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Ginny Prior and her son, Anthony, at Disneyland in 2010

My son had never been to Disneyland. Did that make me a bad mother?

No, it just made me a busy mother, with an active, well adjusted kid. So why did it seem like I was keeping my child from a magical rite of passage? Why did I feel, for lack of a better term, like a “Mickey Mouse mom”?

The chance to redeem myself came when my son’s schedule suddenly opened last month. “I need to go somewhere,” he said without warning. “I never get to go on vacation.” True enough — he was 17 and his athletic schedule had prevented him from taking a real family vacation for years. This I could not deny.

So, we packed up the car on a late summer Sunday and hit the I-5 express — just my 17-year-old son and me. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d spent more than a moment alone, without my husband or daughter or friends. We needed to reconnect, and we both knew it.

Long stretches of highway have a way of loosening the tongue — out of boredom, perhaps, but it works. By Tracy we were having an actual discussion. By the time we hit Gorman we were sharing an In-N-Out shake, Double-Double and Monster Fries. This was big — it meant I didn’t have “cooties.”

Pulling into Anaheim, the timing couldn’t have been better. Turns out Sunday night was a great time to hit Disneyland. We were arriving as throngs of other families were leaving. Over the next two days, we were a blur on the landscape, running between California

Adventure and Disneyland, riding the rides and working the Fast Passes.

And I, in my wisdom, had booked a hotel within walking distance (The Red Lion — Anaheim) and we fell into luxurious pillow-top beds at the end of each evening, waking up to a breakfast buffet that fueled us through the day. I don’t want to brag, but that Red Lion — and its proximity to Disneyland — put me in the running for mother of the year. All past transgressions were history.

By day three, we both needed a break from the heat. Due west was the beach and a cozy waterfront resort called The Portofino Hotel & Yacht Club. With a rack of free beach cruisers and bike trails for miles, this was the ideal home base for exploring Redondo Beach.

By this time, I was seeing a change in my son. He was softening, sweetening — surrendering to the idea of mom as a friend. He ruffled my hair on the Glass Bottom Boat as we took in the silver “school of fishies.” We shared halibut sandwiches at Captain Kidd’s Fish Market and pancakes at Polly’s on the Pier. We played Yahtzee by the fire in the lobby of our hotel. And one night we picked the fanciest restaurant we could find and got dressed up for dinner.

All those years of reminding my son of his manners — well, they paid off. He was the perfect companion at an exquisite window table at the upscale Baleen Los Angeles overlooking the marina. The little boy who used to blow bubbles in his 7-Up had grown up to be a young man.

We shared plates of heavenly scallops, and short ribs and warm duck carnitas, and he never took too many, and always used his napkin. I was bursting with pride.

You see, unless you’re a mom, this won’t mean much. But bonding like this meant a lot. We always wonder what impact we’ll have on our kids, how much of our “wisdom” they’ll absorb. Now I know that the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson are true. “Men are what their mothers made them.”

– Ginny Prior

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“Where are you traveling next?” a friend inquired.

“To Kauai,” I answered.

“Oh, wow! That’s, I mean, Paradise.”

I know. A highly unscientific but lifelong inquiry has taught me that Paradise is always an island – well, nearly always. The one exception is the Garden of Eden, but that was born in our biblical bones.

Although I am captivated by such divergent landscapes as those of Death Valley, Wyoming’s Grand Tetons and the Serengeti Plain in Tanzania, I do not call them Paradise. In fact, years ago I gave up Paradise for Lent. It’s too inexact. It’s not inclusive enough. It leaves out Paris, for Zeus’ sake. (Even if Champs-Elysées does mean Elysian Fields.)

Paradise must be lush, to begin. It must sport frangipani (a.k.a. plumeria) as in Fiji, tiare (a.k.a. gardenia) as in Tahiti, Nympheae stelleta as in Sri Lanka (a.k.a. Ceylon and a few dozen other names, such as Taprobanê, Pa-Outchow and, the best, Serendip – from which Horace Walpole cunningly coined “serendipity” in 1754).

Paradise must be far away. Catalina is charming and gave birth to a good old song, but it’s too close to California. San Pedro Island is definitely too near Texas. Martha’s Vineyard has the Edgartown Yacht Club and a Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby, but it’s not suitably improper (not far enough from Boston). The Brits revere Iona and the monks, but for Paradise they prefer Seychelles. The French may say France itself is “Paradise enow,” but they tend to find it in Bora Bora. (They’re not alone.)

