An Unrealistic Life

People We See...And Don't See

2011-08-10T23:18:00.000-07:00

Elena Hiatt Houlihan

We've all waved her away as we were chatting outside Andale's, laughing over margaritas while old rock music rolls out onto the sidewalk, and baby boomers writhe to the beat inside. She is so tiny and frail that she seems like a small bird pushing her way through the overfed Canadians and Americans who tower above her. Pressed to her chest are four or 5 round flat cakes on foam plates, each in a clear plastic bag.

"Bread?" she croaks in her almost inaudible voice. She puts the plates on the table or proffers them toward the waist of an adjacent drinker standing by the door.

"I've got four flavors," she says hopefully. "Orange, pecan, coco, and banana. Only 50 pesos."

We raise our eyebrows as if to say, 50 pesos? Five dollars for a layer cake, with no icing, because it does look like a cake she's thrust before us. "It's bread," she repeats.

It was my first week in Puerto Vallarta, and I'd already been besieged, interrupted and tapped on by peddlers on the beach hawking colorful sarongs, mothers carrying babies asking for milk money, and four-year olds holding up boxes of Chiclets. I didn't buy a cake. I don't need the calories, and if I'm indulging, it will be in ice cream, French pastry or flan, not cake of unknown quality.

Still I kept seeing her, slipping among the crowd on the sidewalk, or making her rounds in Nacho Daddy's while Sean wailed the blues in the background. Sometimes she had three cakes, sometimes five, four held close to her body with her left hand and one dangling at her side from her right. Several of us began speculating on whether she made any money.

"Five cakes a night at 50 pesos a cake, that's only 250 pesos. How can she support herself and buy the ingredients?"

I tried to forget her, but my curiosity and my conscience nagged me into investigating her story. One night, I saw her outside the sophisticated sushi bar on Olas Altas. Her sleeveless dress with blue and green flowers was crisp enough for a garden party, though it was 10 PM. I introduced myself, bought an orange cake and asked if she would talk to me.

"My name is Alicia," she revealed, peering up at me, "but, honey, I can't talk now. I have to go over there." She gestured down toward Café Vayan, "I'm working."

"Do you mind telling me how many cakes you make?"

"Eighteen, honey. Every day. I have to go now."

"How old is she?" I wondered as she walked away. She had to be at least 80, and she couldn't weigh more than 90 pounds. Her tiny legs looked almost too thin to support her, and she was wearing a stretch bandage around her left ankle.

One night after I trailed along, observing her many stops along Basilio Badillo, she finally disclosed bits of her story. Because she has light skin and speaks English well, I mistakenly thought she was a gringa who had perhaps married a Mexican when young and lived here ever since.

"No-o-o, I was born in Pachuca, Hidalgo, a mining town far from anywhere. They had many Canadian and American engineers then, so there was an American school. I studied English from the time I was little until high school."

By then it was 11 PM, and she left me on the sidewalk to make her way through the tables at Nacho Daddy's while strains of Tex-Mex blared over the dancers. Approaching the listeners, her demeanor was as hopeful and springlike as the pink and white flowers on her dress. From the stage, Joe "King" Carrasco addressed the crowd, "Hey, everyone, this is Alicia. She's 90 years old! Buy one of her delicious cakes. I get one every week."

That thoughtful gesture brought another sale; then an American couple followed her onto the street asking to buy a cake. "I have more, right over here," she said gesturing toward Café Vayan. They patiently followed her inside and paid with a five-dollar bill, as well as offering her additional money, which she didn't take.

Within Puerto Vallarta, she confines her route to the Zona Romantica, leaving her cakes in a wire cart that she parks inside the café, while she slowly walks up Olas Altas, onto several side streets, back along the Malecon, and then up Basilio. She does this for two to three hours every night, returning to Vayan to pick up more cakes if she sells the five she is carrying. Then she repeats her path, often stopping at the same place twice, in case she missed a potential customer. On Sundays she takes her cakes to the Marina.

"What propels her dedication?" I asked myself, marveling at her stamina.

Because she never has time to sit down, I bend over to listen as we walk along, hoping not to miss a word.

"After school, I left home and went to Mexico City where I had a good-paying job. I met my husband there and we married when I was 19.

"My husband was very very handsome! He was a big worker. We had a big house on a very good street. He liked the horses, and he went 'gaming' several times a week, but he was a great man. After 7 years I had a girl and after 7 years again, I had a boy."

Then her husband died, and she sold her house. "Honey, it was the biggest mistake of my life."

"I was in Cancun with my husband once, and it was very beautiful. After he died, I went back with my youngest son. He married a girl there and had 2 chil-dren." In the way she draws out the word I hear a bit of an accent.

"But his wife left him with the chil-dren. So I had to take care of them. My son started drinking."

Because he did not want his children to see their mother with another man, her son moved to Vallarta. Alicia came too. Then while drunk, her son had an accident, and now he can't walk.

"He used to play football, but in the accident, something happened to his leg. Now he's too fat. Sometimes he works, but the money is too low. The children can't work, so I pay for everything. I like to do that because I love the chil-dren."

In Cancun, Alicia had a laundry, but she had to start over in Vallarta. A neighbor suggested she bake banana bread to sell in the apartment complex where they lived out by Walmart.

Her day starts about 9:30, when she gets up and has her favorite peach yogurt, then starts baking the eighteen cakes she must sell that evening. In between, she prepares food for the family. For the past fourteen years, since the age of 75, long past most people's retirement, this has been her routine and her mission.

In the evening, her granddaughter who is 15, brings her into Vallarta in their red pickup truck. Sometimes it malfunctions, and Alicia is late or has to take a taxi. After her nightly rounds, Alicia waits patiently for her ride. They have no phone, so if the red truck doesn't pull up alongside the café by 11, she has to pay 50 or 60 pesos from her profits for the ride back.

"So what time do you get home?" I ask.

"I go from here to Walmart and I get all my things for the breads, and then I go home about 1:30." I picture her struggling with huge bags of flour. "No, honey, my granddaughter helps me."

The cost of her ingredients is between 400 and 500 pesos every night, or 12000 P per month, much more than her rent of 3000 pesos.

"I need to sell at least 700-800 pesos a day," she says, to pay the rent, light and water. That's 14-16 cakes. How is she going to do that with the tourist season ending, I wonder?

One night, from across the street I watch her small slightly stooped form approach three fair-haired women, and I find myself praying that one will buy a cake from her. At least they pause and listen, but they continue their stroll empty handed, and she shuffles up Basilio Badillo to the next restaurant.

At the corner taco stand, she embraces a chubby waitress twice as big as she is. Few people who buy her cakes can resist her genuine affection, and she rewards most of them with a hug and a kiss.

Yet late on Monday night, she told me about a disturbing incident. "Today I went to a table, and there was three men and two women, American. I told them 'Maybe you need bread for breakfast?' and one of the gentlemen, he was not a gentleman, he pushed me and he said 'We don't want you here!'"

"And I told him, 'Sir, it's my job. I'm just offering my breads to you. You don't need to get mad. So be careful!' And the others laughed at him!"

To me she explained, 'I'm protect by the association of old people and nobody is going to do anything to me because I'm so old. Honey, I'm 89 years old. They protect me. It's because of my age."

Despite her dedication and the seeming innocence that she exudes, not all establishments welcome her presence. I notice that she walks by without stopping at the busy taco restaurant, and the always-packed Café de Olla. And in contradiction to Carasco's hearty recommendation, one waiter up the street, laughed and said,

"Oh, yeah, those cakes? Buy one if you need a doorstop!"

After buying several, I admit they are a bit heavy, yet I hesitate to upset her or her system by suggesting improvements.

Though she has no extended family in Puerto Vallarta, she has another son who is 62 and has 12 children, and a daughter in Mexico City, who has invited Alicia to come live with her. Since Alicia's doctor thinks the altitude might not be good for her, she stays and continues supporting her son and granddaughter. Her 18 year-old grandson is now in Cancun, hoping to play football with a big league.

"Honey, I love my work," she said as we stepped up the curb to the Café Vayan. I was stunned. It was after eleven o'clock, and she could have been sitting calmly at home resting or reading, instead of keeping to this compulsive schedule.

"I love my work because I love my chil-dren," she said in her crackly little voice. She squeezed my hand and looked up at me, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes; then she trundled off to get her cart and head for home. But first she had to go buy flour and sugar.

SUCCUMBING IN PUERTO VALLARTA

2011-01-23T09:59:00.000-08:00

OK, I admit, I succumbed to the wiles of a charming younger man! When I stepped off the plane last Tuesday evening, I heard, "Taxi? You need a taxi, miss?" With a beguiling smile, tall, slender, handsome, Anuar beckoned me over to his desk where I presumed I could negotiate a prix fixe taxi fare into Puerto Vallarta. $20, seemed a bit steep, but I had no idea how far out we were.

"Oh, here's the possibility. I can get you a free taxi ride into the city, if you would like to come see this beautiful place called The Flamingos. Free transportation and free beautiful breakfast, all for 75 minutes of your time!" By the time Anuar (pronounced Ahn-war) and his equally handsome cohorts had beguiled me with their promises to help find an apartment, not to mention show me where to dance salsa, I gave in.

