I am not doing this gracefully. According to geriatric experts, most of whom I presume are between 35 and 40, I am in “old old age,” no comma. This is, of course, a terminal condition. I am intensely aware that I am living inside a dying animal.

At 86, steeped in years, I hate it, resent it, am in a daily emotional, mental, spiritual, metaphysical rage. I’m like an aging dragon sullenly burping flame gouts from the dark mouth of its cave. Years ago, I saw this in older friends and thought, “I will remember and won’t be like that.” I remember, all right, but I am like that.

There is an American scientist who said that as far as he could tell we are living and dying in a situation where there is no meaning, cause, trajectory or explanation and he was fine with that. Theoretically I am fine with that, but the emotional truth is, I don’t like it.

Rage may be a cover for fear.  A lot of people claim they are not afraid of death. I’m often unconvinced, partly because they flaunt their lack of fear as if it is a virtue. Rage can distract you from fear, because it deludes you into thinking you are powerful. But it seems to me one has a perfect right to fear death. The unknown is unexplained, unexplored, unfamiliar and, just plain un. Humans don’t like un. Therefore, for most of us, it’s frightening. We want to know what’s going on. Not knowing raises fears of loss of control. Not that there is any logic to this. In reality we have never been in control. But a sense of control may be why, once people are at the point of death, can count the days, they are usually calm. As in so many situations it’s suspense that causes us trouble.

Part of the control problem is that in old age one clings to independence with terror inspired by imaginings of what will happen if one passes into the control of others. This has unfortunate results.

I remember my Aunt Liz, my primary exemplar of how to age, now dead 36 years, who lived to be 99 and ten months. She didn’t want to be 100; she thought it made you a freak. I agree. Liz considered age to be an encumbrance, but I don’t remember her being angry about it, which chastens me. She was a more accepting person than I.

But about control. In her 90’s Liz, who was in an assisted living home, had an eye operation. She hired a woman to sleep on a cot in her room for a few days to look after her. She could not manage the complexities of the eye drop and pill schedule the doctor had prescribed.

While I was visiting, I saw Liz turn and snap at the woman when she did something for her rather than letting Liz do it herself. Mid snap Liz stopped herself and said, “You did that out of kindness, to help me; didn’t you?”

I was impressed. I have some fears of loss of control but what I resent most about the aging process, at this point in time, is loss of energy, although I also take umbrage at the little pot belly that arrived as a gift of one of my 80 to 85th birthdays. I managed to retain a fair amount of energy in my 70’s continuing to do a lot of trekking in the Himalayas. But when I hit 80 I went back to Tibet to walk the pilgrimage path around Mount Kailash, a four day, 33 mile trek, going from 16,000 to 18,600 feet, and knew, as I stood looking at the snowy dome of Kailash, striated with black ridges, that I wasn’t going to be able to do it. I turned, walked away from her, knowing I would never see her again.

Since 80, year by year there has been a blatant decline in my energy and that annual decline has accelerated since 85. It is like driving a car whose accelerator no longer works and every ten miles loses a little more speed. I fight it, although I am not at all sure that is the appropriate reaction.

One problem of old age is that there aren’t enough of us aged about, which means there are insufficient examples available of how to behave in the given circumstances of aging. Inadequate information makes elding as difficult as trying as a Westerner to understand what politeness is in Japan.

One reaction I have witnessed is to retire to your apartment never to appear outside again. All groceries are ordered by phone and if your friends want to see you they have to come to you. At the other end of that spectrum are the people who are always, “Fine,” projecting an image of themselves slipcovered in shimmering plastic.

There are those who complain about their physical difficulties. Actually, those interest me because often they are suffering from ailments or conditions I have never heard of but may be in my future such as restless leg syndrome, a uterus and bladder collapsing into each other, recurrent dizzy spells, night leg cramps.  I need information and these people supply it.

I have a number of complex eye problems, own and use hearing aids, and once in a while painful arthritis—awful and debilitating.

All of this would be much more manageable if I knew 10 people between 80 and 100, preferably evenly distributed along that timeline whom I could consult.  But I don’t. No one does unless, possibly, they are in assisted living and then there is no guarantee those people would supply you with information. They might all be “Fine.”

Back to lack of energy. I exercise with a trainer twice a week and should do at least one more day at the gym on my own. For years I was assiduous about this doing 4 to 6 days a week of exercise. Not since Covid. Exercise gives one a little more energy and does help with muscle tone and such basics as standing up straight. Stretching means one is less likely to wrench an underused muscle. I grumble, I grudge, but all of this makes life a bit better.

I consume sufficient supplements to create a supplementary persona. These help in the everyday as well as protecting me, when I travel, against the recirculated germs of airplane air.

But still, I sag shortly after lunch. Yes, I can fight it through and keep on going but I don’t want to fight through. After a nap I have little urge to do anything although I do push myself out to shop, or have a coffee with a friend and, with less effort, to go to a concert or the opera. An opera night will get me to take a longer nap and get up full of lively interest.

I do realize that where I am in life is a given and whether I grumble, whine or take what action I can, my reality will only be altered slightly, a caterpillar working its way along a railing has much the same view no matter where she is on the rail.  What needs alteration, is my attitude because it is my attitude that is the problem not my age.

My attitude metamorphoses when I shift from considering time in human terms, 60 years, 86, 92 and instead think in geologic time, rock time. Suddenly, my vision is expanded as by a panoramic lens as I climb down the stony, fossilized ladder–Jurassic, Triassic, Permian, Carboniferous, Devonian, Silurian, Ordovician, Cambrian—approaching myself through millions of years accompanied by rockbound crustaceans—trilobites, brachiopods, fusulinids, ammonoids. Then my lack of energy seems less personal.

The human sense of time is a small, constricted circle of us. It is humanly self-centered. Contemplating geologic time expands it to a different reality one that includes the world. I suppose if you do star time—using the Horse Head Nebula perhaps—you can expand time to universe time. That’s too big for me, my brain can’t manage it.

To change my attitude, I need to accept where I am physically, mentally, emotionally. I don’t want to. It feels like capitulating. This is nonsense, of course, and childish but at the moment I seem to be trapped in my childish resistance.

Also, acceptance is not an attitude that is easily achieved. If you don’t have acceptance you have to change your mental attitude. Not easy.

A lack of acceptance means I am, without realizing it, struggling for control over forces that are uncontrollable by the human will. All other animals and most humans when they realize they are dying just uncurl their fingers or paws, let go of their grasp and go sensibly passive. My last cat did this. She had fought a while against feeling ill and then one day she must have understood where she was on the spectrum of life. She went into a sort of disgruntled calm. This was not what she wanted but she recognized that it was what is.

Some humans fight with shrill intensity hardening their will with terrific power against what is. Some people admire this “cry, cry against the dying of the light” attitude. I think I prefer my cat’s attitude and, therefore, I had best work on accepting the step in that direction which is being offered to  me in my loss of energy.


This blog sprouted from a memory stirred up by a Skype conversation I had this weekend with my grandson and his girlfriend whose family came to New York City from Yemen. I asked her how Yemenis came into the U.S. She responded either through Malaysia or Djibouti adding that Malaysia was faster and more efficient. She didn’t say that Djibouti was not only slower but more corrupt, although I felt that was understood.

Djibouti is a country, a member of the United Nations, of 900,000 people in an area of 9,000 square miles positioned between the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden on the horn of Africa. It’s capital is also named Djibouti. It is perfectly located for trading and smuggling. In 1977 it voted itself independent from France. The average temperature is between 32 and 41 Celsius, 89 to 104 Fahrenheit. There are 18 doctors for every 100,000 people. Many countries have a small military presence there—France, the U.S.—and according to a friend of mine who knows about such things, a CIA encampment.

I knew Djibouti existed but knew nothing about it when I went to Ethiopia.  I have often gone to places on a whim—to Thailand because my mother said that women sold vegetables in the canals from peapod boats, to Inle Lake in Burma because I saw a picture of the spires of temples rising from its waters, to Guangxi, China because all my life I have seen scroll paintings of various centuries with craggy, camel hump mountains in the background. I had no visual stimulus for Djibouti but its location on a map is intriguing. And then there was the name, which is such fun to roll around one’s mouth.

I had at first planned to take the train from Addis to Djibouti but then I went south to Harar because I wanted to see the remains of its walls and gates, its 10th century mosques, its old houses including the one Rimbaud purportedly lived in–not that I am much of a fan of this slave and drug dealing poet– and decided I would go to Djibouti from there. Having seen the tourist sights and one night attempted to feed a hyena, at first a length of somebody’s intestine on a stick, then a bloody bone and finally a bucket of butcher remnants.  This time I was successful with several terrified hyenas—it is up for grabs as to which was more terrified the hyenas or me—I went down to the railway station to buy a ticket to Djibouti.

I smiled at the man at the ticket window, a handsome, polite man—two qualities common in Ethiopia– and said, “One second class ticket to Djibouti, please.” I knew there was no first class.

“There is no longer second class to Djibouti,” he said.

“All right, then I will take third class,” I declared slightly reluctantly.

“I will not sell it to you,” he stated firmly.

Completely taken aback I asked, “Why is that?”

“Because you will have to sleep on top of the cargo, there are no seats in third class, and your fellow passengers will rob you while you sleep.”

In hindsight I think he was right about the sleeping conditions but not about the robbing, necessarily. My experience with my fellow passengers on Ethiopian trains, which I didn’t yet have, now suggests to me that I might have come out of the experience monetarily intact with a number of new friends.

But since he was adamant I gave in.

“Then I would like a second class ticket to Addis Ababa, please, if there is no first class.”

“There is not,” he stated and handed me a ticket for Addis, which I duly paid for.

The train was leaving in the early evening; therefore, I went back to my hotel that I suspected of being more brothel than hotel. I rarely seemed to be able to successfully discern the difference in Ethiopia between a brothel and a hotel.  I packed up and around 4:30 wandered down to the station with my bag.

There was an annoyed scrum of men and women all with an assortment of bags, suitcases, tied up bundles, gathered on a platform next to another platform where a tired, shabby train stood with all its windows and doors open. They were irritated because that was our train and we weren’t being allowed yet to board it.

Looking over my fellow passengers I noticed that a large number of the women seemed to be stout, except one young woman with lustrous café au lait skin and sharp black eyes who was joking with and teasing everyone from guards to fellow passengers. She wore a long black skirt and a Fila jacket that was about three sizes too large for her.

