had become the loudest concert I had ever been to.

It was aggressively loud. Remember how one of the opening acts had made my chest vibrate? That vibration had transformed into a near constant explosion. I swear I could feel it in my bowels, each coil of intestine separating from the other along with the beat. I've never experienced music so intensely. It was exhilarating, partially because it was a little bit frightening.

"Go" - their latest single, came early in the set, with its characteristically infectious Chemical Brothers bassline. People around us were dancing, swaying, pumping their fists. We were moving too, it was impossible not to move to the beat. In fact, the beat was moving us. Marissa commented later that she could feel her hair moving, caused by the explosiveness of the music.

Though the show had started with a force I had never before experienced, it only grew from there. With every next song the stimulation increased - the volume, the lights, the visuals on screen, the people in the crowd, the heat of their bodies, the fog, the smell of weed. Every sensory receptor in my body was operating at maximum capacity.

At about 30 minutes in, I started to worry about Marissa. It was getting very warm and a little hard to breathe. The crowd had grown pretty tight. It was a friendly crowd, nothing menacing, but there were a lot of us up against each other and she is a petite little thing.

I soon realized that she was just fine - it was me who was in trouble. I found myself unable to catch my breath. I was getting light headed and feeling slightly removed from my body. I have had this feeling once before: on an international flight with free booze, the day after giving blood, and I knew if I didn't act quickly I would soon be passing out.

I got her attention and began to shout that I was about to faint - I was shouting at the top of my lungs but I couldn't even hear myself. This struck me as funny, and a smile came across my face - as one did on hers - even though I knew I had to get out of the crowd in the next few seconds...

So I motioned with my eyes in a way that I hoped conveyed "I am out of here, and if we never see each other again always remember that I love you and sorry for anything annoying I may have done" and lurched my way toward the side of the room.

I felt like I was swimming uphill, in slow motion, searching for a way out of the crowd with increasing desperation, while I - of course - tried to keep a look on my face that said "yeah, I'm cool, just weaving my way through this sea of humanity because I like to. I am a people person." It felt like forever but I managed to get to one of the bars, where I was going to buy a bottle of water. 

But the sign said "Cash Only". The water was five dollars and I only had two. Parents remind your children - if you are going to a concert, always take enough cash to at least buy a bottle of water. 

Thankfully, just getting out of the crowd helped and the danger was passing, even without water to drink. So I made my way toward the back of the room, where a couple of doors were mercifully open to the cool San Francisco air, spent a couple of minutes engaged in deep yogic breathing and let myself calm down and my head clear.

I had missed one, maybe two songs. And by missed I mean staggered around like a fish thrust onto land while the beat pierced my soul.

I re-achieved full consciousness in time for one of the prettier songs in the set, "Star Guitar". And thus I was brought back into full concert mode. It was almost as loud where I was now standing and I was only a bit further away from the visuals than I had been with Marissa.

She joined me about 20 minutes later - gave me a big "Oh no!" when I told her what had happened but laughed when she knew I was okay. We resumed our state of mind-blown wonder as the music, the visuals and the crowd continued to entertain.

Martin and Jennifer appeared, like clockwork, at 11:30 and we prepared to leave. Just as we were turning to head to the door I looked up to see two 60 foot robots levitating above the stage, lasers shooting out of their eyes. Martin was trying to speak to me but I could not hear a word he was saying. So again I just motioned with my eyes and he turned to look, a smile growing across his face. 

Then they played "Block Rockin' Beats," perhaps their most famous song and one of my favorites, and we had to stay, just a little longer.

"Galvanize" came at the end too. Maybe it was the encore, the details are fuzzy. My brain had pretty much melted by then. All I know is that after that we made our way to BART and I drove us home from Daly City. Somehow I got up the next morning for a 7AM conference call. Otherwise, it took three days to recover.

In the few days leading up to the event, as I went through my normal, healthy routine, I had moments of doubt, wondering if I was too old or had grown too square, or just too boring to go to a show like this at all, let alone on a weeknight. But as my head hit the pillow at about 2:00 AM after the show, I knew those doubts were nothing but self-limiting nonsense. I not only enjoyed this show, I felt energized by it. It may have nearly knocked me unconscious, but in the end it really just woke me up. It helped me remember that it is never too late for new experiences.

My only question now is when can we do that again? I promise to bring enough cash for water.

Thank You, Bern. No, Really, Thank You.

 

I love Bern. I love it not only for its quintessential Swiss-ness - its many clocks and squares and parks, or its trams and its swift, clean river, ringing the city like a natural moat. It is more than that. I actually owe the city of Bern and all of its tidy, tax paying citizens a big thank you. Let me explain:

The story begins, really, with our arrival in Switzerland, whence we began our eating of lots and lots of cheese, yogurt, meat and bread, and very little of anything else. It arcs toward a turning point in Lausanne, the night before heading on to Bern. We had gone out to a hip and lively bistro. I went with my standard rule: get something you can't easily recreate at home. Extra points if you aren't likely to find it at a restaurant in your area. So I ordered the Steak Tartare.