Canada’s Victoria is too quaint.

Another thing. Paradise can’t be cold. I yield to no one in my fascination for the Falklands. But Paradise? Surely you jest. Baffin Island offers wondrous wildlife, but I’ll take my ice in a tall glass under a palm, thanks.

Paradise mustn’t involve much history. It thrives on idleness, indolence, an absence of industry; it invites sloth. That’s why Greece is not Paradise. There is, and always has been, too much going on, even for Lord Byron:

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,

Where grew the arts of war and peace -

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

Indeed, to escape the reality of Greece, Odysseus found forgetfulness only with the Lotus-Eaters on the island of Djerba, in Tunisia, not Greece.

Island nations – the Philippines and Indonesia (each with thousands of outcrops), England, Scotland, Ireland, New Zealand and more – are too important to be Paradise. Australia is too big.

Paradise can’t have a Parliament, nor should it declare war.

As for Malta, Cyprus, Easter, the Galapagos, Corsica: Too much attention is demanded; you want to be awake all the time.

People have sought to find Paradise in places other than islands. The Mughal emperor Jehangir once wrote of the beautiful Vale of Kashmir: “If there be Paradise on Earth, it is here … it is here … it is here.” Once, on a trek from Srinigar to Gulmarg and swaying by night in a houseboat on Lake Dal, with the sweet odors of cedar and the banks of orchids onshore, I thought Jehangir was right. But alas! Kashmir is not an island but a battlefield where Indians and Pakistanis play war games. Politics pollute the paradisiacal.

San Franciscans can find a Paradise right near home: near Chico, about three hours and 15 minutes from the Bay Bridge, east of Diamondville (not incidentally, do you think?) and southeast of Helltown (fittingly?). Stay at the Paradise Inn (as one choice): “a Heavenly experience.”

For such a fantastical concept – the final abode of the righteous, an anteroom for those awaiting resurrection, a state of bliss – the word “Paradise” owns a rather prosaic etymon: Greek parádeisos (park, pleasure-ground); Iranian (cf. Avestan) pairi-daëza (enclosure; through Hebrew, garden).

Of the cliche Paradise, two islands swim into mind: Bora Bora, where I snorkeled down through layers of azure sea so clear I could see fish floating in briny balance far below, floating on eddies of tide, and the green mirage of Vihamanafushi in the Maldives.

There I slid down, down, through cooling layers of cerulean blue, winking at fish (“I know your cousin in Rarotonga”) and waving back at coral and thinking of the lands (like this) where zephyrs whisper.

Above, near the frangipani and bougainvillea, they were pouring a drink of rum, triple sec, cognac and lime. It’s called Between the Atolls, and it is less intoxicating than a twilight amble around Vihamanafushi.

Something about Paradise unhinges the otherwise sane mind.

– Georgia Hesse

(photo © April Orcutt)

– April Orcutt
BATW Website Editor

Al Auger writes: “The night was pitch dark, the only light our fire on the beach at San Carlos Bay.” (photo © Guaymas Tourism)

The night was pitch dark, the only light our fire on the beach, the only sounds the surf schlepping on the sand and the crackle of the flames. We sat in its glow, savoring the aftertaste of a dinner of fresh caught fish broiled over its flames.

Then a new sound interrupted the silence – the clip-clop of a horse on the hard packed sand. Into the small circle of firelight rode a real and living caballero: cowboy hat, droopy black moustache, leather chaps, spurs and high-heeled boots, tall and gaunt on the handsome roan horse, on his hip a long-barreled, mean-looking pistol and holster. In the glow of the fire, his leather-like skin radiated a copper hue, enhanced by his opaque, almost black eyes. “Hola, mi amigos, como esta?” “Good lord,” we thought together, “bandido!” And so it was we met and befriended Fernando, the local Narc.

We were camped out on the beach at San Carlos, just north of the city of Guaymas. It was our final camp on a two-month beachcombing sojourn down the spine of Baja California and up the West Coast of the Mexican mainland. Our adventures were many, but nothing seemingly so personal as our relationship with Fernando. He embodied all the good and bad elements so ingrained in the Mexican persona: machismo, pride, hubris, a nature that was both gentle and hard — and funny.