That's how I found myself the next day savoring the beauties of this elegant resort out past Nuevo Vallarta. Of course, that was preceded by numerous questions about my vacation habits (they didn't know I sometimes stay in hostels), and listening to not one, but two presenters, one a gentle young guide, and the other a savvy Russian named Marina whose toughness was no match for my slipperiness. When she couldn't sell me the timeshare, or in their lingo, persuade me to "Join the Club," whose exclusivity costs a mere $19,000, she tried to persuade me to work there. The 75 minutes stretched into about 4 hours.

However, this was my reward:

A swim in their lovely pool after the presentation
A discount card for numerous restaurants in town, plus access to the facilities at their other resorts if I choose to go there
A free taxi ride from the airport into town
Free taxis to and from the resort
A free taxi ride through Bucerias, a nearby town I wanted to explore.
A delicious FREE MASSAGE in their exquisite spa
AND, a bottle of tequila which is still sitting here in my new apartment.

Given my tendency to interview, I heard about my young guide's fiance and her need for freedom, as well as Marina's hysterical tales of her Jewish grandmother, who told her at the age of 7, "You vill suffer een zees life." Sassy and sexy Marina has survived 4 husbands (She doesn't date well. She just gets married.) and she's raking in commissions from gullible travelers here in Puerto Vallarta. I thought the day was worth it for the stories!

THE BIG LEAP!

2011-01-16T23:34:00.000-08:00

Though it's taken a bit longer than I originally thought, I did sell my house in Pittsburgh in the fall of 2009 as part of my dream/vision/intention to find my place to live by the sea. Which sea? I don't know. Which country? I don't know. Fortunately as an artist, I seem to have developed an ability to live with the unknown. After all, we don't really know what is going to happen tomorrow. We just think we do, because we become so used to our routines that we think they will automatically continue.

Those of you who receive my newsletter know that I de-accessed everything except my art work, a few photography books, handmade dishes and favorite artifacts, now scooched into a 7' x 10' storage unit in Pittsburgh. I packed the remaining clothes, important papers, and miscellaneous paraphernalia I believed I might need into my van and headed to Indiana. Once there, familial concerns took over after my father's death, and we helped mom move into assisted living, then I coordinated the emptying of the family home and prepared it for sale.

So, two houses emptied, and Mom settled, I began my journey, returning to see dear friends and tie up loose ends in Pittsburgh, then up to Deer Isle, Maine. Once there, invigorated and inspired by views of the sea and contact with new and old friends, I began writing again. When the chill of Fall approached, I drove back to Indiana and then on to Houston for Christmas with my son.

Though I have been officially "homeless," and an artistic nomad for over a year, I have been ensconced with friends or family for most of the time, but now it's time for a leap into the unknown. Wanting to find a quiet place to write and also discover a new place to live, I first proposed driving into Mexico. This plan was denounced as unwise by all who heard it. Plan B was to fly to San Miguel on the recommendation of friends. When I heard how cold it was there in January, I switched to Plan C and booked a ticket to Puerto Vallarta. Now I was back to downsizing as I took a pile of clothes to Good Will, and packed one suitcase and a rolling computer bag for the trip. (OK, I didn't get rid of everything. The van and its contents remain in Houston.) Here's what it looked like in Houston as I was packing up. First the chaos!

So check in soon to hear what happened after I landed in Puerto Vallarta!

Landing in the Unknown: Recife, Brazil

2008-11-07T07:10:00.000-08:00

From the plane window, Recife (pronounced Hay see' fay) was a mass of spires in the distance, skyscrapers diminishing to lower buildings, houses and shacks surrounded by green as the cify flowed inland. When I hurriedly chose it as destination from my parent's family room in Indianapolis, I pictured long beaches fringed by palm trees. On the map, it perched on the coast in northeastern Brazil. But my expectations were squashed by Robert in Florianopolis who said "Why are you going to Recife? It's just a big, dirty city. Go to Salvador instead." A website said that the ocean at Recife was brown. Inwardly my nose crinkled. Tea tinged water? Not in my dreamscape!

The Airtreks agent emailed that the tickets couldn't be changed, but I might try in person at the Tam office in Sao Paolo. I ruled that out when I saw the maze of convoluted streets, and learned that taxi fares were 80-100 reales to cross the city.

A young woman at the Backpackers Sunset Hostel had written Porto de Galinhas, on a scrap of paper. Voted the best beach in Brazil, I discovered later. But where to stay and how to get there? Internet research had not yielded any ideal lodging; even the Lonely Planet chapter listed only a few. I emailed the Beira Mar...no response. It was November 4th, and I was too interested in the election and in visiting with Kathy, my new friend in Sao Paolo, to spend more time on it. Searching for a room was a distraction when election results were coming in.

So once again, I was landing in a city with no idea of where I would stay, and it was late afternoon. Waiting for my bags, I heard tambourines and drumming. Flashes of sparkling red and turquoise shone through the glass window. A row of dancers in sequins and fringed headdresses were swaying and stamping in the outer arrival area. Was this a festival? Were important people on this plane? It was like the art of Nick Cage whose installation of exotic beaded sculptures I had seen in Pittsburgh, only these were real. Dancers in the airport? What a great sign! I hurried to take photos.

Trundling my suitcases into the tourist office, I learned that they had hotels only for Recife, nothing for Porto de Galinhas. I had to go to the tourist office in PG to get that info. Fortunately there was a direct bus which cost only 5.5 reais and I could get it outside the airport. Great idea! After a few bumblings, and buying a snack, yet another type of empanada, at a glossy SWEETS bar, I headed out for the bus. On the sidewalk, a short dark man started talking to me.

"Do you need a taxi?"
"No, I'm taking the bus to Porto de Galinhas."
"Not a good idea. Very crowded. Dangerous. Mafioso on the bus. Long ride. You might have to stand up all the way! Somebody might take your stuff."

The short man conveyed all this in Portuguese with swaying gestures as if he were hanging on a strap in a jampacked bus bumping over treacherous roads. He repeated the word Mafioso several times. He would take me all the way to Porto de Galinhas, 70 km for 70 reais, about $35.

Transportation costs vary widely and disproportionately here. A 12 hour bus ride to Iguacu Falls costs about $70. A cab ride across Sao Paolo is about $40.

Okay, Okay, I give up.

We headed into the parking garage for his car which turned out to be a slightly dented and rusted white station wagon. There was a huge orange propane tank in his boot, so he tossed my suitcases in the back, and I sat in the front seat. The engine died as we pulled up to exit. Hmmmm, I could get stuck in the middle of nowhere with this guy. Still I felt calm and perfectly safe. When some of my mango drink spilled on the torn floor mats, "No worry, no worry!" Jose assured me while I wiped it up. An small open Bible lay on the ledge below the windshield. Ah, I was with a righteous man.

After crowded streets with car dealerships, battered signs, men lounging on street corners, we passed into green hills covered with sugar cane, reminiscent of Hawaii. Smoke rolled over and into the car where the cane was burning. Hacked brown fields of stubble alternated with fresh green shoots. Despite seeing an occasional tractor, Jose told me that the cane was still harvested by hand, as I had seen in the documentary The Price of Sugar, www.thepriceofsugar.com/trailer.shtml

It was after 6 PM when we arrived in Porto de Galinhas, and already dark. Clusters of teenaged girls in shorts, slouchy boys in baggy pants, beachfried tourists wandered alongside the dirt roads. "Am I in Thailand?" I thought, scanning the glaring Pizza signs, and Bikinis for R15! in tiny shops. It looked frayed and tacky, unlike the glossy images on the internet. "I may have made a mistake this time! And we came so far from Recife..."

"Pousada Flores. Berry nice. Go see?" Jose asked. He probably gets a kickback, I thought, but I'll go look. Have no idea where the tourist office is anyway. We pulled up to a dim and sandy front yard not far from the noisy town center. Where were the palm trees? The owners were florid but friendly, and the room adequate and a bit seedy. The beach, not in sight. They gestured down the street somewhere. What did I expect for $30? Slightly disappointed, I decided to look elsewhere.

In the car, we called the Beira Mar which was on my list. No vacancies. We headed off into the darkness. By this time Jose and I were on friendly terms. We had communicated in broken Spanish, Portuguese and English. He had 3 children, had driven a taxi for 30 years, and his car was a '96, like my Chrysler van back home. He had already warned me not to let people see my computer or my camera. People talk. I would be the victim of thieves. It now seemed to be his mission to find me a place.

We drove behind the gated walls of unknown pousadas that apparently faced the beach. The next one, was it Pousada Verde? had a beautiful garden and a gorgeous room painted in turquoise and rose, with only one small window opening to a wall. They wanted R150 plus a tax of 15%. About $86. High for my artistic budget. For that, I wanted more light. We decided to look one more place.

Jose headed down the highway further out of town, passing the Hotel Armacao, a highclass resort, past the Beira Mar which we had called and pulled up behind the EcoPorto Pousada. Yes! An ecological theme. This had to be it. The owner, Sueli, a slender blond of about 50 who looked German instead of Brazilian, said they had a vacancy. Only for 2 nights...then they were booked. It was a literary festival in Porto de Galinhas. R180. I offered !50, $75 She accepted. We went upstairs to look.
AHhhhh, my hammock!

The room on the second floor faced the sea, and palm trees waved below. Sea sounds filled the air, and I knew I would write on one of the tables in the garden. It was my dreamscape, an inner film, come to life!