Now I have had tartare before - and it had been a small helping of uncooked, gently ground and mildly seasoned beef. However, at this bistro in Lausanne the portion was easily half a pound, and it was delicious. Despite having paid the equivalent of the GDP of Argentina, I realized I had gotten quite a good deal and I proceeded to eat it all, pairing it with a crisp local beer. I may have even had a (likely creamy) dessert, I am not sure. I do remember that I was as full as a tick by the time I was done.

The next morning we took the train to Bern, swung by the hotel and then hit the town. Lively streets traversing through an interesting mix of traditional and modern buildings, the avenues studded with different columns, symbolizing many different themes and stories, all uniquely Swiss, dotting intersections all over the place. Oh, yes, and clocks.

Large, intricately designed and entertaining to watch, the public clocks we saw in Bern were a delight. I stared and marveled at the precision craftsmanship and delicate artistry. Someone spent their life creating this, I would think to myself in wonder.

I didn't have a care in the world. I wasn't even hungry, what with my carnivorous gluttony the night before topped by a healthy breakfast of yogurt and cheese and bread and coffee. In fact, I was a little full. A tad bloated, maybe.

Travel more than a few times and you start to take the occasional indigestion in stride. Just go about your day. Keep walking, drink some water. It will pass, if I may. Some brisk walking, a couple of good farts and voila...!...off to the next meal.

So ignore it I did. Making our way through beautiful open markets. Admiring the mighty river from atop a hill. Lusting after all of the beautiful Swiss watches in the shop windows. Bern is a seriously pleasant place to be and I was taking it all in, my increasingly bloated abdomen be damned. 

We had made a day of it and that day was getting long in the tooth. It was time to stop at one of the prettiest and most ideally located (on a hill, overlooking the river) parks I have ever seen to rest and have a beer.

Yes, I know, at this point my belly was stretched as tight as a timpani and I really should have been attuned to that, but it was a perfect day in Bern and the perfect time to enjoy a beverage al fresco. Maybe the beer will help, I thought. A few cleansing belches and what not, right?

So we hung out at this park for at least an hour, maybe two, sitting in the shade, watching people, talking about whatever it is we talk about when we are travelling with dear old friends through interesting, picturesque places.

Last on our list before heading to the hotel was a walk through the famous Bear Park, where indeed they do have a couple of live bears. 

We got up and started walking. I began feeling a chill, up and down my spine. Strangely, nobody else did, not even Marissa, who is usually cold when the temperature drops below 75 degrees. I was also feeling a little soreness in my lower back. A dull ache. And I was still way bloated. Way. But on we went, while I kept my growing discomfort to myself.

We get to the Bear Park. There they are, just beyond the fence, a couple of large brown bears frolicking about as much as bears in captivity can. People from all over the world are snapping pictures. Just as I reach for my camera, the first wave hits...

Pow! An involuntary shudder, an icy cold sweat, and a cramp. A serious cramp, in my lower belly...

Some people are born with extra-sharp hearing, some are born with perfect pitch, others excellent eyesight. I was born with a keen ability to find a restroom in an emergency, and my talent was now desperately needed.

While my companions admired the bears, I made a beeline for a municipal-looking structure that is part of the park. It looked like a place where restrooms would be. It was not.

My vision blurring slightly and my heart rate picking up, I spied a much larger structure just across from me. I saw people coming and going and sitting at tables. A restaurant/reception center/pub or something like that. I don't really know and I never found out, because it didn't matter. Nothing in the world mattered, other than finding the bathroom, the lavatory, the WC, la toilette, los aseos, de bedürfnisanstalt, bitte! 

Just as I entered I spied a group of young women emerging from a corridor, a good sign. I rushed over, using that quick but fakely calm walk - avoiding eye contact, breathing deep, jaw muscles clenched - that is the universally accepted walk of one who is in gastrointestinal distress but is doing their damnedest best to keep it together. You've seen that walk. Chances are you have walked that walk.

I got to the men's room - doors closing pants flying open backpack landing on a hook, all in a simultaneous blur of movement and dexterity that can only come during the most difficult of moments when adrenaline is at its peak and all senses are heightened - and proceeded to unleash the most unholy of incidents of my reasonably long life. I nearly sobbed with relief, my skin tingling in that unique way it tingles when, well, you know, when this kind of thing happens.

After a few moments, with my heart rate receding and breath returning to normal, I started to notice my surroundings. Immaculately clean green tile hung on the walls and lay on the floor, with an equally pristine strip of white tile ringing the room. Though small and windowless, the place was perfectly lit - no harsh, bright bulbs, no icky fluorescence, but also not dark and cave-like. This was a seriously pleasant bathroom. And I was all alone, God be praised.

It wasn't long before I was able to get back up, pull myself together, and wash my hands. Here came the coup de grâce: as I was drying my hands I detected the fresh scent of the herbaceous, probably organic soap I had just used, caressing my senses as the putrescent stench I had fouled this lovely space with was being silently whisked away by an incredibly efficient ventilation system. My toxic fury had been dealt with and all traces quietly removed.