We were, after perhaps fifteen minutes during which my fellow passengers became more and more vocal, allowed to cross the intervening tracks to the next platform and our train.

I found a seat near a window, forced my bag under my seat, arranged my purse between me and the car’s wall with another small bag with food and water next to my feet. This done, I looked around me. Opposite I was delighted to see the young woman in the Fila jacket, next to me one of the stout ladies and across from her a man with odd, staring eyes whose lap was filled by a bag full of khat. He spent the entire trip breaking off leaves and chewing them. He never spoke to any of us.

My two female companions were extremely busy settling themselves, their bags. Everyone in the car was engrossed in opening and closing bags, taking out piles of fabric, cheap, very brightly figured, possibly Indian, material in sarong lengths. Some were in plastic bags, which were discarded on the floor or in the aisle. My Fila companion, without asking, tucked a bottle of perfume into my food bag. I returned it to her but as I realized what was going on I motioned her to put it back in.  I was in the midst of smugglers.

In hopes of encouraging the purchase of local fabric the Ethiopian government had put a high tariff on cheap imported fabric. The result was a boom in fabric traffic between Djibouti and Addis Ababa. The Fila girl and the other woman stacked fabric under them, tucked it in behind them, rammed it down between the seats. I offered to sit on some of Fila’s, tucked in some behind me and yet more between my side and my purse against the wall. They might, I thought, confiscate the material, but I doubted they would arrest a pale, more than middle-aged American female for smuggling fabric.

Slowly we quieted down. Fila went off to the bathroom, which announced its presence loudly to our olfactory nerves when a breeze came down the car. She returned in black slacks. We ate but to my surprise there was no food sharing and arranged ourselves in a faint odor of new fabric to sleep. The lights in the car were turned off. Scrunched against the side of the train I found, to my surprise, that I did sleep.

At about two am the train stopped, the lights went on, and a group of inspectors, none as I remember in complete official uniforms, came on board. They tramped about loudly shoved bundles and suitcases around, were cheerfully bossy and found nothing. The passengers did not seem much alarmed by their presence. They descended from the train and we started off again jerkily as though the train had been traveling in its sleep and was now trying to run while half awake. We went back to sleep.

At five am we stopped again. More inspectors came on board with a man with a gun. These men were different, harsh voiced, rude, preemptory. They ordered people about, tore open bundles. One man pulled down a suitcase from the overhead rack with on-purpose-carelessness so that it fell on its owner below in a painful manner. They confiscated fabric.

When they came to us one noticed the perfume bottle in my bag. I said, although I knew he didn’t understand English, “That’s mine.” He gave me a nasty look but moved on to the next row of passengers.

They left. The train started again and we tried to return to sleep not very successfully. By six we were all awake. We must have passed some landmark that I would not have recognized about 6:30 or so because suddenly everyone cheered. People rose, chattering; there was much activity. Fabric came out of its hiding places and was carefully smoothed to lie in suitcases or other bags. The women rose, lifted up their long outer blouses. They all had twine tied under their bras and around their waists over which were draped sarong lengths of fabric. They pulled these pieces of material up from the lines under bust and around waist folding them into big plastic bags. There were no longer many stout women but many with big grins on their faces.

Fila and I talked. She wanted me to know that her jacket was a real Fila, not a knock off. This was important to her. She let me take a picture of her, which I can’t show you because it’s not on my computer. Unfortunate. She was headed to the market as soon as we pulled into the station, as was everyone else.

I got off the train with them and watched them bustle away to the bazar. Wandering toward my hotel, near the station, dragging the tail of my suitcase behind me, I thought what a clever young woman Fila Jacket was. There are not a large number of ways to make a living in Ethiopia with a grade school education for either men or women but, of course, it’s worse for women whose main employment is prostitution. I think it was clever of her to become a smuggler. It’s an adaptable trade. I am sure there is always something to be smuggled into or out of Ethiopia. It is not dangerous, as I witnessed. It is not much effected by age, certainly not as prostitution is. A wise and canny young woman Miss Fila Jacket. I think of her fondly.

The Quarantine Blog: Chapter XV, August 30, 2021

I have lived in Spain a dozen years without going to either the Dali Museum in Figueres or Dali’s home in Portlligat. At a lunch event the man opposite me talked about a town near Portlligat, Cadaqués, where he and his wife owned a house, making it sound enchanting.

I have a conflicted relationship with Dali. I think he is a brilliant painter, absolutely extraordinary, but am bored by all the cute, cunning, clever, clever things he did. I wish he had needed less public attention and had focused more on his painting. I turn my eyes away from his politics.

So in April of this year, our first year of living with Covid, when we were allowed out on a leash reaching only as far as the end of the province we lived in, I decided to go. A friend called a taxi company in Figueres to drive me to Cadaqués. Another friend, a hotel expert, suggested the Playasol hotel and I made my train reservation.

Before I got on the train in Barcelona I received a call from a strongly accented—not Spanish—male voice asking if I had ordered a taxi. I said, “Yes,“ and got on the train.

It passed through fields of yellow and occasionally blue flowers.  Scarlet poppies left spatterings of blood on either side of narrow roads brilliant against the grass. When I detrained in Figueres a young man outside the station was holding up a sign with my name on it.

He was from east of Suez and most impressed by my age. He treated me like the Queen Mother—if there had been a carriage robe to tuck around my legs he would have tucked–worrying that I might feel sick on the twisting mountain roads that take one up over a ridge down to the sea and Cadaques. I didn’t think there was much point in lecturing him about driving in the Rockies so I assured him that I have a good head.

There is a lot of American style suburban sprawl outside Figueres and the towns near it but there are also fields blanketed with bloody poppies. Once in the mountains there were, beside the road, tufts of what looked to me like Scotch broom. The mountainsides had been terraced with unmortared rock walls to grow more olive trees. What labor those terraces must have been. The steep mountainsides were silver green with olives and yellow with broom.

I had a large, adequate if not very interesting fish lunch at a restaurant facing the sea and then tried to get up to the church, which may not have been open, but I was defeated by the intricacy of the winding lanes. The church is imposing as it towers over the town.

I had a Japanese sized room with a balcony looking up to the town and over the water. Cadaqués is essentially a one street town, the one that runs along the edge of the sea, all others being lanes that twist up hill inland. But it was a comfortable room arranged so that one woke up to look out at the Mediterranean.

They do a nice breakfast at the Playasol although the buffet is a bit ordinary. However, they cook eggs to your specifications. Again you view the Mediterranean as well as the cars and people populating the main street, which winds its way from hovering along a small patch of shingle beach to cresting up into a wall above the lapping waves, down again to another beach. The street is a promenade. At the breakfast hour there were dogs pulling their masters and mistresses, looking a bit bleary eyed, briskly along in the morning sun. Dogs, unlike humans, never seem to have a period of “waking up” but come to, stretch and are ready for whatever the day presents.

I asked the wife of the owner of the hotel for directions to the Dali House. She produced a map. I always feel more secure with a map but it really was a superfluity in this case.

I walked down the main road, turned right and started to climb. There was practically no traffic but lots of houses and gardens to admire on either side. The yellow, bushy blooms, which I was now sure was Scotch broom, were everywhere. I sent a picture to a Scot friend and he too thought it was Scotch broom.

At the top of the hill, just as you turn right again, is Saint Baldiri’s hermitage with his image and little else except white walls rising around solitude. He is a border crossing saint honored in both France, particularly Nimes, and Spain. He was martyred when he crashed a pagan festival and, in righteous indignation, pushed over the statue of the god being feted. The offended pagans cut off his head, which bounced three times, a spring bursting out at the place of each bounce. There is a peaceful graveyard with cypress, olives and bougainvillea.

This road is mildly busy but you quickly come to a sign directing you to turn down to the sea for the Dali house. The house, or houses, brilliant white, is stunningly located among rocks at the edge of the sea, a composite of fishermen’s houses, as in Bangkok Jim Thompson’s house is a composite of old teak houses. Across from it is a cluster of small two story houses, flowers everywhere and in front rocks and sea. There was an interesting small surreal painting on the wall of one of these houses of a man standing by a boat, behind him the patterned whorl of a shell spreading out to become sea. I was early for my scheduled tour so I had plenty of time to look about me and fanaticize about buying one little house with a big balcony that was for sale.

The Dali house is pleasant and livable for two people, no guest rooms. When you enter you are greeted by a grinning polar bear bedecked with costume jewelry—chains and medallions. He is not the only stuffed animal you will see; there are birds on top of cabinets. Stuffed animals used to be acceptable and even a signal that you were in vogue. Now we look askance at them. They aren’t just in bad taste, they signal not voguishness, but a lack of environmental and interspecies awareness, an acceptance of derogation and cruelty to animals. I found it macabre to have dusty dead animals about.

There was a handsome library but it seemed to me to belong to a not serious reader—large orderly volumes, shelves and shelves of an encyclopedia but none of that disheveled quality that voracious readers attain with broken bindings and torn covers. There were no musical instruments in the house. All the rooms have superb views of the rocks and the sea.

The two beds in the bedroom had red and blue draperies above and on them, quite regal. The living room, with a sea view, was centered by a table with a big, beautifully made ceramic snail. The studio looked functional.

We were walked through by a woman who spoke well in Spanish and English. She dropped us at the swimming pool, which is the most entertaining of all the spaces. It is fed water by small, paired ceramic swans of the giftee shoppee variety that spout water into its channel. To one side is a sitting area with a slightly fade lipstick red, Mae West lip couch and about it Pirelli signs in yellow and black and a number of Michelin men.

The inclusion of the commercial is interesting and irritating in this setting but also amusing and dislocating. The lip couch is for me one of those clevernesses of Dali’s that do not engage me.  So you are sitting on the ledge of Mae West’s lower lip, so what? Maybe I am one of those dummies who just don’t get it.

I walked back to Cadaqués, which was just as pretty as coming, better because it was down hill. I went to tourist information but they didn’t know if the church was open. This time, however, I found my way up, asking as I went and discovering along the lanes a nice looking hostel.

The church is well worth a visit. The main altar is an extraordinary piece of Baroque carving, a dark mass of figures, niches, symbols, cherubs. There aren’t two centimeters of uncarved space on its surface. It is not lit up so it is difficult to make things out but it´s a sort of attic of religious images. Doves, lambs, saints and angels are perched among its rich, dark, carved wooden caves.