Depite bright sun, turquoise sea and waving palms, Porto de Galinhas has a dark history. Though Brazil outlawed the trading of slaves in 1853, it did not abolish slavery until 1888. So slave ships disguised their cargo with crates of chickens and slipped into what became known as the Port of Chickens. Now humorous chicken sculptures and puppets adorn many businesses, once again Disneyfying history, just like Triora in Italy with its quaint witches. For that story, see below.

LINK to the Literary Festival in Porto de Galinhas:
http://www.fliporto.net/

You can find Pousado Ecoporto at http://www.pousadaecoporto.com.br. I highly recommend this lovely inn. The breakfast buffet is excellent with fresh fruits, rolls, cakes, even eggs or tapiocas, if desired. The staff is uniformly friendly and helpful.

Absentee Voting in Argentina

2008-10-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

I am one of the thousands of Americans who applied for but did not receive an absentee ballot. Yes, it was sent, assures my Board of Elections in Pittsburgh. But who knows where it is? What do you do if you are a loyal voter in Beijing or Buenos Aires and your ballot is lost in transit if not in translation? Fortunately a system exists online to make voting possible. Ex-pats and travelers can go to http://www.fvap.gov/overseas for instructions and to download a write-in ballot.

Now, wanderer that I am, I did not know this, but the Democrats Abroad, an international organization with a branch in Buenos Aires, headed by Yankee Mike, and the Ex-Pat Connection group have not only set up debate watching parties at a local café, but also informed Americans about these voting procedures.

On October 2, I was stunned to see hundreds of boisterous U.S. citizens crowded into the Sacramento café on El Salvador street for the Biden-Palin debate. Afterwards, several were interviewed by the Argentinian station, C5N.

So now, it's the eve of the final Presidential Debate between McCain and Obama, but for many of us, the voting is over. The American Embassy in Argentina hosted a voting party on October 8, complete with red, white and blue balloons, refreshments, and a speech by the ambassador. The lines stretched around the block. Americans who had lived in BsAs for years working for corporations, students, first time voters, from Pepperdine, here for a semester, retirees from New York or Chicago stretching their pension dollars, all patiently endured temporary confusion, filled out forms, drank Starbucks coffee, and put their ballot in the blue box. From there, the ballots would be sent by diplomatic pouch to various precincts in the USA. And the correct destinations were assured by a table of volunteers who looked up every single address no matter the state, and hand wrote it on the required exterior envelope.

AMERICAN EMBASSY THROUGH THE FENCE

The event and the embassy were carefully supervised by numerous staff and guards, and originally cell phones and cameras were held in airport type baskets until after the voting. But by the time I arrived, they had run out of storage and just scanned the rest of us. And now that I know the ballots have been mailed, I can admit to taking several surreptious photos. It was a very moving event and I wanted a record.

BALLOT BOX FROM A DISTANCE (note guard at far right)

And, at the end of the day, my new friend, Marta McLoughlin, born in Argentina but now a citizen of both countries, was interviewed by CNN.

On The Road Again

2008-09-29T23:37:00.000-07:00

Hola! I'm writing this from a balcony high above Buenos Aires. I've left my studio and flower-filled garden in PIttsburgh and set out once again to collect stories for An Unrealistic Life. Unrealistically, of course, I put my house on the market, and began examining all my STUFF, tossing clothes, books, long unseen models of art work, Pakistani tablecloths, willow baskets, and so-called cherished mementoes on the floor and tables in preparation for the studio/garage sale. Confusion and a psychic re-examination ensued. Which stuff is truly important? Will I need this where I live next? Am I the same without the stuff I thought was precious? I'm an artist....I could make things out of this stuff! George Carlin and his riff on stuff had nothing on me.

In the end, I sold and donated all but the basic furniture, and dishes, packed the artwork in the loft and rented the house for a year. So begins my new blog on my nomadic/unplanned travels through South America for the next six months. And I'm supremely lucky to be here, reveling in spring as North America leans into fall. Insouciantly photographing markets and savoring flan and empanadas.

Yet it's a Dickensian scene in the world right now: the best of times and the worst of times. I dance tango here and try to ignore reports that the USA is going down the financial drain. (Is that carpe diem or carpe noche?) Argentinians view this crisis with sardonic smiles. It's deja vu for them. And understandable with 3 pesos to the dollar that numerous Americans like me are open to finding a new place to live, whether here or in another country.

No matter what, it's always art that enriches my life. Besides tangueros, I've been fortunate to meet several poets, Esteban Charpentier and Juan Daniel Perrotta. More photos of Esteban's recent birthday party are posted on my Facebook page, but here I am with Esteban and Daniel in the wee hours after the party.

It seems appropriate to include Perrotta's poem on the USA here:

I LOVE AMERICA

  I don’t know who said
 that the truth doesn’t hurt. 
The truth hurts me. 
It hurts me to discover
 at this point in my life
 that I love America.

  I drool after Gershwin 
and Copland 
and Joffre  

Bukowski makes me want to pee
 until I’m empty. 
A terrific pleasure.  

Steinbeck was my first love 
as were Hemingway and Whitman  

It makes me nauseous to say this
 but I love America 
and its circus like spectacles 
known the world over as 
Korea 
Vietnam 
the Gulf War 
Operation Freedom  

Who is not moved
 by its legendary cowboys
 and Republican superheroes
 Reagan 
Superman
 Monkeybone Bush
 Batman 
Richard “The Penguin” Nixon 
Or those pornoDemocrats
 who have left their footprints 
in the erotic anals 
of Constitutional guarantees 

Scardick Bobbit
 the brothers who gangbanged Marilyn 
cut down in their prime 
blowjob Clinton 
still alive  

Still
 after reviewing recent history
 and a past 
illuminated by burning crosses
explosions over Hiroshima and Nagasaki
 almost on the brink of hurling
embarassed as a hooker’s bridegroom
 I am ashamed to admit 
that I love America

© Juan Daniel Perrotta
(Translation by Paul Pines) 

AN UNREALISTIC LIFE: Notes from The Wandering Artist

2006-03-04T16:28:00.000-08:00

SNOW-COVERED MOUNTAIN: AUSTRIA

CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRIA: THE SKIING EXPEDITION

It was minus 13 Centrigrade as we drove past Saltzburg, and Hohensteinburg (I made that up…can’t remember the name), a stone castle high on the hill, into the Austrian alps. The snow sparkled in the rare sunshine as Helga and Willi Hiebl, parents of my former housemate, Petra, took me on our long-planned ski outing. I reminded myself that I had once sworn never to go skiing if the temperature was below 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I remembered being so cold on the chair lift that I thought my fingers would fall off despite thermal ski gloves. Minus 13 C is 8.6 F, and I wondered what madness gets into humans that they feel they have to go out in such weather. Can’t we take a lesson from bears and just stay in? Despite eating my way across Europe, indulging in numerous tarte citrons in France and piling on the butter and cheese in Austria, I still do not have enough body fat to keep warm.

But dressed in several layers of underwear, none of it glamorous, wool tights, slacks, ski pants, a wool turtleneck, a fleece pullover AND a ski jacket, I felt and looked like an overstuffed bear. Unlike the downhill racers in their svelte outfits, sleekness and grace were not the defining adjectives for my current garb. I frankly had a difficult night sleeping, fearing that I would be so cold that skiing would be traumatic, picturing myself frozen in a an awkward stiff-legged pose, a la the Abominable Snowman, high in the mountains. I certainly didn’t want to have to stop after every run and hover in the ski hut trying to warm up, meanwhile becoming known as the Visiting Wimp from Pennsylvania. Petra’s dad Willi is the hale and hearty type, an excellent skier, and a born tease. He would not let me live it down if I didn’t measure up.

I had not skied for at least five years, so it was with some trepidation that I joined this family who were put on skis in kindergarten. During the drive, I prayed to the ghosts of skiers past, wanting desperately to channel the grace and speed of one who had hovered in the netherworld waiting for an opportunity to whip down the slopes once again.

We skied in the Altenstadt area, where Helga’s school sometimes comes for a ski trip. At 1571 meters high, that’s a bit more than 5000 feet, child’s play in the Alps. In Austria the slopes are rated blue, red and black, while in the U.S., the beginning slopes are green, blue are intermediate, and black are difficult. I think the so-called beginners’ slopes here are intermediate at home, but at least they weren’t so steep as to be terrifying. I concentrated on body position: knees bent, shoulders up, face the slope, instead of leaning back. To me, this is counter-intuitive. You’re hurtling downhill, but to gain control you’re supposed to lean forward when every cell of your body is screeching, “Lean back, you fool!” I hoped the balance I had learned in tango would lend me poise as I swooped from side to side. Alas, no. Tango and skiing are not the same. And, despite my prayers and meditation, my channeling abilities proved to be as limited as my skiing. I was not miraculously inhabited by a champion. Just when I thought I was improving, my skis crossed, I suddenly flipped onto my back and slid headfirst about twenty feet down the hill. Fortunately my bear-like padding protected me.

Later, Helga, who has the charitable soul of an elementary teacher crossed with a saint, said “We don’t call that falling, we call it resting. You were just taking a rest.” Some rest! In my tangled up position, I probably looked like a snow-covered pretzel. I hoped Petra’s dad didn’t see my ignominious landing. He was far down the hill at the time. But at some point during the day, he started calling me Batman; apparently referring to the flailing motions I made with my arms prior to take-off.