It was as if nothing had even happened. A second sob of gratitude nearly jumped from my heart. 

I returned to my companions, now enjoying the coolness of the evening, and we walked to the bus stop to make our way home. I still felt a bit achy and my gut gave a few kicks here and there, but by the time we got to the Klee museum the next morning, I was right as rain.

Thank you, Bern, for preventing what could have been not only a horrible situation for me personally, but possibly a hazardous incident with international repercussions. I credit your civic sensibilities, love of efficiency, and all around good hygiene with saving my dignity and, thus, the rest of my trip. I owe you one, Bern. I owe you one.

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Negotiating Peace in Lausanne

This is Lausanne, on the edge of Lake Geneva (Lac Leman). I snapped the photograph above from our room just minutes after checking in, remarking at the beauty that lay all around us, and then we set out walking to see what lay in store.

I am writing this months after our trip and just several weeks after the leaders of the U.S., Iran and several other countries met in Lausanne to hammer out a historic framework for (hopefully) reaching an agreement on nuclear weapons. So as I write this I can't shake them from my mind. It has colored my memory of the town and all of the wonderful things it offers to see, eat and drink.

This area of Switzerland is known for a certain kind of wine - Chasselas. Clean, dry, slightly floral, it is easy to drink and good with food, particularly Swiss cheeses. The hills around Lausanne are covered with vineyards, and we took a long, meandering walk outside of the city, looking down on the lake that changes so slowly - langorous boats, glacial clouds - one could easily mistake it for a very large still-life.

I now wonder if the chief negotiators took a similar walk? Maybe some of their diplomats or aides? A stroll through the zen-like labyrinth of lush vines, overlooking the deep, calm water, could only help advance a peace process. At the very least, it would help prepare the mind for rest, which might then lead to a breakthrough in negotiations.

We also stopped at a farmers market. The smells - the funk of the cheese, the rich blood of the meats, the sweetness of the fruits - focused our minds on one of the fundamentals of mankind - what to eat. Let's see, Berner Alpkase or Vacherin? Do we want olives? Which kind of bread? Did you see those plums? How much for a bag?

Do you hear anything in there about numbers of centrifuges or enrichment capability? Anything about sanctions? No. So, I hope that members of the negotiations took time to get out to the market. Nothing focuses attention on the universal needs and desires like a trip to a good farmers market. Why would I want to plan for your destruction when I could instead plan a delightful lunch?

Speaking of lunch, we had ransacked the market like the 3rd division...wait, too militaristic a metaphor... We carried our market bounty along the winding vineyard path until we found just the right spot for a picnic. Sausage, two types of cheese, fresh bread, tomatoes, and plums for dessert. It was a feast for four and came with a complimentary view of Lake Geneva.

We sat and we ate and nothing else mattered, not really.

Surely there must have been meals like this while negotiations were taking place? Quiet moments when all that could be heard was the song of birds, the buzz of insects and the chewing of diplomats?

Upon further thought, this could be a secret weapon. I hope I am not spilling the beans on top-secret State Department strategy, but what better way to gain concessions from your enemy than by treating them to a picnic on a hillside overlooking a lake? Get them all sated and drowsy, warm thoughts of love for mankind and mother earth emanating from their belly and then POW, get them with a counter-offer. They will never know what hit them and they likely won't care.

Note to the State Department: More picnics with our enemies, stat!

After the picnic we walked on, through picturesque little towns and more lovely vineyards, eventually landing at a place that had all of the wines of the region available for purchase and tasting. We decided to stay and try a small flight of Chasselas wines of varying quality and price.

This was a proper tasting, as in the intention is to try small amounts of a few to find a favorite or two to buy for later. But after a long day of walking and hours after the picnic had ended, those few tastes did manage to go to our heads a little - a pleasant wine buzz to wrap up the afternoon.

Looking back, a couple of thoughts come to mind: Observant Muslims are supposed to avoid alcohol. The easy-drinking wines we tried that day would be hard for anyone to pass up, and I could see the Iranian negotiating team being tempted, what with the grueling hours and stressful situation. 

Do you see where I am going with this? I am picturing someone from the U.S. team offering just a taste, a little sample, to his counterpart on the Iranian team. One taste leads to another, then the other diplomats wonder what all the smiles are about, and they want to try, and before you know it you have diplomats on all sides abuzz with white wine and giggling like naughty schoolgirls.

As the Iranians sober up they realize they have indeed been a bit naughty, and they would rather it not get back to the folks at home. I am not talking hookers and cocaine - no, that is for Secret Service guys and way too tasteless for a classy place like Lausanne and the caliber of people involved in the negotiations. I mean just a glass or two of the local stuff to loosen the mood and, you know, keep as our little secret, provided certain members who are expected to abstain and don't want to have to explain themselves agree to play ball. Understood?