Toward the front of the church on the left are two pictures. One depicting Saint Baldoris’ martyrdom is crammed with writhing figures depicted with lots of gold. A much earlier wall painting is full of people with large Byzantine eyes.

I walked down and had lunch at a little bar—good gazpacho, grilled shrimp and bacalao with ratatouille. I ordered a bit too much and the waiter was definitely censorious about that left piece of bacalao.

The next morning I took a taxi into Figueres. My driver was not as solicitous but certainly as efficient. He dropped me with my bag, I left it in the cloakroom, at the Dali Museum, which is large and airy and was crammed with Spanish tourists. That was nice to see.

The courtyard of the museum features a sculpture of a buxom nude on a round plinth, an upside down boat dangling in the air and a car up on a platform. We all shaded our eyes to look into the car but there was nothing there. It is, however, a great old car. Around the walls tucked into the ivy are heads and sculptures of various sorts, some a bit nightmarish.

I liked the court better than most of the museum, although there are some beautiful early paintings, one of Cadaques, among the exhibits. But most of what was on display didn’t grab me until almost the last room, or maybe it was the last room, where there are a small group of paintings one of which devastated me. Some paintings, Rembrandt’s self-portrait, slowly enclose you as you gaze at them; others are a sort of psychological detonation.

The painting, very small, is monochromatic; sky and earth are nearly the same sandy tone. The strip in the middle of the painting has darker and lighter shades. The town is lighter—you know that when you get to it, it will be white—the mountain slopes are darker. At either side the world gets hazy and on the right land and sky blend together into that yellowish, sandy tone. Directly ahead is a small wooden cart, the simplest of carts, with a canvas cover that creates a gently curved ceiling and sides but you are looking straight through it at the driver’s slender back and the ears and legs of the horse or donkey. The great wooden wheels are canted slightly and one, the right one is tipped with fiery orange. Between you and the cart is yellow tan earth, a few stones, not even tracks. The cart’s wheels have left no impression. It’s called Carreta fantasma and it is. The feeling of emptiness is immense. In that emptiness is a meaning I cannot pin down, I cannot express, but it is vibrant.

Down stairs, through a separate entrance near the gift shop is another museum. This is of jewelry that Dali designed. Everything is stunning. There is an eye clock with a diamond tear drop, telephone earrings, a honeycomb heart of rubies with diamonds lodged amongst the comb’s openings, a golden pomegranate broken open to show its inner depths of diamonds studded with ruby pomegranate seeds. There are crucifixes, Madonnas, a Daphne, Tristan and Isolde, an Ophelia, and on a rough fluorite crystal a construction called “Explosion” which it is of diamonds, lapis lazuli, rubies and platinum.

Thoroughly delighted by this ending, a friend had told me to look for the little museum, which one might miss, I collected my suitcase, rolled it to a café where I had a bocadillo freshly made. Wandering about after lunch to waste a little time before I went to the train I came across a Rambla where I could have had a more elaborate lunch. I found a taxi to the station and so home again.

The Quarantine Blog: Chapter XXIV, Aug 5, 2021

Re Previous blog: A friend has criticized me for not making a sufficiently sharp demarcation between the early and late 1960’s. She is quite right. There was a big change with the first part of the decade being tentative and the last part much more strident.

The most touching response I received about the blog was from a friend in Nepal who explained how important the music of Dylan and others had been to his generation in that still largely isolated country.

And now a trip to Girona

In 1286 the French struck down through the Pyrenees to attack Girona on their way south. The city was a regular battle site for any army headed south. In this case it was King Peter the Great of Catalonia and Aragon against King Philip of France backed by Pope Martin IV, who had excommunicated King Peter. The Sicilian Vespers are part of this story, the Sicilians having massacred their French conquerors and elected Peter as their King. Entering the fortifications of Girona unopposed the soldiers were plundering, raping, and looting when they went into the church of Sant Felix, which contained the shrine of Sant Narcis, opened his tomb and were about to sacrilegiously hack his body to pieces when out of his belly erupted a snarling cyclone of flies.

“As big as acorns” they crawled up the nostrils of horses stinging them to death, 4,000 of them, and stung to death the soldiers as well. Partly black, partly green with traces of red, they were so poisonous they killed instantly.

This is why one can buy fly earrings in Girona, which I did on my first visit. I have a frog ring and when I saw the flies I thought it would be a display of good guardianship to buy him a pair of flies. They were delicately wrought of gilded silver filigree. But I lost one. In the female emotional structure the loss of an earring creates a vacuum with the insistent gravitational pull of a Black Hole.

However my present trip was in March, a year after I had written my first Quarantine Blog; we were still Covid bound but allowed to travel around Catalonia or whatever province in Spain we belonged to. I decided to go back to Girona because, a town on a mountain, it has just the right number of things to investigate. Another motivation was to replace the fly earrings.

I had not been on much public transport in that year of Covid quarantine—the metro three or four times, buses which I found easier to accept than the metro, once on an airplane to San Sebastian. I took a taxi to Sants and after a café con leche boarded the Renfe but could not find my seat. It turned out to be upstairs. I was adamantly unwilling to haul my bag up that twisty stair and then, in an hour or so, down again with the train moving. I went out to the platform leaving my bag with a young man who was standing in the entry to the car who wanted to know if I spoke French. He too was going to Girona.

I explained to the woman conductor on the platform that I was 84 and not about to drag maletas up and down narrow stairs. At this point the young man offered his seat to me. I thanked him fervently and the conductress seated me.

It is only about an hour to Girona. The train had no distancing whatsoever and I was sure the return trip would be the same. On arrival, I found a taxi and we drove up the mountain to the Hotel Historic in its lane to the right hand side of the cathedral. I like this hotel because it is next door to the cathedral but also because it is an old stone house with thick walls and tall windows that look out to the stone paved lane below them. It combines a medieval air with very hot water in superb bathrooms and a breakfast under stone arches with endless coffee.

I was too early to be checked in so I left my bag and walked to the church that was closed up tight as a can of peas. I went next door to the cathedral museum, which is entirely religious art. I knew I had been there before, yet I remembered nothing I was looking at until I came to a stone sarcophagus with a knight carved into it. Him I recalled and with him that I had been in gritty mood when I had been to the museum before. Apparently gritty moods destroy memory.

The knight’s name was Cruiiles, a very standard looking fellow in grey stone. In Barcelona my upstairs neighbor’s last name is Cruelles. I wondered if the later was a modern version of the former. Since returning I have asked her but she has never enquired into her family history.

This time I enjoyed the museum. There are column capitals from the 12th, 13th and 14th century with palm fronds and other vegetal decorations but also the occasional human, or almost, human face. The imagination of carvers of those centuries can be a little macabre presenting visages which wander between animal, human and sinister combinations but there was nothing as interesting as the face on a capital in the MNAC 8museo National de Arte Cataluña) in Barcelona which is either eating or vomiting a ram, a whole ram with horns. There is no Christian symbolism apparent here. No one knows who this ram-eater-vomiter is or what his meaning is.

There were endless paintings of very graphic sadomasochistic martyrdoms in which the martyr’s face is always in Swedish deadpan. He or she might be staring into a bowl of porridge while being flayed alive, dismembered or gouged with various instruments for for all the emotional content on his features. The Madonnas and their bizarrely limbed infants often have faces pulled about by unknown forces, but they were better than the carved wooden Madonnas who are early Catholic Cigar Store Indians.

I felt the painters and carvers had never really looked at women or children. Their men, however, are clearly individual with specific faces. One altarpiece had some real men who you would recognize in the street while the Madonna looked as though she had suffered a mild stroke.

Upstairs in an exhibit of old stained glass they show how the glass was cut and the variations of hues among the span of colors.

Their shop, tiny, had no fly earrings. I asked about the museum shop—closed for renovation. They suggested I ask about earrings at the tourist office down on Rambla Libertad.

I ambled down, now hungry, asking my way when I got lost, and found a café on La Rambla by the river with its low bridges where I had an excellent melon with ham followed by a fideu, also exceptionally good with shrimp, mussels and something unidentifiable which may have been pretending to be scallops.

I found the tourist office where a young woman in oversized glasses told me, as soon as I asked about fly earrings, the name and location of a shop I would pass on my way home.

I walked up hill, passed it, retraced my steps. It’s in the Call, the Jewish Quarter, and indeed, the dark burly man had fly earrings but not the same as those in the museum. These were larger, clunkier and in silver but I could have them gilded. The Cathedral shop won’t open until next June. As a friend of mine says, “We will go to any length to replace an earring.”

The next morning, Saturday, I did not make it to mass at the cathedral, which was at 8 because breakfast was not served until 8:30. As I exited the hotel I looked up and saw between the buildings dark smoke billowing up to close the sky channel of the street. There was a fire in a building across and down the lane. Standing near me was the owner of the hotel, also looking up. He introduced me to a grandmotherly woman standing on the other side of me. It was her house that was burning. She didn’t seem that distressed but within seconds her two grand daughters arrived, barefooted, in furry acid green and screeching pink zip up sleeping suits their faces swollen and wet with tears of fright. There were firemen. Since there was nothing I could do but commiserate, I did and then walked over to the cathedral now closed after mass.

It is always pleasant hanging out around it when the sun is out, looking down the steps or inspecting the carvings over the side entrance which, despite their often being inexplicable as the ram vomiting man—two serpent monsters, one with a rather malevolent woman’s head—I prefer to the rococo baroque front façade which I find Hallmark in its sentiments. There are serpent monsters with human heads that to my bemused amazement convey clearly that they have a low IQ. How do you manage to carve dim wittedness into stone?

The cathedral and the steps were part of the scenery of THE GAME OF THRONES, which I have not seen. The steps are of the variety that one has no difficulty imagining a body or bodies rolling down.

I was meeting two friends who have a masia not far outside of Girona. They arrived with their dog, Kramer, who is the calmest and possibly the most emotionally stable of the three. We had a coffee at a cafe with tables in front of the steps. This is, for me, what friends are for. I had intended last time to have a coffee here but had not done it. Being alone, there are things one doesn’t do which come quite without hesitation in company. J and I went into the baths together.

I have now seen a lot of Roman and Arab baths, these are 12th century Arab, in various parts of Spain but this is one of the nicest because it isn’t your usual—cold, tepid, hot carved in good strong well squared stones. There is as you enter a “reception area” of graceful elegance with a small pool at its center covered by a cupola on tall, slender columns. There are seats around the edge of the barrel-vaulted space: a serenity gently enfolds you. After this the rooms are much as usual but it is a ruin and you climb up stairs out of ceilingless rooms to look out over the ruin of the baths to the valley and up the green hill to where there are more ruins secreted in the whisper of trees. It is beautiful.