VIEW FROM ABOVE

When my legs quivered, I stopped for a scenery break. Artistically, the day was a success. The sun deceived us into thinking it was actually warmer. Cobalt skies were brighter than the postcards. The evergreen branches wore clouds of snow. Nearby were mountains which had bred Olympic champions. Unfortunately I showed up a little late in life for downhill racing, or even high competency.

Miraculously, I remained vertical for the rest of the day and truly enjoyed myself. I even regained some rhythm and balance on the last few runs, feeling like I was finally in charge of my legs and the skis. Petra’s mom said that if I had a few more days I would become a good skier. Well, I was dubious, (she probably tells all the kids that.) but it did raise my spirits.

A highlight of the day came when we joined the Hiebls’ friends, the Dufts, in the lodge at the bottom of the slopes. Rock music blared, and everyone shed jackets and gloves in the steamy bar. Finally we looked like people again instead of multicolored puffballs. I was ecstatic. I had neither frozen to death nor broken any bones. In the lodge Willi treated us to vodka feigges, small glasses with vodka and fig juice, in which floated a fig on a toothpick. It must have been invented by the gods as a reward for survival. What a way to end the day!

DETAILS:

No luck on finding an actual recipe for Vodka Feigges, but here’s what I was told:

Pour a hearty shot of vodka into a glass. Add a splash of juice from canned figs.
Spear a fig with toothpick and add to the vodka. Serve.

Sounds too simple to be fabulous, but it was. And you don’t have to be half frozen to enjoy it!

I didn't have my camera on this adventure, but thanks to www.FreeFoto.Com I found some great photos on the net.
Photo Credits:
Photographer: Ian Britton
Snow Covered Mountain, Carinthia, Austria

JANUARY NEWSLETTER FROM EZE

2006-03-04T15:49:00.000-08:00

VIEW FROM EZE

.

Eze Bord du Mer, France
January 20, 2006

Dear Family and Friends, old and new, near and far:

Due to the complexities of email on the road, it’s been awhile since I’ve communicated. I am still in southern France where I am continuing to write and collect interviews for my book, An Unrealistic Life, which features people who are creating unique lifestyles by following their passions outside the nine to five “system.” Since leaving home in early November, I have been in London, Paris, the Cote d’Azur, Munich, Austria, and back to the Cote d’Azur.

As some of you know, the pattern of my travels has been determined by the generosity of friends and even remote connections, who are lending me their apartments on this venture. The Paris chapter was made possible by Marie-Laure Ilie, my artist friend in California who also has an apartment on the Left Bank. In Munich and Austria, I shared a traditional Christmas and Sylvester (the Austrian name for New Year’s Eve) with the Hiebls, the family of my former housemate, Petra. Besides eating every type of Kekse (cookies) in sight, I even learned how to make Knodeln and Schnitzel. Here outside of Nice, I am the beneficiary of Dr. Robin Van Der Molen’s generosity, as I write from the balcony of his apartment with a view of the Mediterranean.

I was supposed to leave here on January 10, but once again, serendipity ruled. The honeymooning couple who were due to arrive changed their plans, and simultaneously after an amazing string of connections, I met and began an interview with an English producer, Jon Acevsky. Originally from Macedonia, Jon is a man of vision, accomplishment and dogged determination. Stone by stone, all imported from Portugal, he is currently restoring an ancient fortress between La Gaude and St. Jeannet, north of Nice. Last Wednesday, he gave me a tour of the work in progress. Portuguese sculptors were just finishing the carved stone stairway. I came away totally stunned. It has taken 4 years, and will open this summer. The full account will appear later.

Rather than clogging up your email with my stories and photos, I have finally figured out how to post them on the Net. For my latest adventure, a trip to the medieval town of Triora, Italy, where “witches” were tortured in 1588, read the account below.

EZE VILLAGE FROM THE NIETSCHE PATH

I am tantalized by these ancient villages perched on the cliffs, by the light that inspired Monet and Chagall, by the amber and coral houses in Vieux Nice, and by the unique individuals I continue to meet. But most of the time, I sit on the balcony, write, and revel in the sea. I am living in a world of blue and gold.

MORNING SUN ON THE MEDITERRANEAN

Elena
The Wandering Artist

All photos by Elena Hiatt Houlihan
2005-2006

To Triora and Back

2006-01-19T07:39:00.000-08:00

AN UNREALISTIC LIFE: TALES OF THE WANDERING ARTIST

Elena Hiatt Houlihan

Written high on the hill in Eze Bord du Mer, France
January 14, 2006

TO TRIORA AND BACK

The plan we had hatched in Paris seemed to be actually working! I had just gotten a call from Karen confirming that we would meet at 9:30 at the Gare Routière in Nice, and that she was already on the bus from the airport. So I ran down the 99 steps to the road…(A euphemism: one does not run down these steps. There are several flights of 20 steps each, followed by long bumpy steps of 6-7 feet which slant downward before ending in a few normal flights of 15 or so steps. The long angling steps are frequently adorned with a layer of pine needles which makes a potentially treacherous passage. Originally I clutched the iron railing during descent, but on arriving at the bottom, discovered that my palm was covered with a sticky substance I realized was pine sap. Pine sap remover is not in my traveler’s backpack, so my hand was sticky for hours.)
OK, I hurried down the 99 steps to the winding road below, made it to the 8:45 bus and savored the view of yachts in the Beaulieu harbor en route to Nice.
This alone was a feat: Karen and I, both night people, were awake and headed for our rendezvous before 9 AM.
Karen Henrich, a Canadian living in Paris, is the founder of NuitBlanche Tours. Described as Tours For Girls Who Want to Have Fun, her customized escapades include bargain-hunting in Parisian byways, sight-seeing sans those big red tourist buses, lessons in the art of café sitting, and nightlife for those who want to kick up their heels. We had met at Domingo Barbiery’s famous Thanksgiving soiree in Paris, and when I heard her say that she had thrown away her alarm clock, that her business was based on refusing to rush in the morning, I knew we would hit it off.

She agreed to be interviewed for my book; and we began in Paris, first over a quiet lunch of sushi and sashimi, in the shadow of the grand department store, Galeries Lafayette. (Karen is never far from a shopping experience.) When the restaurant became noisy, we abandoned it, rushing into the Paris streets because we both had later appointments. Rejecting small hotels and cafés, we finally landed in the Hotel Opéra, where we smoothed our hair, a bit wild from the wind, adjusted our scarves, and sauntered in as if we lived there. Once in, we peered around on several levels before discovering a small anteroom where we proceeded with the interview. Later I snapped a photo of Karen descending the Baroque staircase, and we even coaxed a Japanese businessman into photographing us together in front of the lobby’s opulent bouquet.
Then we hustled, laughing, through the streets once again toward our separate subways. We rose in each other’s esteem as we noted our crowd-dodging abilities in the pre-Christmas rush over sidewalks packed with shoppers and narrowed by stalls overflowing with pashmina scarves, perfumes, purses large and small, candy and roast chestnuts.
We re-met in the somewhat dingy bus station in Nice, and departed quickly for the market in Vieux Nice, wandering among red peppers and candied fruits, flowers, and African immigrants selling designer handbags. Then through the archway to the sea: the long curve of coast, where in the summer the rich and famous, strip and broil themselves on the rocks. Both sea and sky were blue, but the January air was cool, and now the beach was bare, though joggers hustled by in the sunshine, and rollerbladers twirled on the sidewalk, just like in Santa Monica.

Though I had become used to taking the bus which runs every 15 minutes from Nice east to Menton, Karen and I had decided to indulge in renting a car. Karen had been practically salivating since she’d heard me describe the famed clothing market in Ventimiglia across the border in Italy, and we both wanted to see the Italian and French hill towns breathlessly described by my absent host, Robin Van Der Molen. If he is not here to guide his guests, he leaves his own ten page set of tips, and THE ITALIAN HILLTOWNS are NUMBER ONE in his TOP TEN. The most fascinating is Triora, ominously linked to Salem, Massachusetts, because women were persecuted as witches there.
Near the casino, we picked up our car, and I began the somewhat hair-raising experience of driving on the Côte d’Azur. The car, unexpectedly, was a stick-shift Pugeot. Fortunately my days of driving a Saturn sports coupe prepared me, but power steering must have been an option left at the factory. Swerving around these seaside curves, while dodging oncoming cars which burst around the cliffs into my lane, required the biceps of a Schwarzenegger.
Agreeing that we would cook dinner instead of searching for a café that would appeal to both our tastes and pocketbooks, we stocked up at Champion, the French supermarché. Karen had in mind a vegetable chowder which had converted a non-vegetable eating 10 year old into an enthusiast. After a walk by the ocean in Cap d’Ail, I set about chopping, while Karen sautéed onions, garlic, and celery, then tossed chunks of cabbage, carrots, and courgettes (French for zucchini), into the pot with abandon. Frankly I hadn’t expected this tiny fashionista to be a cook. She struck me as the type who might have only a bit of cheese or caviar in her fridge, but it turned out that she had dated a chef and knew lots of tricks. Like, smashing garlic cloves with a heavy glass, eliminating that tedious peeling and chopping, or halving an avocado, thwacking the knife into the seed and pulling it out neatly. So much for snap judgments. (Take that, Malcolm Gladwell!)
She drizzled crème fraiche artistically over the soup just before serving, and we accompanied it with seven grain bread and d’Affinois cheese. Superb!!