We wrapped up our walk down on the dock, expensive looking boats sharing the water with big, fat swans. There was a park near the water and a mixture of Swiss humanity was out enjoying the pleasant evening air. We would eventually make our way back into town for dinner, which involved, for me, a very large portion of Steak Tartare that deserves it own post.

Suffice it to say, it was a beautiful day. The kind of day that makes one appreciate every moment one has and wish nothing but good things for others. I can only assume the organizers of this phase of negotiations had experienced a similar feeling and knew that this was the place to get the parties together.

I would recommend something similar for our U.S. Congress, in the hopes they might actually drop some of their partisan fetishiizing and actually make some progress on the huge issues facing the U.S. (Iran and the Middle East being just one of those). But then again, no, they don't deserve such a nice trip.

 

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...And then there was Bratwurst

We had been up to Schilthorn, an ascent of 8,000 feet from our home base of Lauterbrunnen, and we were making our way down. Having used mechanized transportation most of the day (trams, trains, etc.) it was time to do some walking.

So we took to our feet, making our way from Murren, in the middle of a pleasant Alpine day. We had eaten a big ol' Swiss breakfast, with ham, cheese, meusli, boiled egg, fruit, toast and coffee (one post I will do some day will be about how to make the most out of travelling almost anywhere by finding the places to stay that not only feed you breakfast, they let you feed yourself for breakfast.) but it was getting past noon now. Since we had trail mix and water, though, we pressed on.

 

The scenery between Shilthorn and Lauterbrunnen is, of course, stunning, and we wound our way down down with jaws open, in awe at every new sublime vista that came into view. The air was fresh and moist, the sky somewhat overcast with a thin layer of clouds.

As we came around one particular bend, large shadows, like the wingspans of great birds, quickly slipped across us. More silent than actual birds, paragliders were taking off from the hillside above us. Most actually held a pair, the professional in back, silent, slightly bored, steering the craft into the yawning void of the gorge below, the customer in front, sometimes squealing with a mixture of fear and delight, sometimes silent and, I imagine, scared to death.

Off they went, floating above the seemingly bottomless chasm, circling and circling like hawks looking for prey.

It was idyllic, our little Swiss hillside, and we walked and walked, slipping through quiet little towns, empty in summer (much different than the winter, when beautiful people on skis and in parkas would be shooshing along the same route we were taking now.) However, we really were starting to get hungry, and quickly. The altitude, the walking, the fresh air, the fact that breakfast had happened hours ago - it was all coming together to make for four hungry Americans in the Swiss mountains.

And then we saw her.

A sausage vendor, with freshly cooked bratwurst. There they were on the grill, their plump bodies twitching and their pale skin glistening, like Minnesotan coeds on their first Spring Break in Mexico.

There really was nothing else to do but devour them with glee, grease and mustard dribbling down our chins as we struggled to open our mouths wide enough. It is times like these you wish your jaw could unhinge like a python's.

OH MY GOD THIS SAUSAGE IS SO GOOD!

It was one of those long, meandering days that mark the best of time away. Nothing was overly planned but everything went as smoothly as could be hoped. We saw beautiful things and enjoyed each other's company. We got some exercise. And we ate something that, no matter how hard we try, how good the ingredients or where we go to get them, we will never be able to recreate. Instead it will live in our memories and occasionally bring a soft smile to our lips and a faraway look in our eye.

 God bless you, sausage lady.

Old Friends: Murray, UT to Zurich, CH

The Old Spaghetti Factory, Midvale, Utah, Summer of 1989. Two young men, a study in relaxed masculine elegance, wait patiently for a table in order to enjoy an institution of Western American family dining.

I had spent the school year at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, sharing a small room in a large concrete block dormitory with two local students. Our three beds lined the wall in an L shape, forming a complete U with our three desks, leaving just enough room to stand. Every room in the building was similarly populated, as were the several other dorms throughout campus. As you moved down the peninsula and into the city proper, the population density increased to the highest levels in the world. The only time I was by myself that year was either in the shower or on the toilet.

I was looking forward to having my huge bedroom over the garage, quietly separated from the rest of the house and larger than the inside of a 747 when compared to my digs in Hong Kong, back to myself. I was planning to lounge, lay about, lolligag and loaf as much as possible before heading back to my final year of college.

So I got a little worried when I was told, on our way from the airport back home, that a friend of my aunt in Spain had a son near my age who would like to spend the summer in the U.S. and oh, by the way, he was going to be here in a couple of days and would be sharing my room.

What  I learned before he arrived: His father was Spanish and his mother German. Depending on which country he was in he was known as either

Cristóbal, Cristophe or, presumably for his trip to the U.S., Cristopher. He was just a couple of years younger than me and spoke English well (in addition to Spanish and German, of course).

What I found on that first day was a polite, enthusiastic yet slightly reserved intelligent kid with an easy smile and an engaging laugh. We picked him up at the airport and went to the Utah Arts Festival - the warm dry air of a Utah summer evening and the orderly, good-natured Salt Lake City crowd providing the familiar comfort I had thought about during my humid last days in Hong Kong of 1989, when millions of people had filled the tense streets in support of the Beijing Spring.