Guaymas was now a burgeoning sophisticated city, grown quickly from a fishing hamlet. Even so, it still retained its charm from the past. The people friendly, the restaurants eclectic and, by and large, very good. Naturally, seafood monopolized the menus and the pungent aroma of the street vendors.

San Carlos Bay, on our very first visit some years before, had as its only mark of fame, having being chosen as the filming location for the movie Catch 22. In fact, the set stood like a ghost town, unpopulated and eerie. The landing strip and false front buildings with their World War II camouflage exteriors were still there on both visits. On our second visit, we found the bayfront property across from our campsite a series of frenzied developments of condominiums standing large on the edge of the bay. Large vacation and retirement homes for the Norte Americanos were an ever-increasing presence — also, one of the reasons for people such as Fernando to make his presence on the bay.

Fernando swung off the large horse with a loud groan of leather and squatted down next to the fire. To say Fernando was a singular person is an understatement. For the next half-hour he regaled us with stories of sweeping the beaches for drug deals among the hundreds of Arizona college students that migrated to Guaymas during the school year, the beaches and bay being a perfect party-time scene.

Fernando was not a shrinking violet nor self-effacing. His stories of narcotic police adventures were rife with highlights of the number of nubile college co-eds who seemed to constantly fall in love with him. It was easy to believe these heroic stories of nightly romances with the moonlit the beach, its reflection off the murmuring bay, our Latino hero with his seductive black eyes, sharply etched cheekbones and aquiline nose. But, we learned as time passed, Fernando’s stories were to be taken with a large dose of salt — and tequila. Salt or no, he was a definite highlight of our sojourn.

All of sudden, Fernando stood up, swung into the saddle and rode off, sand sprayed over us from the horse’s hoofs. Not a goodbye, a by-your-leave, none of the almost inborn concern with the social graces the Mexican people are so well known for. Strange, we thought. Strange, too, thought a beach neighbor, a German engineer who had been camping at San Carlos for some time and had formed a long-time friendship with Fernando.

“But, did you offer him one of your beers because that is why he really stopped by,” he said. No, we had to admit, as we had just run out before he rode up. “Well, there you are,” he added.

Needless to say, the next time Fernando dropped by — a couple of nights later — we were well stocked with Dos Equis. As Fernando’s visits became an almost nightly ritual our inventory of Dos Equis was always ready and we found ourselves looking forward to them as the sun began its wane each day. The conversations flowed back and forth between Fernando’s life as a part-time Narc and ranch owner in the nearby foothills and our life in the United States of America. One evening we were in a rather dramatic conversation about the wild boars that held us hostage the night before.

It seemed we became rather drowsy after cooking up some fresh broiled fish and stayed up later than usual toasting our rather unique life with Tequila. Instead of burying the fish bones, etc., we decided to do it the next morning and fell into our sleeping bags and a deep sleep. About midnight I awoke with the sound of dogs snuffling around, obviously rooting through all the leftovers.

Suddenly, their tone changed from a dinner sound to the whine of fear. The next sounds were the snort of what could have only been that of the wild boars I knew lived in the low foothills, though the next morning, when we found all the remains we had so carefully bagged, strewn everywhere, my wife still doubted they may have been boars but the small brown bears that populated the area.

As if to verify my theory, a young couple camped nearby in a Volkswagen camper bus, showed us a large dent in the sliding side door. The man, Don, said they were awakened in the middle of the night by a large bang and a swaying of the bus body. The next morning they found the dent and, when told them of the nightly visit to our camp, Don theorized it had to be a boar that head-butted their van.

Later that day we asked Fernando about the existence of boars, he answered in his usual thespian style, “Ah, si, si. There are the little ones we call Apaches and the big ones called Geronimos!” My wife and I looked at each other and nodded: “Si, Geronimos!”

When all of a sudden, Fernando said, “Shush, hide your beers, quickly!” Out of the blackness rode three riders, all dressed in the manner of our friend Fernando — sans pistols. The riders dismounted and joined us at the fire. Fernando introduced us to the three as his cousins from Guaymas. The conversation, short and in high-speed Spanish beyond our talents, ended abruptly when the three stood up and disappeared into the blackness. As we heard then ride off, Fernando picked up his beer from behind the rock where he had cached it, took a sip and muttered, “Bad people. All they wanted was to beg some free beers from you. No pride.”

The last memory we had of Fernando was when we had finally accepted the real world once again and were packing to head for home and say adios to Fernando. Fernando, as usual, suddenly appeared over a hillock without notice. It looked as if Fernando, probably in the company of his “cousins,” had had a hard and long night.