Friday morning we drove over the freeway to Ventimiglia, to the clothing market. Our plan was to peruse it for an hour, then head for Triora and the medieval villages.
Two women in a clothing market that stretched for nearly a mile along the sea? Staying only an hour? From the minute she got out of the car, Karen was on it like a bloodhound. After fondling sweaters of every color and style to guess their fiber content, sniffing purses to see if they were leather, trying on short puffy jackets, slipping on pointed toe shoes, noticing, but disdaining, paisley scarves, and falling for a Gucci knock-off belt, she looked up when I pointed out that we were only in the first block. What about Triora? Ok, we’d hurry. We hurried, lingeringly, speeding up between several booths, then stopping as if magnetized by a colorful display of cashmere sweaters. Suddenly we were starving and bought slices of quiche. By mutual agreement, Triora was postponed until Saturday, and Karen continued the hunt for the ideal jacket, which she actually found: a black felted wool with an Elizabethan air, a ruff-like collar, and flounce over the hips. Her eyes gleamed. This much style and reasonable for 42 Euros!

KAREN CHECKING OUT THE MERCHANDISE!

On the way home at dusk, we stopped in Monaco, amazed that the Christmas market was still on, though it was January 5th. There were ethnic food booths, crystal ornaments in a tree village, and fake snow for the kiddies. We had warm glühwein in the nippy air. (Where was I?? Glühwein was the hot spiced wine we had in Munich, standing in the snow, amidst Christmas revelers. Glühwein with palm trees and yachts in the background? Surrealistic. Is this what globalization has come to?)

Saturday morning we were on a mission. Triora continued to lure me. In 1588, according to The Rough Guide to Italy, over 200 women were denounced as witches with 14 of them burned at the stake. Recently a movement has developed to sanitize this stain on their history, with witches depicted humorously or as jolly characters on brooms, a la Disney. The medieval architecture remains. I wanted to see it. So, over the highway once again to Ventimiglia with Karen reading Robin’s directions:

“Two hundred yards after McDonalds on eastern edge of Ventimiglia, watch for sign to DOLCEACQUA, ISOLOBONA and PIGNA on passenger side of car. A hundred yards farther around a slight bend is the exit to these towns.---TURN LEFT. Follow this road up into the Italian Alps past quaint and picturesque hill towns following the signs to TRIORA MOLINI.”

We did that, pausing to take photos at the first town with its ancient stone bridge arching over the river. Then through a few more storybook towns, still following the signs to Pigna, we were suddenly going upward. We joked about the tiny stone houses dotting the countryside, each smaller than a hotel room.
“You could buy one of these and tell your friends that you had a villa in Italy!”
The road meandered, curved, narrowed, doubled back on itself, and became steeper with every switchback. There were no lines and the surface frayed a bit at the edges. I was fighting to get the car around the hairpin curves. No signs indicated where we were, but going up was the only option. First Karen clutched the dashboard.
“This reminds me of a horrible road I was on in Maui,” she said.
“Hey look how they terrace these hills,” I pointed out, trying to distract her.
“I can’t look…..I might get sick. I’ll be OK if I just don’t look down.”
“OK, we can’t be far. Read the directions again.”
Obediently, she read,

“There is one patch of dirt road about two hundred yards, don’t be deterred. MANY blind corners on narrow winding road. HONK at each blind curve. FINALLY TRIORA IS WORTH IT—a lovely hill town with astonishing views—medieval, frozen in time, and with ambiance—it was a WITCH town (like Salem, Mass). Take the path to CASTELLO (old ruined castle) and enjoy the lovely labyrinth of alleyways.”

“Start honking,” she commanded, as we approached another blind curve.
I tried. The horn panel was stiff, and worked only with a real punch. How could I hammer the horn? I was already shifting with my right hand while swerving around the bends with my left.
“Honk!” she said, “We can’t see what’s coming!”
I couldn’t see anything except the road, the steering wheel, and the next curve. There must have been trees, since it seemed dim, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
Snowy-peaked, the Italian alps rose up around us. Out the corner of my eye, I could glimpse the valley far below. I was reminded of the terrain in New Zealand, in Lord of the Rings, but it was less rugged here. How long had we been doing upward? It seemed like hours!
I concentrated on honking with my thumb, continually shifting and turning.
By now Karen was looking a bit pale.
“Breathe,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic. “Breathe, into your abdomen, like you’re meditating.”
She panted, gently. She could have been in childbirth, using the LaMaze method.
Finally we came around the curve and the terrain was lighter, treeless, with windswept hay. Perched on the edge, between road and valley was a farm, with a handwritten sign.

“Hey, they sell cheese!,” I yelled delightedly. “Let’s get some!”
We parked and headed over the grass to the farmhouse. Barred by the gate, we leaned over and called. Finally the fermière shuffled out, red wool sweater over a loose skirt over rubber boots. I asked in French about the cheese and she took us into a white room on the left, where ricotta was draining in the sink.
“No ricotta,” Karen said, “what else do they have?”
From behind a table the cheese lady brought out a huge round about 10” across and 4” high, 5-6 lbs at least. We looked at each other. What would we do with that much cheese? Could she cut it in half? Reluctantly she did, and we asked for a taste. We chewed silently, avoiding each other’s eyes: rubbery and almost tasteless. We were buying rubbery cheese.
“How much?”
“Ten Euros.”
Karen paid. We had to take it now; she had cut it.

It was then that I asked about Triora. We were near the crest of the mountain, but there was no sign of another house, let alone a village.
“Ah, Triora,” she gestured, “first you have to go up more, then you go down again, then you go back up!”
“What?!” I said, “Where is Dolceaqua?” Were we on the wrong road? How could we have missed Dolceaqua?”
“Oh it’s down below, on the other side of Isolabona.”
“but Triora is up ahead?”
“Oui.”
“How long will it take to get there?” All this time, I thought that once you found Dolceaqua, Triora was about 10 minutes beyond. Now Dolceaqua was behind us somewhere, and Triora was nowhere in sight.
“it takes about 40 minutes.”
“Quarante minutes?” I repeated.
Behind the fermière’s back, Karen clutched the sink where the ricotta lay draining.

There are songs and legends about distant places:
“It’s a long way to Tipperary” for example, or “As far as Timbuktu”, or “In the wilds of Borneo,” all of which seemed minor in Karen’s eyes, compared to the distance to Triora.
“NO,” she said flatly, still in the corner of the cheese room.
“Is there somewhere I can stay here?”
I thought, “What does she expect, a coffee shop here in the hinterlands?”
“OK, let’s just go back. We’ve seen enough of these mountains.”
“Go back?” I was incredulous. “We’ve come this far; we can’t go back without seeing Triora.”
“You go ahead. You can pick me up on the way back.”
“Well, what’re you gonna do here in the midst of nowhere?” I noticed the fermière was not offering us tea and cookies.
“Ask her if she’ll let me clean the stables. Or sweep the farmhouse. Or milk the cows.”

Now picture Karen in her pointed toe boots, her nipped-in-the-waist felt jacket, and her upswept hair, standing in this barren cheese room, volunteering to clean up cow dung, if necessary, in the manger next door. I explained to the cheese lady that Karen seemed to have a fear of heights and that she had gotten nervous on the way up.
The cheese lady nodded. “Ah, vertigo.”
“Well, not quite, but she wants to know if she can stay here and milk the cows.” Not knowing how to say this in French, I made milking gestures in the air, trying to stifle my laughter.
Karen was about ready to grovel at the cheese lady’s feet, but I shifted into Explorer Mode. You’d have thought I was one of those big-boned camp counselors urging timid girls to climb a cliff.
“Come on, Karen! You can do it! We’ve come this far. We can’t go back now!” She came slowly, dragging her feet, but she came.

In the car she gave me a chunk of cheese. I was starving. It was still tasteless. More importantly, I also had to go to the bathroom. “Look, at the first sign of vegetation that’s big enough to hide behind, I’m going au naturel,” I swore. Unfortunately we were above the tree line, so there was nothing, not even a bush.

“We could always go back to the farmhouse,” Karen said.
“We are not going back to the farmhouse!”

Up the hill and around the bend, screech! Stop! There at eye level was the rear end of a cow, tail twitching just ahead of the windshield. Three more ambled to the water trough at the side of the road. Heaven forbid, we would hit a cow and dry up the region’s cheese supply.

Then up to the peak and down again. On this side of the mountain, we had snow. Real snow. Mostly on the edges of the road, but it was enough to panic Karen. Several times I braked rapidly to prove that it wasn’t slippery. More blind curves, and hairpin turns, more honking, and finally down to the bottom of the valley, where as we started upward, the road curved between terraced gardens and pastel houses. Was this Triora? No it was Molini de Triora. Triora was still ahead, up the side of another mountain.

We stopped. Always trying the capture the textures, the subtle colors of these ancient surfaces, I took a few photographs. By then I was nearly desperate.