In a few short days his reserve waned and his enthusiasm grew.

He was fascinated by American life, but in a way I hadn't expected. The details he delighted in were sometimes a mystery to me. For example, he once stopped dead in his tracks at a motorcycle in front of an old brick house, the lawn sprinkler spraying away in the early desert evening. "Could you take a picture of me please, with the chopper?" "Really?" I thought, this being long before the advent of digital photography, meaning one only had a finite number of pictures one could take. "Okay, sure, if that is what you'd like."

At the time these were the things I had worked to get away from. The "chopper" was just some loser's motorcycle in front of an old house in the suburb I grew up in and had come to take for granted. Why would anyone, particularly someone from Europe, where I had not yet been but imagined was far, far more interesting and beautiful than where I had now returned want a picture of something like that?

But his enthusiasm only increased as the summer days passed. Food, music, television, cars, girls, architecture, police, children, their parents... he took all of it in. His enthusiasm was infectious and everyone who met him caught his fever. He could ask almost anyone a question and get a sincere answer, regardless of the situation.

In what I consider the ultimate expression of his immersion into American life, he became a devotee of two of the greatest cultural hallmarks of late 20th century Murray, Utah: the Big Gulp and the Slurpee. Most people were limited to either one or the other, a Big Gulp fan or a Slurpee lover. But Cristóbal, he was both.

We spent the summer doing Utah things: the swimming pool at the Sports Mall, barbecues at my uncle's or brother's house, This is the Place Monument, Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park and, yes, Vegas.

My concern about sharing my summer was unfounded. I still had plenty of time to myself, to appreciate the quiet and the space that likely very few in the wide open West realize is the luxury it is. But I also got something else out of it. Cristóbal's enthusiasm also helped me appreciate all of those little things about my hometown and people that I had taken for granted. It is a rare privilege to be shown your own life through someone else's eyes.

But before long Cris headed back to Europe and I back to college. I was terrible at writing letters, and by the time I graduated and moved to Seattle we had fallen out of touch.

Thanks to Facebook (yes, give credit where it is due) some 20-odd years later we got back in touch. Much had happened - each of us had gotten married, moved around a bit, lost our fathers, and on and on. But we re-connected as if 1989 was yesterday and looked for an opportunity to see each other in person. It took a couple of years but, ultimately, my cousin in Madrid, daughter to the same aunt who had a friend whose son wanted to come to the US in 1989, was getting married. And Cristóbal and his wife Rosa, who now lived in Zurich, were to be in Madrid at the same time.

That first reunion was brief - a lovely, long Spanish lunch, complete with at least three desserts, an afternoon with Rosa, his mother and mine, strolling through Madrid, with a stop at one of its free museums, followed by an evening of cocktails and tapas.

It was a brief visit, but enough to see that his enthusiasm for life had not waned. And Rosa proved not only pretty but clever and funny as well. We had to go back home the next morning, but promised we would not let another 20 years pass.

Did I mention that Cris and Rosa now lived in Switzerland, a country I have been wanting to explore since looking out the window of a flight from Rome, seeing high, snow covered peaks towering over verdant green valleys?

As I mentioned in my previous post, Cris met us at the airport and accompanied us the next day on a truly epic trek across Lake Luzern and up the Rigi. He and Rosa also hosted us for two days at the end of our trip, showing us around Zurich and feeding us some of the finest food and drink I have ever enjoyed. Those two days will have their own post as well.

So there we were, 25 years after buying his first Big Gulp at the 7/11 on State Street and 59th, eating several varieties of Swiss mountain cheese, slices of uniquely Swiss cured meats and two kinds of pâté. It was a delight for Marissa and me. I can only hope Cris saw some of his life through my eyes and felt just as fortunate as I had 25 years earlier.

All photos from 1989 courtesy of  Cristóbal.

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Tales from the Rigi - Switzerland 2014

Lake Luzern the morning after our arrival in Switzerland.

We had flown into Zurich the prior afternoon, to find Cristophe/Cristóbal/Cristopher waiting for us. This was a surprise, as we weren't expecting to see him until the end of our trip. And who is this man of three names? He is a unique specimen, one who deserves his own post, which will be coming shortly. In the meantime, I will describe him as an old friend, one I have had for over 25 years, though with about a 22 year break in between. The kind of friend though, once we had gotten back in touch, it felt like we had always been in touch. And here he was, waiting at the Zurich airport.

So we shared $20 coffees and talked about old times, waiting for the rest of our party, Marla and Brian, to arrive from Seattle. I told Cristopher that we would be in Luzern the next day and invited him to join us. The Fenskes arrived, we got on a train and voila, the next morning we were all in Luzern, boarding a boat to take us to the Rigi.