We walked down to toward the river, which I had not done before, stopping at a Romanesque church. Cataluña is rich in Romanesque ruins. The collection of frescoes rescued from abandoned country churches at the MNAC (Museo National de Arte Cataluña) in Barcelona is world famous. The church has been turned into a museum for temporary exhibits and had one on food on its walls. It is intimate with charming proportions; a chubby stone edifice wearing tiles roofs like Chinese farmers’ straw hats.

We walked along the river and came to the restaurant J and R had chosen among an animated row of eateries now full of people. I had delicious goat chops and Kramer was delighted to finish them off for me. We talked about everything from architecture, to real estate, to Russia and had a thoroughly enjoyable time. R, it was the first time I had met him although I have known J for many years, has perfectly greying hair, piercing dark eyes and an intellect to match.

We walked beside the river past the bright red hierro bridge, coming to a quarter of town I had not seen before with the usual international cloned shops. Here I left them, crossed a low stone bridge and started up hill to the hotel.

The next day, Palm Sunday, I went over to the cathedral for mass. There was a well-dressed, small crowd, given the size of the cathedral, with lots of children grasping the complicatedly braided and twined palm leaves that are de rigueur on this day in Spain. The priests looked elegant in elaborate vestments. Women wore hats and shushed children. Men, I was pleased to see, attended with their families. In Italy you can barely squirm your way through the crowd of men blocking the exit of any church.

There was a small but enthusiastic chorus accompanied by the organ which when musically on its own swelled its sound into the available space like a frog expanding its throat.

I had wanted to return to the church because of the memory I had from my first visit.  Entering its dim expanse—the nave is the second widest after St. Peters at 75 feet—I had seen floating before me an ethereal cloud of light which, after deciding that it was not a spiritual apparition, I identified as a silver baldacchino. It´s shape is not unlike the large white sheets or canvases that are strung up on roofs in the hottest months of summer in Spain. It shimmered, a spirit from the 13th century. It’s underside and outer curve dance with a multitude of figures, 137 saints and angels in rows, which you cannot make out without binoculars but the angles and curves of elbows, noses, knees and fingers refract frolicking light. It was created between 1292 and 1326.

On the high altar is another piece of what I think of as religious jewelry, a retable. It is silver, embossed plates, sometimes gilded, over a wooden core studded with cabochons, filigree and superb enamel of local manufacture. It crests into three towers that enclose figures in high relief of Saint Felix, Saint Narcis and the Virgin. It was begun in 1320 by the goldsmith Bartomeu and completed in 1358 by Ramón Andreu and Pedro Berneç. Again, to see the figures with any clarity you need binoculars. These colors, gold, silver and enamel with a rainbow of hues make me think of the Pala d’Oro in Saint Marks, Venice, which it postdates by 200 years. The altar is alabaster and was consecrated in 1038.

Having had time with the silver cloud while enveloped in the organ’s sound I crept out as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the celebrants. I asked the hotel owner about the people who had the fire. He rents apartments as well as hotel rooms and had given them one of his apartments for a few days. I gave him a contribution for the family remembering the sorrowing green and pink furries, ordered a cab and found the right station.  There are two. The train back to Barcelona was full, with no distancing just as I had thought. My not-quite-satisfactory silver fly earrings were in my purse.

The Quarantine Blog XVII: July 10, 2021

Re: the previous blog.

A dancer friend contacted me to say that in the original Paul Taylor production of the Andrew Sisters’ dances there were silhouettes of armed, marching solders behind the swing dancing, happy jiviness of the teenagers. That must have created a very different impact from what is now on YouTube.

On to the 1960’s.

This recollection of the 1960’s, primarily through music, is written by someone who was always, even before age set in, a little behind the times, a foot dragger, never in the vanguard.

Something happened as we neared the end of the fifties. It was subtle at first, scarcely more than an odor in the air. In music and in life there was a shift. Looking back at the list of Billboard hit records there is little sign of what’s coming. “Mack the Knife” made it onto the annual Billboard 100 hits in 1959 and that, even with Bobby Darin singing, was an odd item just vaguely suggesting change. But in 1960 “Teen Angel,” “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini,” Chubby Checker’s “The Twist”, and, one of my all time favorites, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bed Post Over Night”, were high flyers on the Billboard charts. These have the same relationship to the Vietnam War and Civil Rights as the teenagers jiving to the Andrew Sisters have to the marching soldiers of World War II in silhouette.

The U.S. entered the conflict in Vietnam in 1955 with less than 1,000 military advisors in the country. But our involvement was a bit like a leaking pipe in a dark, ignored basement of a suburban ranch house. The residents, now under Kennedy, didn’t really know it was there. By 1964 the water had deepened to 28,000 men and the Viet Cong had built the Ho Chi Minh Trail. In 1967 500,000 US troops were in Vietnam.

The Civil Rights Movement started in 1955 when Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat to a white man on a bus in Montgomery Alabama. In 1960 four black students were refused service at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in Greensboro North Carolina; in 1963 Martin Luther King led the March on Washington DC giving his “I have a dream” speech; President Johnson created the Civil Rights act in 1964, the Voting Rights Act in 1965 (for which we are still fighting) and in 1967 Martin Luther King joined the Vietnam war protest movement.

The first ripple of movement on the face of mass culture started in the late 1950’s and was not rock, but a revival of folk music, which in the US covers a large, diverse territory – roots music, cowboy songs, spirituals, Cajun, gospel, Appalachian, blue grass—and is both black and white. What occurred was a revival of white folk music borrowing frequently from black music. But as the war protests and Civil Rights protests melded together the music was both black and white.

For years there had been folk music about but it was a niche event. I was almost totally unaware of it. I doubt I ever listened more than casually to The Weavers. I knew about Burl Ives, but more as a personality than as a singer. I don’t think I knew the names Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger.

If you go to YouTube and listen to The Weavers recording of “If I Had a Hammer” and then the recording by Peter, Paul and Mary you will instantly see what happened. Part of the change is, of course, this being America, the commercial element. The Weavers are relaxed, friendly, informal, and warm in their rendition of the song. Peter, Paul and Mary are slick. They are giving a performance. Their beat is strong, fast with an urgent drive lacking from The Weavers, the beginning of rock.

Ronnie Gilbert, the female singer of The Weavers, a group of 3 men and one woman, including Pete Seeger, is chubby faced, with a warm contralto voice and is clothed–these days that’s noteworthy. Her dress, however, is unnoteworthy; she does not seem animated by what she is singing. But she had an exemplary track record in protest having almost been expelled from high school for her resistance to being part of a minstrel show.

Mary Travers, singing with Peter and Paul, wears an interesting dress, with style, her long blond hair swings before and behind her as she sings, the music appears to work its way through her body and out of her mouth; it is a visceral part of her.

That energy has transformed over the years into hype rather than genuine feeling I fear.

In 1962 Peter, Paul and Mary’s album entitled “If I Had a Hammer” was in the top 10 on the Billboard chart for 10 months.

My theory is that this cultural shift started in the world of folk music because folk had a history of protest but I don’t think, uneasy as many of us were, we knew if or what exactly we wanted to protest—inequality, the war. We were unfocused. “If I Had a Hammer” is not in its lyrics at all a specific cry for change or a particular protest against any situation political or social. It calls out that there is “a danger”. It calls out “a warning.”  It is quite appropriate as an alert and did, I think, really embody our feelings at that time. I would bet few of us, certainly this is true for me, thought we would end up in the streets of New York and other cities marching and chanting, “Peace Now,” or, a chant that was hushed by the mothers accompanying their children on a march I was on in New York, “One, two three four, we don’t want your fucking war.” There was also the enlivening feminist chant invented by the women of Barnard College, “Put down the bassinet./ Pick up the bayonet;/ Give up detergent,/ Become an insurgent.” Few of us envisioned ourselves being on the Mall in DC in 1963 listening to Martin Luther King.

But musically the nexus of change was that young man, mentioned at the end of the previous blog, with the ugly, nasal voice and the harmonica on a frame around his neck. I disliked the voice. Joyce Carol Oates said that if sandpaper could sing that is what it would sound like. I don’t think so. Sandpaper isn’t nasal. To me it’s the voice of an adenoidal adolescent. Mick Jagger said, with English understatement, “He’s never been one of the great tenors of our time.” I think the harmonica is a horrible instrument, wheezily shrill, but it did not matter; Bob Dylan focused our and my attention as no one had in decades. Our unease was reflected in  “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and “The Times They Are a ‘Changing”. He took from his idol, Woodie Guthrie and forged a new sense of what music could be, what song could do.  He became the American voice of protest. Listening to the songs as they progressed and became more focused—”Masters of War,” “Only a Pawn in Their Game”—I am struck by how brilliant and clear the lyrics are, how they unwrap the connection between people in power, the powerless who kill for them, and the murdered.

Here are the last two verses of “Only a Pawn” about the assassination of Medger Evers.

From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks
And the hoofbeats pound in his brain
And he’s taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide ‘neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain’t got no name
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game

Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught
They lowered him down as a king
But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
That fired the gun
He’ll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain
Only a pawn in their game.

I think he deserves that Nobel Prize but I also think he is an egomaniacal ossified idiot who meanders from drug to drug—marijuana to born again Christianity. Fame is a disease for many people. Some die of it—Amy Winehouse most recently. Only a few survive its ravages. Far fewer manage to live with it with grace knowing who they are. Certainly Bob Dylan is not one of those. Joan Baez, however, somehow never seems to have taken on the goddess role her fans and publicity agents claimed for her. She sang other people’s protest songs but the most famous one she wrote was the poignant  “Saigon Bride.”

There were others singing both Civil Rights and Vietnam protest songs: Nina Simone’s “Mississippi Goddamn” with the memorable lines “You don’t have to live next to me, /Just give me equality”: San Cooke’s beautiful “A Change is Gonna Come”: Phil Ochs’s “I Ain’t Marchin’ Any More” whose lines “It’s always the old who lead us to war,/ Always the young who fall” encapsulates one of the realizations of the time: Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” holds the other realization of the era, “You’re old enough for killin’,/ But too young for votin’”.

The British, meaning The Beatles, made no contribution at all to these protest songs until Lennon brought out “Give Peace a Chance” in 1969.