“Karen, I really have to go to the bathroom. Let’s check out this hotel. We’ll tell them we’re gonna write it about it…”

Opening the door of the Albergo, we stepped into the quintessential Italian restaurant. Italians were eating there, not just tourists. Copper pots hung on the paneled walls, over antique radios. Sepia family photos and framed testimonials to wartime heroism verified generations of history. Witches peered from the corners. If I hadn’t been near a witch town, I’d have thought it was decorated for Halloween.

We stopped for coffee, an excuse to use the bathroom, but the prix fixe lunch was so reasonable that we ordered. Karen had thinly sliced rare roast beef, and I had rabbit. Rabbit with truffles and olives, succulent in a sauce to die for, accompanied by a heaping bowl of buttery polenta. For 10 Euros. Amazing! Flavorful and authentic, this food made the entire drive worthwhile.

Fortified, I revved up the car. On to Triora. Snaking up the next mountain, we finally saw it. Ahhh, Triora!

ANCIENT HOUSE IN TRIORA

The walkways were rough stones. Not cobblestone or chiseled stone, field stone, painstakingly dragged from somewhere down below and reassembled here. The entire village was stone, of many shapes and sizes, with no visible mortar. Four thousand feet above sea level, the town once had 5 towers, and still has the remnants of a castle built in the 12th and 13th centuries. Arches and narrow alleyways connected the buildings. How did even a cart or a horse traverse these passages? Hidden below the central square is a cistern large enough to hold water for several months during a long siege. (unlike Eze, a cliff village across the border in France, whose water had to be carried up the mountain in buckets until about a hundred years ago.)

KAREN IN THE ARCHWAY IN TRIORA

The tiny shops with quaint witch dolls held no lure for us, as we explored the alleyways, stepping silently into the ancient church. What was the population of Triora in 1588, I wonder? If 200 women were accused as witches, how many remained to take care of the children? Later, examining my photo of the town sculpture, a witch frozen in bronze, stirring a pot, I thought “It’s just a woman cooking dinner over the fire, her broom close by to sweep up the ashes.” Of small things are great horrors made, and tiny whispers into grave suspicions.

WITCH STATUE IN TRIORA

Some say that certain houses still have odd moans, whispers or shrieks of agony. Could be. Could also be a myth to lure tourists. A confident entrepreneur has created a cozy bed and breakfast down one of the alleyways. No word on how well the guests sleep.

We leave silently. The light was dimming.

On the way back, I had more confidence. My shifting, turning, and honking developed a rhythm. I went faster. I swooped around the curves. This was beginning to be fun! Now I know why drivers get high on the Grand Prix.

“Elena! Slow down!” Karen cried. “You’re turning into Maria Andretti! Maybe I should just get in the back seat and put my coat over my head!”

“OK, OK, I’ll behave, but I’m just getting the hang of this!”

“It’s not that I don’t trust your driving,” she said clutching at the dashboard. “It’s that somebody might come around the corner.”

Suddenly an audacious American van careened into view, hogging the road and not even pausing. Fortunately I had hit the brake, so we were safely to one side: the cliff side. Thank God it was still light! Only a foot separated us from the precipice. Well, I think it was a precipice, because whenever I tried to glance around to get a sense of where we were, to see the terraced mountain across the valley, or note the stone dwellings perched on the hillside, Karen gestured wildly and told me to keep my eyes on the road.

“And honk, keep honking!”

We hustled back through the dusk, timing our journey from Triora back to the lone farm with the cheese sign. The drive took about 35 minutes, and I had stopped twice to take pictures.

But we were still near the top of the mountain, and the most treacherous road lay ahead. This was the part that had almost turned Karen into a voluntary cowherd. Once past the farm below the summit, the road narrowed and the turns were sharper, the light dimmer; but at least it was slightly familiar, and perhaps Karen was benumbed. Our descent to the valley was calm.

Back through Isolabona, and nearing Ventimiglia, we entered the town with the arched stone bridge: Dolceaqua! We hadn’t realized the name when we passed through in the morning. Nor did we realize that it was famous for its red wine, Rossese di Dolceaqua, a favorite of Napoleon. We’ll just have to go back.
At least it’s on level ground.

Before crossing the border back to France, we searched the shops in Ventimiglia for fresh ravioli. Though dark, it was just after six. We left Triora about 4:10. But not only had we gone down and up and over the mountains, we had passed through centuries. I had the somewhat foggy feeling that Rip Van Winkle must have felt, waking up. One hour I’m in a village made of stones, with houses connected by narrow alleys, where women were burned as witches, and people now live benignly, laundry flapping in the wind, and the next, I’m in the bustling town of Ventimiglia looking for homemade pasta.

This is how travel changes people. You go out with a mindset and an itinerary, and you come back with a new mind.

DETAILS

NuitBlanche Tours: Tours for Girls who Want to Have Fun
www.NuitBlancheTours.com

For more information on Triora:

http://www.bussana.com/surf.to/triora/

PHOTOS OF TRIORA

2006-01-19T07:14:00.000-08:00

DOORWAY IN TRIORA

VIEW FROM TRIORA

TRIORA THROUGH THE TREES

To Triora and Back, Part 2

2006-01-19T07:03:00.000-08:00

TRIORA, PART 2
THE FOOD

When we finally got home, Karen and I sautéed a skilletful of red peppers, onions, and garlic, then added a jar of Italian tomato sauce to put over our ravioli which was beef and lightly seasoned. We grated some of the fermière’s cheese for the topping. We were still not impressed. Fresh parmesan it wasn’t. “Well,” Karen said analytically, “it doesn’t take away from the pasta, but it doesn’t add anything either!” We hated to admit that we had pounds of cheese that neither of us liked. I urged her to take some back to Paris with her, but she refused.

Elena with cheese and ravioli.

Valiantly, I have attempted to redeem this cheese in other preparations. One night I microwaved some of it in a small dish, hoping to dip bread in it like raclette. (I’m sure true cheese lovers are shuddering, but I was desperate.) It only melted a bit around the edges, and wouldn’t spread. Later, the grated bits I added to my potato soup were chewier than the potatoes. A final test was to put several long slivers into a skillet over low heat. It softened to the consistency of playground blacktop on a hot July day. You could smoosh it a bit, but it never lost its shape or its rubbery quality. Originally, seeing the farmhouse there in the Alps, I had visions of Heidi, whose gruff uncle speared hunks of cheese, toasted them over the fire and delivered them onto a slab of brown bread. If this is the same type of cheese, I now know why it didn’t fall into the fire. It simply doesn’t melt!

Karen said later, “There is no purpose whatsoever for that cheese; it just adds empty calories!” But in all fairness to the farmers, it is a method of protein condensation, just like tofu. And it uses milk, which prior to refrigeration, would have spoiled. Perhaps if one has been eating it since birth, it is comfort food.

I’m heartily in favor of the Slow Food movement and the trend toward supporting area farmers, whether in Indiana or Italy, but one can’t gushingly assume that just because “artisanal” food is prepared locally from indigenous ingredients, that it is all gourmet, or even good. I remember a cherry pie that I bought from an Amish farm stand in the middle of Pennsylvania and bore proudly over the hills to my girlfriend’s house in Pittsburgh. She is a piemaker of renown in her family, and I have been schooled in the Elnora Hiatt Culinary Institute of Pies, so we cut this cherry pie with high expectation. The crust: thick and leaden. Cardboard was a delicacy in comparison. The filling: gelatinous. The cherries, where were the cherries? We located 7 or 8 in the middle of the red goo. Nothing would redeem this pie, as nothing would redeem this cheese. So much for the myth of country cooking.

Travelers, if you take the high road to Triora and you see the lone farm there in the hills, wave at the fermière, but don’t stop. Save your money for lunch at the Ristorante Albergo.

Still, the story alone was worth the 10 Euro.

DETAILS:

Karen Henrich’s Potage aux Legumes

Chop 1 large onion, 3-4 ribs of celery, and half of a hot pepper, and sauté in oil until golden. Put in about half of the celery leaves, but save some for later.
Smash several cloves of garlic, removing outer peel, and add to onion. Sauté briefly.
Add several cups of chicken broth to pot, along with a bay leaf or two. Begin simmering.
Clean and cut several carrots into discs about 1/8” thick.
Wash and dice 2 potatoes. No need to peel.
Cut 1/2 head of cabbage into 1” squares. Add all to pot.
Add 2 large cans of tomatoes with juice, smashing tomatoes with wooden spoon. Let simmer for 10 minutes or so. Add water if necessary to cover vegetables.
Chop several small zucchini. Add to pot.
Simmer another 10-15 minutes until vegetables are tender. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Add chopped cilantro and more celery leaves just before serving.
Sprinkle a spoonful of grated parmesan cheese into the soup each bowl, then drizzle with crème fraiche.

Antico Ristorante Albergo
“Santo Spirito”
Piazza Roma, 23
18010 Molini Di Triora
Italia
Tel: 0184.94019
www.ristorantesantospirito.com

For more information on Triora:
http://www.bussana.com/surf.to/triora/

Photos from London

2006-01-08T11:55:00.000-08:00

I've been pretty frustrated about trying to get photos interspersed with the text on this blog. During this trip, my internet access has been sporadic and learning new techniques on computers with unusual keyboards, or in cybercafes when the minutes are ticking away, is complex at best. At the moment, I'm in VilleFranche, France and the crowd of guys watching a blaring soccer game has just departed. But the TV above me is still several decibels louder than my ears prefer.