The Rigi is a mountain that is almost surrounded by three lakes - Luzern, Zug and Lauerz. The base can be reached by a delightfully pretty boat ride on delightfully pretty Lake Luzern. From there one can either hike to the top, ride the world's oldest cogwheel railway, or a combination of both. With a hearty Swiss breakfast in our bellies and cheese, meat and bread in our backpacks, we decided to hike first, and see how far we could get.

People think of Switzerland as a cold place, high in the mountains where the air is crisp and thin. And yes, at the tops of its peaks that is true. But geographically it is just North of Italy, and it is landlocked, and when you are not on its peaks, which is most of the time, and if it is summer, its air is warm and moist. It felt like Connecticut in May, which meant that our hike, which was wonderfully clear with views more beautiful at each step, got strenuous and sweaty quite quickly. After about an hour, it was time to rest.

Just then we saw it, a hand drawn sign, pointing down a lane to a house that looked pretty and well-loved but, in hindsight, also a little bit spooky. The sign offered beverages and a place to sit to enjoy the view. Ah, a rest-stop, and at just the right spot. Those Swiss, they think of everything.

Cristopher spoke with a pleasant looking young woman, who quietly ushered us around to the back of the house. On our way, we passed an immense wood pile (a very common site in Switzerland, neatly, and I mean neatly stacked next to houses everywhere). A tall, exceedingly well-chiseled man, shirtless and barefoot - barefoot - was chopping wood with precision and power. As we walked by I snuck a closer look. Judging from his face he was pushing 70 years old. His physique modeled the trees he was now chopping - gnarled, hardened, straight and ageless. The axe split the wood with a vicious "thwack!"

Next to the woodpile was a small shack with large windows. A much smaller man was inside, in the window, in his underwear, pulling a pair of pants up over his spindly little legs. We were seated at a picnic table about 10 meters in front of his shack.

More discussion between Cristopher and the young women - would we like some herbal tea? Ah, yes, indeed, just what we were looking for, and thank you. Off she went while we got settled and as we realized that indeed there was a lovely view to behold.

She was back pretty quickly and tea was served - a golden hue, somewhat disconcertingly the color of a morning's first pee, but delicious and refreshing, like a warm version of a Ricola throat lozenge. Also served was a glorious pitcher of ice water with mint and lemon.

We asked how much we owed, but were told we owed nothing. The details are unclear, but apparently the woman was unaware of the sign out front and thought the five of us had just shown up asking for tea. She was only too happy to oblige. At first I was a bit chagrined, I would never just show up and demand anything, no matter how American I might be, but she was so casual about it and the atmosphere was so tranquil, we just went with the flow.

It was a dreamlike moment - the incredible view, the rejuvenating tea, he kindness of the young woman - and then Sep entered the scene, and things started to get weird.

The man from the shack, dressed now, and all of about 5'3", Sep was standing in front of us and speaking in Swiss-German as if we could understand every word he was saying. Cristopher spoke with him and we learned his name and that he had driven a tram in Zurich for several decades before retiring up here on the Rigi, apparently in that very shack.

He went on and on in the most animated way. Speaking loudly, gesticulating, laughing at his own jokes. The atmosphere was changing, and not for the better. 

Clouds were gathering. Sep's speech was getting louder and more erratic. I was suddenly keenly aware that a large, chiseled man was swinging an axe very near buy - "Whack!"

"Easy, Sep" Said our hostess, in English.

"Shall we get going?" came the question from Cristopher, with absolutely none of us doubting that indeed we shall. We weren't completely rested and our thirst was not completely slaked, but sometimes its best to stay nimble and this was one of those times.

As we were gathering our things, the axe man walked over, taking a break from slicing centuries-old hardwood like it was butter, and started speaking in perfect English with a bit of a German accent.

"So you are American?" A question that usually goes one of two ways, a 50% chance that someone likes what they know of you and a 50% chance that they don't. If they look like an all powerful forest god from ancient myth, you hope for the former.

"I was in Boston once, when I was young, and got beat up by some nasty cops."

Oh, great, we meet an axe-wielding Übermensch behind a spooky house on a remote hillside in the middle of Switzerland and his first American memory is of baton wielding cops?

"I am so sorry to hear that" said someone from our party, I don't remember who, in the most heartfelt, positive-toned, not-all-Americans-are-violent kind of voice they could muster. He went on to tell us his story, which was pretty awful. We did our best to drive home that we were from places nowhere near Boston and shared his pain at having been treated so unjustly.

Then we got out of there as quickly as politely possible, thanking our hostess, smiling reassuringly at Sep and nodding in overdone solidarity with The King of The Forest. Time to be on our way.

With another 90 minutes of steep climb ahead of us, we did what the Swiss have been doing for decades - we took the world's oldest cogwheel railway to the top.

We were greeted by a spectacular view - the lakes, the surrounding hills, the sky, all of it changing magically minute by minute as clouds raced across the sky and the sun kept moving closer to the horizon.

There is a very nice, sleekly modern lodge/restaurant/terrace at the top, and in the waning hours of the afternoon the place was mostly deserted. We availed ourselves of the restrooms, only to be chewed out by the Italian women cleaning them (a comforting sound, really) and Christopher bought a couple of bottles of the local white wine.