My own life was being restructured at this time in ways that were typical of the times. I started working at The City College of the City of New York in a program, set up by Mina Shaughnessey, whose purpose was to take high school graduates suffering from inadequacies in written English and bring them up to standard. It was called Basic English and had three levels. At the lowest level one taught grammar, meaning subject-verb agreement. The second level concentrated on the idea of the sentence and the third worked on getting students to be able to write a cogent essay. The students who took these courses were by no means all black. However, Harlem had realized that there was a college in its midst that fairly regularly produced Nobel Prize Winners in Physics, but none of their population attended it.

I was almost as late as Lennon in contributing my mite to change by teaching in this program, which I joined in 1966 or 67. It totally changed me over the years, about 15 I think, that I worked in the program. I was a nicely brought up, protected, white woman, middle class, with no knowledge of black life. We all grow up in ghettos not knowing how other people, economically above us, below us, live. There had been only one black student in my high school; he become an alcoholic and worked on the town garbage truck. Given my background I had never really expected to have to work but once I became a divorcee it was necessary.

In my first class I had a heroin addict, Teddy, who nodded out in class. I realized he was a problem for me because the other students might well think me unknowledgeable about him and this would impair our relationship. I would not be a knowing person just another clueless whitey. I thought and thought for a subtle way to signal my awareness.

At the next class when Teddy started to nod, I turned to the board to write something down and sang in my beastly soprano, “Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me;” the entire class cracked up loudly enough to jolt Teddy out of his nod.

The first essay I always asked students to write was 500 words, large groans at the number, about themselves, who they were, what they thought, what they hoped for. A number of times I received from this an essay that stated, “If I can graduate from college I will be the first person in my family to not be on welfare.” Such a statement created a burning impetus to help that student find his or her bootstraps and pull with all our combined strength.  

A few years after Teddy, I had another rude awakening. I received an essay, which was not on subject but milled around unable to find any beginning, middle or even an end. I couldn’t figure out, reading it, what was going on. It was early in the term so I did not yet have a clear sense of my students as individuals, but I did know this student was from Jamaica. Going into class I went up to him and said, “During the break, I would like to speak to you about your essay.” I often did quick counseling sessions in the corridor outside the classroom.

I was startled, as was the rest of the class, when he opened a newspaper to its full width and rattled it periodically during the first hour of class. This was a warning. When I called the break he bolted for the door. I followed him out to where he wheeled on me, pounded his chest with his fist and announced, “I am the Lion of Judah!”

I knew just enough about Jamaica and Rastafarians to realize what I was facing but I had no idea how to respond. I managed to say that his actual writing was grammatical and smooth; that was not the problem. This calmed him enough so that he went on to say something to the effect that I was like the Queen of Sheba. This really alarmed me, as I know what went on between Solomon and Sheba. At this point I was a bit desperate and suggested perhaps we should go upstairs to talk to his advisor. This was a piece of luck. It was immediately apparent that he was afraid of his advisor, a broad shouldered black man who had obviously played football in college. We were able to talk about the essay but I knew it was no use, that I was dealing with someone who had severe mental difficulties. Indeed, he disappeared from the class a few weeks later.

But it was when I spoke to his advisor that the full despair of the situation was brought home to me. I asked him if he had contacted the family. He gave me a look saying, “They know and they will just lock him up in his room until they feel he’s making sense again.  My calling will only make it worse.”

When I left City College I taught as Poet-in-Residence all over the U.S. for six years, driving back and forth across the country ten times in those six years.

One December when I came home for Christmas I was on the subway, damp with snow, crammed in with my fellow strap- hangers, looking down at a large, young black man sitting before me. Suddenly he looked up and queried, “Is your name Swenson?”

I answered, “Yes. What did I give you?”

He broke into a huge grin, saying, “An A.”

“You must have been good.”

Getting up to give me his seat he responded, “You were the last person who made me think.”

You can keep the Academy Award, the Pulitzer; I will take that sentence over them every time.

What happened at the beginning of the 1970’s musically can be understood by listening to Jimmy Cliff’s “Vietnam”, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Ohio”, commemorating the four shot dead at Kent State in a peaceful protest, Edwin Starr’s “War.” You can’t understand the words because the music, the beat, has blotted most of them out. When words are subsumed into horns, guitars and drums the message is gone, no one hears it. The band has decided the words are not important. This signaled the beginning of the end of the era. Its last cry was probably Lennon’s “Imagine” in 1971.

I don’t read books about the 1960’s but I read every review about books on the 1960’s most of which decry the time as a period of chaos, of defeat for order, and most recently as a time when individualism killed off our sense of community. I am pro the 1960’s but let me tell you, particularly any of my readers who only mistily know these times, a telling detail about the 1950’s.

Every year of my youth a designer in Paris with whom we in Chappaqua, NY or Fargo, ND had no contact what so ever, decided that our skirt hems would go up an inch or down two. Once the news was out we in absolute unison raised or lowered our hems in strict obedience to our unknown leader. When I went to college I was one of the first to wear trousers to class. I wasn’t questioned but I was looked at. However, it got me out of the hem game. That kind of rigid, utterly taken for granted, conformity was the emblem of 1950’s non-think.

In the 1960’s that not only stopped, but women wore their hems at all levels—down to the floor, above the knee, mid calf. And, thank god, we have never gone back to that kind of conformity.

I remember the ’60’s as a time of intense community, a community, which stretched across color lines for the first time.  When the riots happened in Harlem black people took in white people to keep them safe. I was escorted to the subway by students.

Like most Americans I was naive about the world, politics, government. There were for me two enormously important things I comprehended through my ‘60’s experience. One was that black people in America had to fight at least ten times harder to just live than I did. The other was the mean, hard lesson that the government I elected was not going to listen to my voice, or my voice combined with 50% of America. It was going to pursue a war started by misinformation and continued by lies despite a growing awareness of the realities of Vietnam. My government was wedded, perhaps welded is a better word, to its lies and was run by men I now know were child like in their capacity to understand.

Reading David Halberstam’s THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST not only were the lies revealed by the childish thinking of these men, but Halberstam thought, in his simple mindedness, his colleagues must know what they were doing because they had all gone to Princeton. My mind is boggled by such a thought process sending me back to listen to the most apposite of anti-Vietnam War songs, Pete Seeger’s “Waist Deep In The Big Muddy.” If you don’t know or remember it you can access it on YouTube.

Naivite is the primary American national characteristic, which leads us into a great variety of stupidities, particularly in foreign affairs, but still, I prefer it to, for instance, French cynicism, because it means we are always optimistic and I think optimism is preferable to cynicism.

One of the lessons that societies, certainly American society, don’t seem to be able to cope with is the fact that whatever is going wrong at the lowest economic level of your culture is going to work its way up to the higher levels. Just give it time. In my young life drug addiction was thought of as a problem peculiar to black, and white, jazz musicians, then a problem of the black community. Then my mother, by no means an acute observer, saw the son of prominent, respected, parents in Chappaqua shooting up in the railway station in town between trains.

I am not sure why we went from protests to drugs, perhaps disillusionment with our country and its inability to adhere to its ideals, but we certainly took a swan dive, to mix my metaphors outrageously, from Seeger’s “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy” down the hole of The Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.”



The Quarantine Blog XXVI: April 5, 2021

And now, at last, the Andrew Sisters.

I desperately wanted to fit in with my classmates in middle and high school. Realizing my musical preferences, opera and classical, were making me “different”, causing me to be mocked, I suppressed any reference to the music I loved and listened, studiously, as though I were conjugating French verbs, to pop music, which was largely, but not exclusively, the Andrews Sisters. Every Saturday, or was it Sunday, evening I would tune my radio to the program many of my schoolmates were listening to, the Billboard count down of the most popular songs in the country. This was not particularly painful but it was boring.

In the 1940’s and the 50’s the Andrew Sisters were the prime pop group with hit after hit. To quote a friend, admittedly a New Yorker, “They were awful–mushy, cheap, and certainly not eye candy.” Until he mentioned it I hadn’t thought about the “eye candy” angle. It’s quite true. They were a curly coiffed, rigidly hair-sprayed, homely group. What they sang while “mushy and cheap” was also bland, banal and vapid. But their primary interesting characteristic was intense cheeriness. All their songs are happy sort of jump about ditties, full of bounce. That cheeriness is, for me, one of the salient traits of the 1950’s and I suspect what causes people to have such nostalgia for that period. We had come out of the Second World War triumphant and all was right with the world. The music insists, all is well; everything is fine, fine, fine. We are all happy, happy, happy.

The truth of the 1950’s was quite different from that—desperate single mothers unable to find work, lynchings in the south, acute poverty both urban and rural all over the country. The personal truth of the lives of the Andrew Sisters also contradicted this artificial happiness.

From Minneapolis, Minnesota they started singing very young for fun becoming commercial singers after their father’s restaurant business collapsed. They supported their parents for the rest of their lives. They were famous for their close harmony singing and performed all varieties of music from boogie-woogie to Country to Calypso. (You can find everything I mention on YouTube.) However, if you listen to the music they, and, their arranger, Vic Schoen, had an odd leveling effect on these styles making them sound similar.

If you listen to “Rum and Coca Cola” and then Harry Belafonte’s “Banana Boat Song”, it becomes clear that although the beat has been retained it has been iron out so that it is not as pronounced. And, remember Belafonte was himself a popularizer. The “real” calypso was even more unique in style.

Of course, popular music, is just that, popular; to achieve mass appeal it can’t be heavily individual. What the Sisters did to “Rum and Coca Cola” was also done to classical music when it was adapted to popular song. I will only give two examples, “Full Moon and Empty Arms,” a Frank Sinatra hit, takes its melody from the third movement of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto; “Never Gonna Fall in Love Again,” sung by Eric Carmen, comes from Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony, the third movement.

But the lyrics of “Rum and Coca Cola” are another problem. Here are some, not all, of the words the Sisters sang:

Rum and Coca-Cola

If you ever go down Trinidad
They make you feel so very glad
Calypso sing and make up rhyme
Guarantee you one real good fine time

Drinkin’ rum and Coca-Cola
Go down Point Koomahnah
Both mother and daughter
Workin’ for the Yankee dollar
Oh, beat it man, beat it

Since Yankee come to Trinidad
They got the young girls all goin’ mad
Young girls say they treat ’em nice
Make Trinidad like paradise

Drinkin’ rum and Coca-Cola
Go down Point Koomahnah
Both mother and daughter
Workin’ for the Yankee dollar
Oh, you vex me, you vex me

From Chicachicaree to Mona’s Isle
Native girls all dance and smile
Help soldier celebrate his leave
Make every day like New Year’s Eve

Drinkin’ rum and Coca-Cola
Go down Point Koomahnah
Both mother and daughter
Workin’ for the Yankee dollar.