At any rate, I'm going to give the captions for the photos which were to appear in my blog about London, and then upload them. To see what they pertain to, read the previous blog, and I will finally add my postings from Paris, hoping that the photos can be integrated better.

1. London Texture-Norfolk Square

2. London Texture 2-Norfolk Square

3. African Textures-Handwoven Pillows, from the Beckwith Collection

4. African Textures - Carved Bowl, from the Beckwith Collection

5. Bangles, Baubles & Beads, Portobello Market

An Unrealistic Life: Notes from The Wandering Artist

2005-12-14T10:46:00.000-08:00

Elena Hiatt Houlihan
© 12/2005
Backstory:

As a mixed-media artist with a studio in Pittsburgh, I have lived my life creatively for the past 20 years, designing sculpture for public places, exhibiting, and conducting Artist-in-Residency projects. Fascinating, but financially tenuous, my lifestyle concerns those who care about me. In December of 2004, I was advised that despite my hard work, for me to keep believing that I could support myself as an artist was “simply unrealistic.” Once again I was urged to “get a real job.” After absorbing this, I decided that if my life was unrealistic, there must be other people in the world also creating unique lifestyles outside the 9-5 “system,” and my book concept was born. Instead of moving toward security, I went further out on a limb. In fact, I’m hanging by my fingernails onto the end of the branch, but oh, what a view!

In February I interviewed Daniela & Armando, Argentinians now living in New Jersey, who dance and teach tango all over the world. Additional interviews include Eddy L. Harris, a Blackamerican writer, known for his solo canoe trip down the Mississippi River, but now based in Paris, and Rhoda Lurie, who has traveled to 60 countries while importing exotic artifacts. I spent August on the West Coast collecting more stories, then began planning a trip to Europe to continue work on my book.

Unrealistically, my current travels and research are being funded by private grants.

Periodically, heightened anxiety intrudes on the excitement of discovering and recording these unique lives. My artistic budget will cover travel, but how can I pay hotel bills from November through March? Miraculously, people in various parts of France have lent me their apartments, temporarily empty because serendipity or bizarre coincidences have delayed tenants or the appearance of guests. The puzzle of my agenda has been filled in by the order of these vacancies, which is why after 16 days in Paris, I am now writing this on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean on the Cote d’Azur.
An Unrealistic Life: Notes from the Wandering Artist

Chapter One: London

After a great rush of hectic activity in the fall, I left Pittsburgh for the next stage of travel to collect interviews for my book, An Unrealistic Life. Some people nonchalantly toss a few things in a bag and walk out the door. I become compulsively consumed with attending to every detail. Besides storing clothes and ridding my studio of artistic clutter, I managed to prune raspberries and plant lily bulbs sent from my grandfather’s farm, not to mention finding the cheapest flights, and organizing ways to pay my bills for the four and a half months I will be gone. On October 29th, I turned over my house to my young tenant who will intern at the University of Pittsburgh for several months, and headed for Indianapolis to visit my family before flying to London on November 8.

It was a sunny week of golden leaves and ripe persimmons in Indiana, perfect for a family gathering. We held babies, told stories, and had bounteous dinners of curried chicken and cherry cobbler, savoring each other’s company since we would not all be together for the holidays. My departure was made more poignant when my dad, now 92, remarked “I hope I’ll still be around when your book comes out.”
I said, “I hope so, too, Dad, since you promised to buy one!”
“I’ll work on it one day at a time,” he said. And off I flew.
~
Always on the lookout for interesting characters, especially if they fit my criteria for the book, I met my first one on the plane. Trevor, an intelligently cocky young black who lives outside London and has property in Miami, described his businesses: a cell phone operation, mail services, and a new venture which will import minerals from Africa. He was obviously well off, and showed off his purchase of $100 cognac in its artistic bottle. Since my book focuses on people who live unique lives doing what they love outside the system, I perked up when I heard that he had become an entrepreneur at an early age, knowing that a regular job would stifle him. Intrigued, I asked for more details about his mail services, because my brother Tom’s venture capital fund had backed a small packaging business in the Midwest.
At that point, he and his companion, a buxom brunette in a white mini-skirt, totally cracked up. They nearly rolled out of their seats laughing, a difficult feat on an airplane. Turned out his “male services” consisted of providing beautiful women as companions for lonely men!
You know I wanted to ask him more questions, but I bit my tongue.
Once in London, I maneuvered my suitcase and rolling backpack (my mini-office on the road) up from the train station and around a few too many blocks to the hotel. London streets are also called squares, mews, and lanes. Every few blocks a sign indicates that another village or neighborhood is beginning and sometimes the street name changes too, even though it’s still the same street. In my benumbed traveler’s state, I was totally confused. I probably walked eight blocks when I only had to walk three. Once checked in, I wandered the neighborhood searching for an internet café, and then lunched on flavorless quiche and limp lettuce with a blob of mayo. Of course I got turned around returning to my hotel, but was guided back by a friendly Syrian who turned out to be a private taxi driver, in hopes of new business.

(Here I insert a photo of Norfolk Square, where my hotel, the Norfolk Plaza is located. It’s the texture of European architecture that constantly intrigues me.)

After all this I was thinking of the folks back home who enviously hunger for the adventure of my life, and I thought, ”This is not adventure!” But then I slept for an hour, and hustled through several tube lines from Paddington to Tottenham Court to meet Beina under the marquee of the Queens Theater, and my spirit perked up.
Beina Xu, 19, is my nephew Brady’s girlfriend, studying journalism in London on an NYU program. I had met her last Thanksgiving, and wanted to catch up on her international travels. On the phone, Beina and I had mutually panned English food, totally in sync about our distaste for bland mayonnaise-covered salads, so we headed for a Thai restaurant. Ambling through something-or-other square, we never found the restaurant she had researched. Instead we were beseeched to partake of several Thai/Asian buffets, colorfully tempting, but how long had that food been sitting there? We were headed toward Chinatown when we paused by an elaborately carved door, and peered into a Moroccan restaurant, adorned with antique carved wood, cast brass birds and pillowed benches. On entering Maison Touaregue, we felt instantly welcomed in what seemed like another country. Wall sconces cast patterned shadows onto the ceiling. Tiled tables held multipatterned blue, white and yellow dishes. Candlelight flickered. A feast for the senses, and the food hadn’t even arrived!
The owner hovered, as we chose mujadara, pastillah, couscous, and mint tea. The mujadara came as a puree to be eaten with bread, not as the lentils and bulgar with caramelized onion that I had tasted in Pittsburgh. But we liked it anyway. Pastillah, sometimes called pistallah, with its crispy layers of phyllo enclosing tender chicken, cinnamon and almonds is a dish I have only tasted three times in my life. This version was superb, and our mutual appreciation of its subtle flavors approached reverence. When Beina closed her eyes and asked if she could meditate on the taste for a moment, I asked if we were related. The couscous with its occasional raisins, and caramelized onions was slightly sweet and a great contrast to the surprisingly peppery olives. As for the mint tea, served in a juice glass and sweetened with honey, one sip, and I was transported back to my student days in Paris where I had first tasted Tunisian food.
Over this exotic combination, which also included cucumber slices dusted with cinnamon, our conversation ranged from her birth in China to my adventures writing the book. We discovered a mutual adoration of shoes, travel and the stories of peoples’ lives.
It was exhilarating conversing with this striking beauty, her silken black hair contrasting with opalescent skin, who was named for her father’s favorite places: Beijing and Louisiana, where he once taught at Tulane. Fluent in Chinese, she worked one summer for a newspaper in Shanghai, and has already won prizes for her journalistic talents. She is one of (to borrow my brother Tom’s book title) The Young Internationals, or what I would call The New Nomads, young people who have traveled so freely that they feel at home anywhere, and see no lure in a house in the suburbs, or even a permanent location.
Though her father originally hoped she would pursue a career in business and finance, he has now realized that her true love is journalism. His own story reminds me of the film Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, which I was fortunate enough to see at the Pittsburgh Film Festival. Banished to a remote village as a student during the Cultural Revolution, her father raised himself to the position of a renowned economist by saving every penny, and of course, wants financial security for his daughter. (As my family does for me, I might add!) An internship at a Wall Street firm this summer only crystallized Beina’s desire to write about China, especially after she visited the village where her father was exiled for 3 years. She slept on a brick bed in a cave-like dwelling carved into the hillside and picked tomatoes with the villagers. This lovely girl who, along with Brady, could step instantly into a Benetton or Abercrombie and Fitch ad, who has had a privileged private education at Exeter and traveled to places like Goa, India for spring break, attempted carrying water with the twin buckets suspended on a pole in this remote village. She was forever moved by the green purity of the mountains, and her father’s experience there. I picture Beina as being both bridge and translator between Eastern and Western cultures, and I look forward to what she will write as she moves effortlessly between them.
~