We said our good-byes, embraced and offered Fernando a bottle of wine in friendship. To this day, I can still see Fernando, the bright noonday sun giving the scene a metallic glare and his long, whip-like body bending with each of his horse’s steps, swigging from the wine bottle and singing a bawdy song with something to do about “mil putas.”

– Al Auger

“Unfolding behind me, completely ignored in the bewildering moment, is an isolated Philippine valley — a certified wold-heritage site complete with world-class views.  If I turn around, I will see brimming rice terraces, thousands of them, shining like sequins and rising step-by-step from the riverbed all the way to the green valley’s rim.

“But in front of me, stealing all my attention, lies a thighhigh pile of charred timbers and twisted tin roofing, the work of a midnight arsonist in 2006.  This is what remains of a handicrafts shop that once belonged to my friend Timango (“Tony”) Tocdaan, a rice farmer — and for 20 years one of the most important figures in my life.

“In 1988 I strolled into Tony’s life on a rode paved with, I swear, the most innocent intentons.  On that visit, Tony guided me on a perfect trek through these mountains, part of the hulking Cordillera range, and 13 years later I invited him to the United States and drove him coast-to-coast — a soaring, life-changing experience for both of us.

“Now, in April, 2009, I stare at this rubble and don’t know wheteher to bawl or howl. . . . “

To read Brad’s full story with its moving photos, click here:

http://www.bradnewsham.com/Feature_Philippines.

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While back in the states the day before Easter they were soaking eggs in pastel pink, yellow, green and blue baths, we were rolling into the small Sicilian town of Partanna to see the Crucifixion up close. We found parking on a street with the enticing name Via Circeo – that powerful witch – and walked the curving roadway past a bakery, a tobacconist, a grocery. Drifting through the green plastic strands which shielded a doorway floated the distinct presence of cheese – maybe bel paese or taleggio – pungent, clean and salty.

“I love this, Maia,” I enthused to my cousin once removed. “At home, everything comes sealed in plastic.” Here foods were properly worshipped, displayed on marble stands, their holy essences sifting through the air. Here, the cheese stood alone.

A sign read Macelleria – butcher store. Oh-oh. We were eyeball to glazed eyeball, face to muzzle with twelve furry baby goats, killed and hung in a row along the outside wall, their abdomens split open, intestines stolen away.

“I capretti,” Maia informed me. “Eaten at Easter time.”

“We don’t see this at home,” I stammered. They were hanging by their necks, for Christ’s sake. Their delicate hoofs dangled, purplish-grey, little feet of Pan. And their heads, with tiny budding horns.

“It makes the meat more tender. We eat them only once a year.” Maia kept up her steady clip along the street. “Ehh, cara mia, one way or another, animals are killed so that we can eat. It’s just that way.”

“I know, but…”

We’d turned into a crowded piazza where an outdoor stage had been erected. Loudspeakers blasted a warped recording of a Handel oratorio to get us in a melodramatic mood. Two palm fronds like green parentheses framed the Doric-columned facade at stage rear. Whitewashed walls reflected brilliant morning light. The sound grew more and more distorted each time the piece played, three, four, five times on a loop. Everyone milled around and chattered, the adults and the kids using hand gestures. I laughed aloud at a three-year-old looking up at her parents and protesting something with both her hands flying.

“The play we will see derives from secular theater originally performed in the street: the annunciation, the birth of Gesu, or in this case, the tribunal,” explained Maia.

“Mm-hmm. I’m grateful that you are such a historian.”

“Historian, boh. I have lived my whole life here, naturally I take an interest in the past.”

Eventually Il Spettacolo began. The cast of dozens, young men, mimed the action while a booming, disembodied voice narrated. Jeering Hebrews in floor-length woven robes, headdresses and sandals; glowering Roman guards wearing metal breastplates and helmets; the Jerusalemites straining to listen, brows wrinkled, then loudly protesting; the Apostles huddling to one side. Pontius Pilate delivered his speech, stabbing the stage with his spear, gold robes glistening in the sun. Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana pounded from the speakers.