The fact that this song was about women prostituting themselves to American soldiers went right by the 1950’s listeners as well as the Sisters. “We neverthought of the lyrics. The lyric was there; it was cute, but we didn’t think of what it meant….” Maxene said in an interview. She points out that content went right over people’s heads, both singers and listeners. They paid no attention.

That perhaps sums up the 1950’s for me. It was an era when people didn’t think. They were oblivious particularly to the effect they were having on other people, and their lives

The Sisters’ first hit is an even odder instance of not thinking. In 1937, a year after I was born, they recorded “Bei Mir Bistu Shein” a Yiddish song from a Yiddish musical comedy titled I WOULD IF I COULD. However, Jack Kapp of Decca Records didn’t want them to sing it in Yiddish but in American vernacular English. Somewhere along the way the title was translated into German, becoming “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.” Not only did a Jewish song have its title translated into German but a Nazi pop band a few years later recorded it with “state-approved anti-Semitic and anti-Bolshevik” lyrics. It doesn’t appear to have occurred to anyone in the American recording industry that taking a Yiddish song and translating its title into German was a bad idea. Of course it was just the beginning of the war.

The song sold seven million records and was on the Billboard Charts in first place for seven weeks. The title was incomprehensible to most Americans and according to LIFE MAGAZINE people went into stores asking for “Buy a Beer Mr. Shane” or  “My Mere Bits of Shame. ¨ I have had experience with this problem of consumer approximation of a title, having worked in a Doubleday Bookstore when BONJOUR TRISTESSE hit the bestseller list. My favorite interpretation of the title was “Bangor Treaties.

Other hits of theirs which may be familiar are “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”, “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree”, and “Beer Barrel Polka.” A thought in passing. It is an oddity of popular music, for which I have no explanation, that it is always played at the same volume. It never gets louder or softer. It is always at a constant volume.

Another characteristic of popular music is sentimentality. Out of this period I remember “The Tennessee Waltz” as a prime example of saccharine drench. But if you have never heard Spike Jones’ satire of it, you have missed a good thing, again YouTube. At the time I didn’t know about Spike.

However the monsters of celebrity and money slowly gobbled up the Sisters. When their parents died, one after the other in 1948 and’49, they started arguing over money, solos and billing. Finally they split up and became estranged from each other, there were suicide attempts, and they never really reunited, although each had a separately successful career. It is an American story of ego arrogance and greed destroying relationships.

Now I have to add a caveat emptor here. Paul Taylor made a thoroughly delightful series of ballets out of these songs, performed to a recording of the Andrew Sisters singing. It captures the naiveté of that time period with its utter lack of sensitivity to anyone outside of the mainstream. You can see these on YouTube.

There was other music around, folk, jazz, but I grew up in the narrow channel of classical and knew nothing of these other forms until I was in college. When I brought home a record of Ertha Kitt my family greeted it with firm disapproval. I didn’t get to Dexter Gordon until much later. But they were just as opposed to Dave Brubeck. I knew of Burl Ives but had not heard him and even The Weavers were totally unknown to me.

Obviously, in my family there was a hieratic snob value attached to music, which I had not been aware of and the same was true, in a different way, of my classmates’ musical choices. If you liked a certain kind of music you belonged. Surely, using music in this way, or any other art form, to place people up or down in the hierarchy or to decide they are “acceptable” is a sad and grievous twisting of what art is.

The Quarantine Blog XXV: March 10, 2021

I started this blog about the Andrew Sisters and other music of the ‘40s, ‘50s and ‘60s, with the best of intentions, but as you will see it veered into the intensely personal. I have decided to send it out anyway.


At my son’s request I am writing this blog about my ideas concerning popular music in the ‘40’s, ‘50’s,‘60’s and into the ‘70’s. I have been hesitant for several reasons: 1) I have no expertise in the area of popular music so what I am writing is sheer personal opinion. 2) It brings up emotional turmoil because, although I adored school, I had a hard time with my classmates partly due to the different musical content of our lives. And I am going to have to start with the trauma of those years, which is inseparable from my sense, feeling, reaction to the music of the time.

I grew up in the 40’s and 50’s in the then prosperous, but not yet deluxe, suburb of Chappaqua about 36 miles outside of New York City. It had an excellent school system and taxes to match. In the late 1940’s and all of the 1950’s conformity was rigid in these communities, of course, more so among children. We dressed alike and all our tastes were supposed to be exactly the same.

I remember a boy in grade school wore a pair of knickerbockers one day, probably inherited from an older brother, since these had been popular ten years before but were no longer worn. He was teased. They were a signal of familial poverty. Knickerbockers, which still exist, are baggy trousers that end at the knee and are worn with knee-high socks. I have always wanted a pair in emerald velvet.

The smallest difference was mocked. Later in middle to high school I had a girl friend who also didn’t fit.

Her clothes were fashionable, rather than the prescribed skirts, sweaters and saddle shoes that were de rigueur. She came to school one day in a circular quilted skirt that was much ridiculed.  She would have been fine in New York City where diversity was/is largely accepted but the suburbs are/were more confining. She also had very long hair, which she wore down her back. This was pulled and tangled so much that she was often in tears. Her family finally removed her and placed her in a private school. Having your child come home weeping every day is not pleasant. I wanted desperately to follow her to that private school, but my family did not have the money, so I learned to tough it out. I didn’t tell my parents what happened to me in school until I was grown.

I don’t know what I was like at that age. I may have been superior or arrogant in my attitudes and offended my schoolmates. Besides liking opera another of my social solecisms was that my mother made me wear long, tan, cotton stockings which were held up by a sort of halter over my shoulders with garters attached. She thought I was too frail to weather the winter barelegged. A girl in my class, who was also a neighbor of mine, I have no idea why, and I suspect she doesn’t know either, talked some boys into throwing me into a ditch to pull up my skirts and see what held up the stockings. The instigator of my humiliation was totally irresistible because she had breasts, which a fair number of us did not yet have.

I am missing pieces of this incident. Did I try to fight them off? I cannot remember. What I do remember was that climbing out of that ditch, leaf mold on cheek and knees, in an agony of humiliation and defeat, I wanted immediately to erase the incident from my mind. I never wanted to remember it. This is a natural but not a useful reaction.

What I had been taught, however, was an important lesson, that while I thought I was autonomous, free to do what I wanted, I was completely at the mercy of any group that wanted to use their physical strength against me. I had never had to think about this.

It meant that the other effect of this incident was I became immediately and permanently on the side of all underdogs in my vicinity and, slowly, underdogs anywhere. Whoever was baited, blamed, ridiculed was my companion. This incident made me aware that I was living in a society that was lying to me. I was not free. I was not equal.

It lead me to teach in Harlem at City College, interview ex government prisoners in Burma, a writer under house arrest in Indonesia, causing me to acquire a police tail, and to confront the Minister of North American Affairs in Ho Chi Min City, Vietnam about writers in prison there. The later was not a very good idea. It is also, possibly, the reason I reacted so violently to the situation I found when I came to Spain in 1960 and saw the fear on peoples’ faces and the Guardia Civil in their patent leather hats posted along the roads.

What my neighbor and schoolmate did to me changed me. It changed her as well.

Practically no one gets through life without his or her soupçon of trauma and one shouldn’t. Trauma is a necessary lesson about life. My schoolmate/neighbor, who many years later apologized to me (more later on that), had her own horrifying trauma around that time.

Her father brought his Russian father to the U.S. This would have been the time of Stalin. It must have been a complex operation both expensive and difficult. I am sure this was done with the best of intentions. He, the grandfather, was a little man in his late sixties or seventies. I used to see him alone, neatly dressed, on our road walking. He was the only Russian I knew, my only Russian reference, until I was in college, when my memory of him gave me an aperçu into Dostoyevsky’s characters, isolated in their suffering. He was also the first person I recognized as being, even though I didn’t really know him, detritus, cast up on the beach of history. I have known many in that despairing isolation over my lifetime.

He was utterly alone, no English, no tendrils of relation to the alien culture he found himself in. He had his son, but I imagine his grandchildren viewed him as something incomprehensibly alien suddenly dumped in their lives. He was cruelly isolated at the end of his life.

One day he went missing. The police were called, I believe, and his family and others on the road searched for him. It was my tormentor, his granddaughter, who saw the top of his bald head shining above the water in the pond beside their house. Like Virginia Woolf he had drowned himself by walking into the pond.

We all get our spoonful of trauma.

Years and years later my schoolmate apologized but went well beyond saying she was sorry. When she contacted me she told me she had carried the guilt of what she had done for years gnawing at her. The boys involved, now old men, never apologized. I can’t remember who they were; trauma wiped them from my memory.

 My former neighbor in apologizing explained, “I told my children and my grandchildren, ‘Don’t ever do anything like this or you will suffer terrible guilt all of your life.’”

I had no difficulty forgiving after such a confession.

That’s my introduction to the Andrew Sisters.

So after over a thousand words I have not gotten to the Andrew Sisters. I promise to be more on topic with the next blog.



Here we are in the New Year that looks much like the old year. In that old year I started a rabbit I would like to pursue, Mary Magdalene.

I grew up with her as the exemplum of female remorse in the Church, the bad girl who having reformed was either in eternal tears or a haggard saint. I am thinking in the later case of the statue of her, the Penitent Magdalen, by Donatello formerly in the Baptistery of the Duomo in Florence carved from white poplar wood. She looks like a famine victim, haggard, hollow eyed, emaciated. Her teeth are snaggled and she is clothed in her own hair. I thought the first time I saw her she was wearing animal skins. There is something odd about her being clothed in her own hair. It is not penitential dress but erotic garb for a woman to wear only her own hair, even when a bit matted, although the mattedness may signal eroticism gone rotten. I have no conclusion to draw. I am simply puzzled by this malingering carnality.

About fifteen years ago I discovered that the Magdalene I knew was a victim of a conflation creation.  In 591 Pope Gregory I in his Easter sermons melded her with two other women, Mary of Bethany (Luke 10:39) and the unnamed woman in the New Testament (Luke 7:36-50) who washed Christ’s feet and was considered a sinful woman. Being a sinful woman was not interpreted as being gluttonous, prideful, greedy, envious, wrathful, or slothful but as being a prostitute. The Church early in its career narrowed the focus on sin to sex. This is how Mary Magdalene became a legendary prostitute, through papal misrepresentation.