After only sporadic sleep for 36 hours, exhaustion struck. Despite sleeping until 2 PM on Thursday, I woke feeling like my eyes had been stitched shut, but I had to learn more about my new digital camera. My long-awaited interview with Angela Fisher and Carol Beckwith, whose work has appeared in National Geographic, as well as in numerous coffee table books, was in a few hours. How humiliating it would be if I bungled my photos of them!
In a near panic, I called my photographic expert, Terry Lester, to get his advice. The camera has so many possibilities and menus that are encoded in minute letters, that despite shooting about 20 good shots in Indianapolis, I had no idea what I was doing. Terry was out tramping around, taking pictures in his piece of the Maine woods and had to be summoned by his assistant, who gulped when he heard I was calling from London. Over the phone, Terry patiently instructed me in how to shoot RAW, so I captured all the megapixels, and made sure I knew which icon meant I was trusting the camera to choose the settings. (It was P for Program. Who knew?) I had studied the instruction book a bit Wednesday while having lunch, but frankly forgot about it in my sleep-deprived state.
While I was on the phone with Terry, Carol Beckwith called. I then discovered that Angela had a serious eye infection and had an emergency doctor’s appointment, so the interview was postponed till Friday morning. Oh, please don’t cancel the interview, I prayed. It took 6 months of correspondence to coordinate our schedules, and I flew to London especially for this. I knew time was critical because they were leaving for Kenya on Sunday.
Having dressed and not wanting all that primping to go to waste, I left a message for Dr. Adrian Ness, whom I had met in the lobby before my dinner with Beina. Adrian looks like a cross between a Jewish rabbi, and a diminutive Santa Claus, with the mischievous appetites of the Greek god, Pan. He has silver hair and a long full, almost grizzled beard. He is quite short with a belly from eating too much Middle-Eastern food. In yet another nearly surreal connection, after hearing that I was from Pittsburgh, he said that he had previously lived north of there in a small town called Sharon. Sharon, Pennsylvania?! The place I lived for, what, 20 years? This doctor in the hotel lobby in London used to live in Sharon? Yes, it turned out that he had worked for Protected Life Insurance Company, across the bridge from my former studio.
Adrian and I walked up to his favorite Arabic restaurant, Rotana, where I had lamb shish kebab, tabouli, and hummus, preceded by a pizza-type construction of onions, a bit of tomato and mysterious spices on thin, crispy pita. It was marvelous. Adrian spiced up the dinner with stories of his escapades. He has eleven children and has been married ten times! (Did I say Pan? Surely it’s Don Juan he reminds me of!) Despite his early escapades, he has been married to the same woman for 45 years, so he’s either several hundred years old, or his first nine marriages only lasted a few months each. How did he and Elizabeth Taylor miss each other?
~

Friday morning, I headed out to Carol and Angela’s in Belsize Park. Though the outside of the house is purely English with its neat white walls and climbing ivy, the inside is adorned with artifacts from their thirty years in Africa. Handwoven fabrics cover pillows, and curtain off work areas, small sculptures and beadworks fill alcoves, inlaid chests exude mystery.

As I sat at their table with a cup of tea, they each told me how they had come to work in Africa. After art school in Boston, Carol won a traveling fellowship to study painting in Japan, then went to Mount Hagen in New Guinea for a gathering of 90,000 tribesmen, where she was struck by the artistry of their costumes and customs. This was art integrated with life, not enshrined in a museum. Angela, who grew up in Australia, made jewelry from an early age, but was encouraged to major in social work by her mother. She too went to New Guinea on an internship where she helped establish a school, then returned to Australia where she worked with aboriginines and other ethnic groups. Frustrated with social work, she took off for Africa when she was 21 and didn’t go home for seventeen years. Both evolved separately, but each fell in love with the Masai and the Serengheti, which was still untouched by “civilization” in the late 70’s. As I listened to Carol tell how she lived with the Masai for two years while photographing them for a book, and Angela explaining how she began by collecting tribal jewelry, which resulted in her first book, Africa Adorned, my mind reeled with the knowledge that some people just do more on this planet than others. They each published a major book while still in their twenties, and within a week of meeting, introduced by Angela’s brother, they shared a dream of recording tribal ceremonies and wisdom before it is lost to the modern world. It is a passionate mission from which they have never wavered. As a team, they have since traveled 270,000 miles, written 10 books, produced films, and had numerous photographic exhibitions on the tribal life of over 150 cultures in 36 countries. One time while waiting to photograph a festival, they lived with the Wodaabe for six weeks, drinking only milk for nourishment. Nothing else was available, except for a tiny packet of French mustard Angela had saved from an airplane. They hoarded this and shared tastes occasionally, seeking a contrast from the blandness of milk. And I, a traveling wimp by comparison, was miffed about not finding my hotel, when in her early twenties, Angela had driven across country so rough that the door handles of the car vibrated off.
I had the strange sensation that my own book was being stretched into a different shape by their stories. These remarkable women cannot be contained in a brief chapter. I had only heard the beginning when our time was up. They had an editing session for a film they were finishing. We will continue in March, after they return from Kenya and before I fly to the States. We have agreed that I should photograph them in Africa. My heart beats faster at the prospect.
~
After the intensity of the interview, I felt a bit untethered in London, uninterested in the usual tourist sights. I dressed and went off to dance tango that night, only to discover that the tango club was closed. In the interim, Adrian continued to entertain me and his business partner, Armando, with stories about his previous life as a general, his study of ballet in Spain with a Russian ballerina, and his wife (Number 2, I think) and daughters in Japan. All this in a rolling tenor voice with a melodic Spanish accent. One night Adrian revealed a previous operatic career by singing several arias in the hotel bar. A few guests clustered in the lobby to listen. I have this on tape, so I know I didn’t imagine it. Of course, deprived of tango, I had to dance a few steps of flamenco to relieve tension.
Because he and Armando had been in London for four months raising money for charitable foundations, they knew where to eat, and introduced me to Riyath, a popular Indian restaurant, where I had Passanda Lamb, special fried rice, and a sweet Indian bread, like chapattis with a mysterious paste inside. The Passanda Lamb came in a creamy sauce of coconut milk and curry which was so good that to leave a drop would have been a sin. The lamb was not as tender as the shish kebab I had eaten at Rotana, but on another evening I ordered Passanda Chicken, which was superb. Previously Indian food had been my least favorite, but these meals converted me.
~
On Saturday, I wandered through Portobello Street, famous since the Sixties for mod clothing. Now the site of a long market, it was a great opportunity for photography, and I was as intrigued by the street performers as the items for sale. I have little trouble resisting the baubles in the stalls, because my mission is to acquire experience, not possessions; and anyway, my suitcase won’t hold one more thing. But the collectors among you might have been sucked in by the antique English silver, Chinese jade, old watches, and beads from many countries.

LIVING STATUE TAKES A BREAK, PORTOBELLO STREET, LONDON

BANGLES, BAUBLES & BEADS: PORTOBELLO MARKET

One of the more fascinating sights was a small coffee shop and bakery which offered Real American Desserts. The shop was crowded with people consuming iced chocolate cupcakes in frilled paper cups and snickerdoodles that could have come from Kansas. I was stunned that the pecan pie went for about $7 a slice. Mom, I told you to raise your prices when you take your pies to the church bazaar!

Toward 6 o’clock, on Carol and Angela’s recommendation, I headed for Tribal Gathering, a gallery of African art owned by Behroux Behnejad, their longtime friend. Once again, I was immersed in African carvings, masks, and pottery. Angela and Carol frequently visit on a Saturday evening, and I had hopes of another encounter. They could not interrupt their packing to come, but Behroux, another guest and I chatted while I admired his collection. Before my departure, he gave me a 300 year old red glass bead on a slender leather cord, an amulet for my journey. He too was headed for Africa on a buying trip, so we will all reunite in the spring.
~
My last day in London was “artful.” I sashayed off to see the Saatchi Collection, famous for its contemporary art; but alas, after walking through the cold and damp, I learned that it had been moved. By chance, I discovered an exhibit at the Hayward Gallery that meshes with my current theme: Universal Experience: Art, Life and the Tourist’s Eye. My photographic montages of Southeast Asia would have fit right in, but obviously the organizers have never heard of the wandering artist from Pennsylvania. The huge exhibit included a complex installation on the war in Iraq, unflattering videos of Europeans haggling over the price of masks with tribespeople in New Guinea, and a series of photographs depicting the German fascination with Native Americans. Some of them have created elaborate chief costumes which they wear while encamping in imitation Indian villages. It’s not unlike those Americans who dress up for Renaissance Faires, but it’s certainly odd to see long blonde braids worn with beads and fringe.
Outdoors, London was getting gray and cold. Time to go to Paris.

Details:

To eat well on a budget in London, head for ethnic restaurants. Marlena Spieler, food writer par excellence, whom I began corresponding with while there, recommends Sofra, a Turkish restaurant, and Vietnamese pho, to be found on Liverpool Street. I never got there, but it’s on my list.

Maison Touaregue
23-24 Greek Street
London WID 4DZ
020 7439 1063
(walkable from Tottenham Court tube stop)

Rotana
11 Sale Place
London W2 1PX
020 7706 0022
(walkable from Paddington Station)

Ryath Tandoori Restaurant
32 Norfolk Place
Paddington, London W2 1QH
(walkable from Paddington Station)

Terry Lester’s work can be seen in his book, Maine: The Seasons, and at
www..tlesterphotography.com/

For photos and books by Carol Beckwith and Angela Fisher, go to
www.africanceremonies.com

Tribal Gathering
1 Westbourne Grove Mews
Notting Hill
London W11 2RU
Tel: 020 7221 6650
www.tribalgatheringlondon.com