We perched ourselves on the terrace and recounted our edifying, exhilarating, terrifying first full day in the country. A strenuous hike, a strange house with wonderful tea and extremely colorful but probably not too dangerous inhabitants, the spectacular views and now this deliciously drinkable wine. I don't think we even talked about the days ahead. They would come soon enough.

When we finally got back down to the lake and on the last boat back to Luzern, the sun was setting and our eyelids were ready to follow. It was one of the greatest first days of a trip I have ever had.

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Wilde in Dublin

So we finally made it to Dublin. It was as I had often read about it: grey, disheveled and worn, but friendly and lively nonetheless. The buildings are grimy, even some of the ones that you know were built during the most recent boom (then bust) years.The streets and sidewalks are packed with all sorts of people, from the addicted to the posh to the tourist to the student. 

In the midst of the rough mayhem there are several quiet, peaceful parks, where one can find room and air to breathe, think, and relax.

My favorite, I think, is the park in Merrion Square, a relatively quiet, secluded spot taking up several blocks in front of some fancy old town homes, not far from Trinity College. While the town homes are now for law firms and other professional businesses, they used to be houses for living, and a number of important artists and writers have called Merrion Square home.

One of these was Oscar Wilde, and the park houses a monument which features the writer lounging languidly on a large boulder, a beautiful female nude kneeling before him atop a stone cube with many of his most famous sayings inscribed in it. But Oscar's eyes are not on the lovely young lass. His eyes are on the fine, young male torso just to his left.

Wilde was, of course, homosexual, and combined with his larger-than-life personality, scathing wit, and preference for younger men from good society families, this led to his persecution and ultimate demise. So this particular tableau seems a fitting tribute, as it sets a rather subversive tone in this otherwise very proper park (in fact, Merrion Square and its park were first reviled by native Dubliners, as it was so properly British).

We hung around awhile, reading the quotes. My favorite is pictured at the beginning of this post. Another one is, "A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing," and let's not forget, "youth is wasted on the young." I don't think it is a stretch to say that Wilde and his sayings represent the Irish spirit well: simultaneously humble and grandiose, hopeful, and insistent on finding fun in life despite sometimes great odds.

Eventually we decided to walk around the rest of the park, which is ringed and cris-crossed by paths. As expected, we walked by adorable small hordes of children, playing in their little short pants. We saw workers enjoying a late lunch and Asian tourists taking in the view of the lovely square. All things one would expect - a normal stroll through a pretty Dublin park.

But then we came upon a couple having what I can only describe as vigorous sex, and not in the bushes but in front of the bushes, on the lawn and in broad daylight, the sun bouncing a reflection off of the gentleman's behind as it pumped away furiously.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon. They were both naked from the waist down. I am sure there were grass stains, on the knees of the young man, of course, but almost certainly in places the young lady would probably not have imagined possible.

I had seen more than I wanted to, yet my eyes were locked and I couldn't look away. It took Marissa's telling me, "Jesus, Matty, don't stare" to finally turn my head and close my gaping mouth.

We walked on, in the kind of shock that causes everyone to talk at once, rapidly theorizing the whys and hows and whos of what we had just witnessed. We concluded that we really just didn't have answers. We also couldn't decide if we thought Wilde would have approved. The man did say both "everything in moderation, including moderation" and "the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it." I have to say, either of those could apply in this case.

In the end, while I think he would have dismissed it as tacky - I mean, naked from the waist down? Either get completely naked or stay clothed and just make it work - he would nonetheless have given at least a tacit consent. If one can't behave badly in the springtime in a park in Dublin near a statue of Oscar Wilde, when can one?

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Ancient Encounters: the Newgrange Passage Tomb

"Where's Richard Dreyfus?" I asked myself, staring at what had to be something from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, the Sequel. A massive, circular building made of  neatly (as in OCD neatly) stacked rocks, with a grassy meadow for a roof and a ring of large, flat stones surrounding it, I expected it to commence levitation at any moment. Or maybe spaceships would fly over us, like the air force salute at the Superbowl, and spindly-legged, tear-drop headed beings would come walking out its ancient front door.

The Newgrange Passage Tomb at Bru na Boinne is a trip.

Built around 3200 BCE (older than Stonehenge), this massive tomb has remained watertight for 5,000 years without the aid of mortar. And once a year, at the winter solstice, a shaft of light shoots down a small opening above the door and illuminates the inner chamber of the temple.

The large flat stones surrounding this mound are called kerb stones, and many of them are covered in megalithic art. Swoops and squiggles and extra-terrestrial spirals and swirls. It all looks so much like the set of a George Lucas film that I kept wondering when I was going to hear the words "...and ACTION!"

But you get over that feeling and then the real magic happens. You start to realize that humans did actually create this structure (and several more like it in the surrounding area) 5,000 years ago. They did so with precision and strength and artistic finesse. They built it to satisfy more than their physical needs, showing an awareness of a broader universe beyond this beautiful little space near the Boyne River.