There was as well a second set of legends, of which I was ignorant, in which Mary was Christ’s wife and bore him children. This was a mythology, however, that never took root.

In 1969 the merging of Magdalene with Mary of Bethany and the sinful woman was retracted in the General Roman Calendar by Pope Paul VI. But you can’t revirginify your reputation from papal slander that easily after fourteen hundred years. She is still considered a reformed prostitute by most of the Christian world.

The little we have of written records of Magdalene in the canonical gospels, those accepted by the Catholic Church, tell us she traveled with Christ, gave him financial support, was in contact with the apostles, was witness to the crucifixion, to his burial and was alone or with others a witness to his empty tomb. The accounts of the last event vary widely depending on the gospel being read, but she is always the first to discover the tomb is empty.

In the gospels of Luke and Mark it is also recorded that she was exorcized of seven demons which may mean she underwent seven exorcisms or simply, because of secondary meanings of the number seven in Hebrew at the time, that she was in the power of these demons. Demons were in that era considered the source of mental illnesses. However, this exorcism and demons don’t appear in the gospels until the second century AD. They may be a second century invention.

That she gave Christ financial support means she was wealthy. At that time it was not unusual for well-heeled Jewish women to financially support synagogues. This also suggests they probably had more voice in the community than one might imagine.

Reading outside the cannon, however, things become more complex. The Gnostic Gospels include reference to Mary Magdalene and there is a Gospel of Mary that tells of Christ’s teaching from her perspective.

Gnosticism was a complex web of beliefs that preferred enlightenment through individual insight and understanding over fixed dogma. It considered the material world to be corrupt because it was created by a flawed entity, God. Adam and Eve did not bring evil into the world; it came from the Creator of the world who arranged that all living entities eat each other and are, therefore, in fear of each other.

Two forces exist, one for good, the Godhead and the other evil, the Creator God who is responsible for setting up the system of suffering which exists on earth. Christ is one of a handful of Messengers of the Light sent from the Godhead, which is an It not a He or She, to assist humans in their search for Gnosis, knowledge.

Despite their belief in Christ the Gnostics were declared heretics by the Church as it grew into the stunningly powerful corporation it has become. It may be the most successful in human history. What other corporation could have survived tearing itself in two. Could Microsoft have survived a CEO in Silicon Valley and another of equal reputation and following in Los Angeles? Years of exponential, blatant corruption did take its toll in the Protestant splintering but it is still a very healthy corporation today.

Although the Gnostics produced large numbers of written texts the Church destroyed them with such thoroughness that until the last two centuries all that was known about Gnosticism came from quotations of Gnostic texts in the writings of Christian prelates trying to refute Gnostic heresy. In the nineteenth century scholars attempted to collect these shreds of quotations in order to form an idea of the sect’s beliefs. In 1945 a farmer discovered the Nag Hammad library in an Egyptian town of that name. It consists of thirteen leather-bound papyrus volumes that had been buried in a sealed jar. The books include both Christian and Gnostic texts.

Among those books is the Gospel of Philip, a volume that meanders from subject to subject in a fashion quite confusing to the modern reader. Here is the section that mentions Mary Magdalene.

Two caveats before presenting you with this. One, Wisdom for the Gnostics was feminine, named Sophia, an emanation of the Godhead. Second, Christians and Gnostics greeted each other with a kiss on the mouth, the “kiss of peace”, and there was nothing sexual about it.

     “As for the Wisdom who is called “the barren,” she is the mother of the angels. And the companion of the Savior is Mary Magdalene. But Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her on the mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, ‘Why do you love her more than all of us?’ The Savior answered and said to them, ‘Why do I not love you like her? When a blind man and one who sees are both together in darkness, they are no different from one another. When the light comes, then he who sees will see the light, and he who is blind will remain in darkness.’”

That is a fairly breath-taking put down of the disciples. It is apparent that Magdalene is being compared to Sophia or Wisdom. To segue to Buddhism for a moment, the Drölma, also known as the Green Tara, who could be considered an emanation of the Buddha, represents Wisdom, which Buddhists consider feminine and passive.

But Peter did object to Mary. There was a power struggle that existed and is apparent in the Gnostic gospels. I would say he won. The early Church, even in the time of Paul who had a copious and complex correspondence with women in positions of power among converts, had many women in its structure but it became more an more patriarchal over time and women were pushed off to the side.

A last tidbit is a legend in which, after the discovery of the empty tomb of the resurrected Christ by the three Mary’s—Magdalene, Mary Salome and Mary of Ciopas—the three sailed from Alexandria with some say Joseph of Arimathea, others Santiago, arriving at a fortress on the French coast known as Notre-Dame-de-Ratis, Our-Lady-of-the-Boat. The name was changed over time to Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer and then in 1838 to Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Here she was, so the legend goes, buried. Oddly the Gypsies also have a female saint here and come to celebrate her once a year.

The possibility of Mary, Christ’s mother, Magdalene and the third Mary packing up after seeing the empty tomb to cross the Mediterranean and become missionaries of Christianity seems most unlikely but it does give a different perspective to see these women as independent travelers over sea and land.

Rather than the Pope’s prostitute, out of this patchwork, swatches of possible lives, the Magdalena I envision is a well dressed Jewish matron, her wealth apparent in the quality of the fabric of her well cut dress rather than in its stylishness, wandering the shore and hills of Provence, talking to fisherman and farmers of the new faith. She has dark, expressive eyes and an authoritative manner that even men used to being in command find difficult to confront. There are lines of suffering and sadness about her mouth, but the dark eyes dance with humor and spiritual joy.

It’s worth noting what happens to an individual once she or he has gotten into the maw of an institution or corporation with a particular agenda. The winners write history, of course, but the amount of denigration meted out, the manipulation and excising that goes on is worth being cognizant of.

Her latest incarnation is in a song by the British singer FKA twigs in her album entitled  “Magdalene.”


Mary Magdalene

FKA twigs

A woman’s work
A woman’s prerogative
A woman’s time to embrace
She must put herself first
A woman’s touch, a sacred geometry
I know where you start, where you end
How to please, how to curse

Yes, I learnt you needed me
Yes, I’m here to open you
Yes, I know that your heart is blue
(So cold)

I fear before the fire
True as Mary Magdalene
Creature of desire
Come just a little bit closer to me
Step just a little bit closer to me
I can lift you higher
I do it like Mary Magdalene
I want you to say it
Come just a little bit closer ’til we collide

A woman’s hands
So dark and provocative
A nurturing breath that could stroke
Your divine confidence
A woman’s war
Unoccupied history
True nature won’t search to destroy
If it doesn’t make sense

Yes, I learnt you needed me
Yes, I’m here to open you
Yes, I know that your heart is blue
(So cold)

I fear before the fire
True as Mary Magdalene
Creature of desire
Come just a little bit closer to me
Step just a little bit closer to me
I can lift you higher
I do it like Mary Magdalene
I want you to say it
Come just a little bit closer ’til we collide

Ooh, you didn’t hear me now
Ooh, you didn’t hear me when I told you
Ooh, you didn’t hear me now

Mary Magdalene
Creature of desire
Come just a little bit, just a little bit 
Mary Magdalene
Creature of desire
Come just a little bit closer ’til we collide

Ooh, you didn’t hear me now
Ooh, you didn’t hear me when I told you
Ooh, you didn’t hear me now


(I should explain. The date on a blog indicates when I started writing it, not necessarily when I was in the place written about.)

At breakfast I asked if I could have my eggs scrambled. The waitress had a moment of indecision but then she went for, “No.”

I walked to the museum wending my way through the now familiar streets of the old town, stumbling across the antique store I had not been able to find the other day. It’s all bits and pieces, old Lladro figures, jewelry, pictures, silver.  He had a footed silver box and I was tempted to add it to my collection but I have reached the stage of life where possessions are more apt to be a burden than a joy.

However, I saw a pair of Japanese house sandals at another shop and decided they were what I needed for the tile floors of Spanish hotels. Also they pack flat and though not warm keep your feet off the floor.

At the San Telmo Museum I walked through the Sert paintings again. Since then I have learned, from a friend who reads my blogs. about Sert’s other murals in the Vic cathedral and his first wife, Misia Sert, a pianist (1872—1950). She studied with Fauré. She was apparently a favorite portrait subject having been painted by Renoir, Bonnard and Lautrec. Her fashionable Paris salon was a resort for Ravel, Debussy, Picasso, Mallarmé, and Cocteau. He says there is a plaque on Sant Pere Més Alt in Barcelona commemorating Sert’s birthplace.

I went on into the hall with remnants of stone tools and arrows that flows into the lethalness of swords and armor and then the human homicidal tendencies are channeled into 18th century hats and headdresses that may still have been seen on occasion at the beginning of the 20th century. These are fun.

Some are real hats but many are concoctions made by winding white strips of linen around, I presume, a form to make a curved horn, a steeple straight up or a series of dumplings getting smaller as they rise and ending in a little curved horn. One mannequin looks as though she has a large muffin on her head beneath which folds of drapery enclose her from chin to chest. The face, male or female, is not covered but neck, hair and ears are. I spent time gazing, in part, because these heads reminded me of the girls who lean out of the walls of the stage at the Palau de la Musica with their harps, tambourines, flutes, and horns in all kinds of hats and hair adornments.

I took the elevator upstairs where, utterly alone with the paintings, I at last got to concentrate on this eclectic gathering of faces. There are some early paintings of the Evangelists. These are not gaunt old men in straitened circumstances hanging out with their symbols—the lion, the angel the bull and the eagle—but well fed, middle aged, scribes with thick, crisply curled beards in sumptuous brocade robes of deep, stained glass colors all of whom have, I noticed, large ears. They look as though in another part of their comfortable houses housekeepers are keeping things in order and seeing lunch is on the table promptly.