The visitor center is impressive, with a large space full of dioramas showing everything from what people of that time ate to how they built these amazing structures. They also had a lottery, in which you could enter to be one of the few lucky people to spend the night of the Solstice in the tomb, waiting for the sun to rise.

I tried to imagine the phone ringing and on the other end a lovely, lilting Irish voice telling me, 

"Mr. Housel, you have won the right to spend a cold winter's night deep inside one of the oldest structures know to man, waiting for the sun to shine through a small opening above the door. Of course, there is no guarantee that the sun will shine, this is Ireland, after all, and the weather can be a bit dodgy but when it is nice, it is really, really nice."

At first, I was all excited to enter, then I thought again. I rarely win these kinds of things, but if I won this one, I would face a tough decision. Do I use precious vacation time to go back to Ireland, in the winter, to maybe see this phenomenon? If it were a rare sunny day I am sure it would be spectacular, moving and until-the-end-of-my-days memorable. If it were, as is more likely, a cloudy, rainy day and no shaft of light was to be seen, I would have spent precious time on a fruitless quest. This is time I wouldn't be able to use going to somewhere else I have not yet been.

I asked myself, what would the aliens do? Evidently, those who who built this place stayed here only a few hundred years. I assume they moved on and that is what I decided to do. I didn't enter the raffle. I was lucky to be here once and I will be lucky to go wherever I go next. After all, the sequel is rarely as good as the original.

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We drove six hours in torrential rain and on the wrong side of the road to get here. Here being Northern Ireland and the picture above being the GIant's Causeway. We had thought nothing could match the Cliffs of Moher or the Dingle Peninsula, but somehow Ireland - both Northern and the Republic of - has an unfairly large amount of spectacular geological treasure, and the Giant's Causeway is no exception.

 

What is the Giant's Causeway? It is an area along the Antrim Coast, about 3 miles from Bushmills (another thing Ireland has is really good whiskey, but more about that later) where tens of thousands of basalt columns were formed by volcanic activity. As a result, these practically perfect hexagonal steps run down into the ocean, like a multi-colored pathway to the lost city of Atlantis.

It is the kind of thing you see and immediately say, "no, really?" It just doesn't look real, even when you are standing on it with a bunch of other tourists, everyone with their mouth open looking a bit dumbfounded.

We were staying in Ballymoney, at a lovely Bed and Breakfast owned and run by an intriguing woman with a colorful - and possibly dangerous - history. Her name, so she said, was Elaine.

I suppose I should elaborate. Elaine openly discussed having lived and travelled extensively abroad, nothing unusual there beyond what appeared to be a wanderlust or, at most, a bohemian temperament. But every once in a while she would let slip a sentence that implied there was more to her story than just being a former travelling hippie:

"Watch your back doing business with Bulgarians. Believe me, I know," or "Oh my, that time in Burma, my, my..." trailing off into a look that was either filled with nostalgia or remorse, I wasn't sure. I just knew there was a lot more to this woman than met the eye. Former spy? Maybe. Arms dealer? Perhaps. Fixer/handler? Very likely.

Whatever her real backstory, Elaine makes fantastic porridge and really, really good coffee and has an invting inn complete with a deaf Springer Spaniel named Bailey.

So it was breakfast with Bailey then off to the Giant's Causeway or some other hard-to-believe place, like the rope bridge at Carrick-a-rede, for example...

Perched 98 feet above rocky, churning waters, the Carrick-a-rede rope bridge is a testament to the grit and determination of several generations of fishermen and the first time I have really sensed my own mortality while travelling.

My original intention was to stand in the middle and take pictures. But after a couple of steps I began to feel the bridge sway and lunge, driven by the wieght of the other people on it. The swaying was not much, and access was limited so there were probably no more than 400 lbs of us on it and it was built to withstand something like 11 tons, but still, some primal part of my brain kicked in and my flight response was activated.

Fortunately, I kept my shit together long enough to appear to be strolling across to the other side, but deep down I was having a bit of an existential panic, a voice inside saying, "I am pretty sure your time has come."

Marissa, who is normally freaked out standing near a window any more than two stories up, bounded across like a seasoned deckhand, barely looking back and seemingly comfortable looking all around - even down - while cheerfully going to the other side.

Who was this person I thought I knew? And what had happened to me? Somehow we had traded places, like some Irish version of Freaky Friday.

And as I thought about it, I realized more and more how true it was. There she had been at the Giant's Causeway, climbing up basalt columns towering above rough waters. Running along a ledge atop the Cliffs of Moher, 10 feet from a 1,000 foot drop, or casting shadows from another cliff while standing in a karate kick position. it was crazy.

Another reason I like travel. While it is about seeing new places and meeting new people and finding out about their way of life, it is just as much about seeing yourself in a new way and conquering both your fear of the unkown as well as the fear of yourself. With those criteria, I would say she had a good trip.

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