Around the corner is a startling Mary Magdalene by Tintoretto. I wrote in my notebook, “hilarious”, yes, but perhaps equivocal is a better word, although she did make me laugh. Your average Renaissance Mary Magdalene is a good-looking woman even when half drowned in tears of remorse. She may or may not be sexy—see Titian, El Greco, Caravaggio, Crivelli—but she is always pretty. This young woman, I would say she is a teenager– physically a woman but not there yet emotionally or mentally– is not particularly good looking, being a bit chubby about the face, but she is definitely of the flesh. She is ripe, about to drop off the tree. In modern terms she is, a la Madonna, a material girl. She is all gussied up in the way teenagers love. She’s been to the hairdresser and he’s given her, ringlets across her brow and beside her ears like spiral bands through which she has threaded pearl drops on a pearl chain. She is wearing a pearl necklace and her bodice is cinched with gold chains studded with amethysts. There are more adornments on the chest before her and I suspect a mirror that we can’t see that she is looking into with bland complacency. She is over the top and loving it. There’s no cleavage and no leg; she maybe spiritually and mentally immature but she is in season.

Behind her shoulders are big rose silk, opulent poofs, lined with gold brocade, like wings, suggesting that they are her current conception of wings. She’s a materialistic butterfly, not a numinous lofting spirit. She is unlike any other Mary Magdalene I have ever seen

Next door to her are three El Greco’s. I may have noted down “hilarious” in my book because of the contrast between Mary and these pale, attenuated saints, their eyes cast up to heaven, all of whom have hands like Glenn Gould. This is the first time that I made a connection between El Greco and Modigliani. The saints and Mary are polar opposites. They are almost transparent with spiritual transcendence; she is solid as a block of oak.

Across from this sanctified gathering is a portrait by de la Cruz of Phillip III, handsome, but with a thoroughly unpleasant glint in his eye, which is odd because I don’t think of him as one of the nasty kings, just another self indulgent royal who let his friends eat his country.

In the next room is an exquisite little Madonna and Child by Rubens. It has a strip before it which sounds an alarm if you lean too close which I did several times, although there was no one on the floor to hear or reprimand. It is an intimate picture whose characters are warmly lovable in the most cheerful bourgeois way. The Madonna is plump cheeked with a curvaceous mouth, baby all smiles in his chubbiness. Everyone is well dressed, comfortable and perhaps most important, happily content. They radiate well-being, wholesomeness and immense charm.

The floor below leaps into the modern era. A painting by Antonio Ortiz Echaqüe, Two Women of Tafilalet, shows a pair of women draped, twin pillars in different shades of blue with no flesh showing except their eyes, in the case of the younger, one eye. They are not veiled in the Saudi sense, but have drawn their shrouding mantles of blue across their faces as though in protest against the painter’s intrusion. They are mysterious and, of course, Islamic. Tafilalet is the largest Saharan oasis in southeastern Morocco and has a number of fortified villages. It was on a caravan route from the Niger River to Tangier. That is all I have been able to learn with nothing about the painter to be found through the usual Google channels, but the women have a statuesque, imposing quality that I found appealing.

More modern and western is a canvas by Juan Luis Goenaga of fish and divers with tanks strapped to their backs under the sea. It’s not your usual subject matter, which makes it fun. Quite different is Mari Puri Herrero’s Sobresalta a las Campistas. Herrero is a mistress of the edgy, disturbing image.

In the foreground of a greenly lush countryside are two men in dark suits, one with a bowler hat. They are as out of place as a pair of large pythons in Trafalgar Square. In the distance, hurrying away, are two women. I have no idea what this is about but it is worryingly sinister.

The museum then continues chronicling life and history in the Basque country. There are little videos on sheep and shepherds, on making cloth from spindle to loom, on labor movements, on women’s rights with exhibitions accompanying all. It is overwhelming and wonderful.

I had lunch at a place my friends E and V had suggested which had filling pinchos.  They were large and delicious. I managed to rediscover a chocolate shop I had seen to buy a bar with chili, very little chili, and an orange slice dipped in dark chocolate which I ate at a café on the esplanade with a café con leche. It is satisfying to consume coffee and chocolate with the perfect curve of the bay before you.

The next day I was leaving, therefore the morning was spent packing but at lunch time I went back to my first restaurant, Casa Vergara, and reordered my first lunch—oysters, ham croquets, grilled shrimp. It was just as good as the first time. I thought about paying again to revisit the Santiago pilgrim, but it was time to go back to the hotel, order a taxi and head to the airport.

Bon Nadal
Feliz Navidad
Merry Christmas

The Quarantine Blog XXII: November 23

The next day being Monday, the museum was closed, as was the buffet in the café, in its case, due to a lack of guests. However I could have whatever I wanted and as much as I wanted from the menu –coffee, croissant, eggs with ham, yogurt and muesli.

I have a friend in Barcelona who is exceptionally discerning on the subjects of restaurants and tenors, indeed, on anything about opera. He had suggested a restaurant, Rekondo, specifying that it was exceptional, a bit expensive and not to be missed. If P says a restaurant is exceptional, it’s a Michelin two to three star. I found it on my paper map and decided I could walk there.

Leaving the hotel I took off in the direction opposite to that I had been heading for the last three days, this time toward Igeldo, the promontory on the opposing horn of the crescent bay. On a whim I turned inland and found myself climbing stairs, if my phone is tallying truthfully, fourteen flights.

As I started up I noted a man doing his morning exercise by running up several flights and then walking down; cheaper than a gym, it certainly looked effective judging by the sweaty patch between his shoulder blades. The views out to the Concha, the bay, were fine but as interesting were the views of houses, their terraces. One looked up at them, down at them, out at them from all levels. Some were primly tidy with flowering plants and chairs drawn up to umbrellaed tables. Others were a bit blousy, straggling geraniums gone to seed or overwhelmed by blooming weeds with faded canvas chairs, or rusty tables on loose tiles. 19th century grace and 20th century modernity jostled each other up the hill.

At the top and along the way were a few 19th century villas muffled in undergrowth. They are probably too costly to renovate. Things became quieter, no cars; often I was alone with birds and trees looking down at that perfect bay. I took a street that turned down toward the Miramar Palace once the summer home of Queen Maria Christina, much loved here because she supported the town. Now a convention center, it has lots of turrets and roofs which make it interesting from a distance but it becomes less attractive as one gets closer and its resemblance to a 19th century suburban villa on growth serum becomes more evident.

It is surrounded by a park that pitches abruptly down the hill. As I left the bulk of the Miramar Palace I passed a clutch of men gathered about a group of cameras on tripods. On a bench in their midst, and I thought associated with them, was a white haired man in a blue plaid flannel shirt and a blue quilted vest. I am not sure why I noticed him; perhaps there was something authoritative about him.

I was able to follow my map to Igeldo Passealekua, the road on which the restaurant was located, through first an attractive small shopping center and then streets of recent bourgeois two story homes with carefully but not imaginatively planted front yards. It had that comfortable, solid look the middle class is so good at creating. But once past these I started up hill again through much less orderly surroundings, fewer houses and those often unkempt. Views of the bay were over scrubby trees and unpretentious buildings. There was a marginal feeling to this land, unkempt edge of city land.

I began to wonder how far away this restaurant was. There were, however, hotels that I passed, that were a comfort, and then there was a big sign, Rekondo, and a parking lot full of cars, next to a wide terrace looking down to the ocean shaded by a big tree.

I walked in and there was the white haired man I had seen among the cameras. I thought he must be another solitary dinner. I explained to the woman who greeted me that since I was alone I had made no reservation and hoped that was all right. She seated me and gave me a large menu with a selection of Basque and other dishes. Slowly I realized the man in the vest was the owner and that I was sitting in the wrong direction, looking into the restaurant rather than out to the terrace.

I decided to skip the first course. One of the main courses was venison, which I have not had in many years. It is not something that one sees on a Barcelona menu.

It was served with pears poached in a luscious brown sauce of great depth of flavor with fruit high lights. I have come to think of brown sauces or gravies as ambushes. They look innocuous but can be pools of grave disaster tasting of half cooked flour and burned vegetables. This was ambrosial. As I ate slowly, becoming enveloped by that luminous sense of bien être a superb meal gives you, the restaurant filled.

To my right was a room filling with a couple with a baby in an ultra modern pram, a pair of athletic looking middle aged business men and an older couple but behind me on the terrace there were young people, quite a large crowd of them chatting, going to the bar to order drinks in a celebratory mood. Directly behind me were two women in their fifties or sixties whom I could only glimpse. One was plain, a bit stodgy but the other had flair and was wearing a navy blue, soft, silk suit piped and cuffed in brilliant pink. I was disappointed to have my back to her.

As is true of most people my age I don’t usually have dessert but I realized that in this circumstance it would be depravity to be abstemious with such a kitchen available. I ordered a mille-feuille of thin, brittle layers redolent of almonds with vanilla cream between them and a papaya sorbet to one side, heaven with a café con leche.

P is never wrong.

This quality of food is rare these days anywhere in the world. Shanghai Tang’s restaurant in Hong Kong and the Thai restaurant in the Oriental in Bangkok are up to this standard, although neither are purveyors of Western cuisine.

When I was 24, pregnant and traveling through France with my husband who only ate steak and French fries because he was in a foreign country, it was possible to, from time to time, I am thinking specifically of a restaurant called Trencavel in Carcassonne, have a meal like this every couple of days as one drove across France. In that restaurant, this is a memory now 60 years old, they recognized I liked food and, ignoring my husband, went into conference with me before each meal. I had never been treated like this and I reveled in the attention. I ordered one evening a trout with mussels and tiny shrimp. Madame, bent over me solicitously and advised, “But after that you must have something simple, a little chicken perhaps.”

The trout was celestial, the chicken not far down the hierarchical scale. The memory of that trout has stayed with me all these years as one of the high points of my gastronomic life. The venison and mille-feuille have been entered in the same file in my memory.

A further digression. Trencavel is the name of the viscounts of Carcassonne, Béziers, Albi and Razès. Raymond-Roger Trencavel died after the capture of Carcassonne in 1209 by Simon de Montfort. The restaurant was named for the family. A French friend filled in the historical background.

My inner person beaming I walked down hill to the bay and then along the shore turning in at the cathedral, which is 19th century but has a reputation for beauty. However, despite signs stating that it was open from 8 to 8, it was not. Thinking I knew what I was doing I wandered off and became lost and entangled in rail lines and children coming home from school. I finally stopped at a gas station to ask my way.

It is always a good idea to get lost. In this case I saw a more plebeian section of town, more family oriented than where I was staying. Parents with dogs were picking up children bringing home satchels of books or paintings to be acclaimed by mothers. The streets were choked with young life being directed across streets by crossing guards. I stopped by one, mid street, and asked my way again. But I did get home.

I made a mental note to thank P for his recommendation. Tomorrow I was planning a return to the museum.