Jesus appeared, manacled, dressed in a white robe, long blond hair, head lowered. They condemned him. The stage crowd showed no mercy, shrieking, hurling styrofoam rocks which bounced off his chest. Some spectators cried out, “Traitors, traitors!” Kids ran around playing tag. The guards stripped off Christ’s robe to reveal him pasty and naked except for a demure white loincloth. They tied his wrists to the wall,and two henchmen came forward to whip him. His body snapped with each lash. During one spasm the blond wig flew off, exposing the actor’s close-cropped black hair. Oh Christ. The audience guffawed. Maia shot me a bemused look. Jesus continued to recoil with each blow, enduring this new humiliation. A pre-recorded rooster crowed three times. An extra in a red costume climbed down off the stage, retrieved the wig from outstretched hands and rushed over to fit it back on him.

They pushed the Crown of Thorns onto his head, which began dripping stage blood. ECCE HOMO. He groaned, heaved the full weight of the cross on his shoulder and began to drag it, haltingly, out of the square. Mary Magdalene followed close behind, nearly horizontal with grief. The stage crowd formed a line after him. Electronic cymbals crashed.

“He carries the Cross and Life. He carries the Cross and Suffering. He carries the Cross and Humanity,” intoned the tremulous narrator.

We filed after the procession out the piazza down a long path, which truly seemed dispirited, the powdery earth having no color to it. We ended up on a broad field, littered everywhere with trash. At a distance we could see the action continuing on a hillside. Halfway up the slope two crosses had already been erected, two figures pre-crucified – not statues, but men – and between them, blond Jesus was being nailed to the cross. The hammering went on and on.

“They’re not using real spikes, are they?”

“No, we would never actually crucify anyone. What a notion!” Maia gaped at me.

“They do in the Phillippines,” I countered. “I read it somewhere.”

“Well, maybe there, but here, it is an honor to simply share in the pain, to relive the agony of the Savior,” she whispered, “in a metaphorical sense.”

For long, excruciating minutes Gesu Cristo leaned at forty-five degrees while his tormentors struggled to keep the cross from tipping over. Next to me a mother unwrapped a prosciutto sandwich and handed it to her child. He grabbed it and, never taking his eyes off the Passion, sank his teeth in. Finally they hoisted the crucifix vertically. The crowd murmured, the music swelled. Maia motioned to another part of the hill where Judas hung by his neck from a tree. Shrubs hid his feet. The loudspeaker droned on. Picnics were produced all around, salami sliced with pocket knives, olives chewed and pits spit out, the lazy hiss as Arancina bottletops were unstoppered.

Maia shifted from one foot to the other. “Would you like to stay a little longer?” She shielded her eyes from the sun.

“What happens next?”

“He doesn’t die till three. They will remain crucified on the hillside all afternoon, until a certain time tonight when the body will be taken down, and placed in a secret cave in the mountain.”

“Let’s go then, shall we?”

“Oh-kay.” She enjoyed using the popular American expression.

While returning to the square, two actors in Hebrew costumes passed us, nonchalantly carrying a huge cross back to the stage. To props? They didn’t struggle at all with its weight, for it was made of balsa wood. They passed so close that a splinter snagged a wool thread in Maia’s jacket and I carefully unhooked her while the Hebrews held still, apologizing to the signora, chatting in Sicilian. A Roman guard on a motorcycle buzzed by with his skirts flapping, spraying us with dust from the road. We returned down Circe’s street of the goats. I kept my eyes fixed on the sidewalk when we passed the butcher’s.

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Two days later, Pasquetta, Little Easter, dawned delicate pink, dainty as the inside of a seashell. Our final day of itinerary had us heading west for the hills to a festivity at a monastery, San Martino delle Scale. The outskirts of Palermo fell away; stone buildings here and there dotted the road. So when I spotted way up near a rocky summit a zigzag of new buildings – chunky boxes – teetering, I pointed.

“What’s that?”

Maia shook her head. “A government housing development. No one lives there. They haven’t completed it and they won’t.”

“Why’s that?”

She hesitated. “Mafia.”

“They look strange, wrong.”

“Oh yes. They are.”

“They don’t fit.”

“No.”

“They’re out of scale. Weird.”

“Yes.”

“Why would anyone want to live in such a place? So hard to get to up there.”

“No one would.”

“But then why build it?”

She rubbed her thumb and fingers together, a muscle in her jaw pulsing. Maybe I’d get the hang of not asking upsetting questions one of these days. The twisting road dipped into a pine forest. Wisps of bluish smoke floated through the trees.

“Look. Do you see?”

“A forest fire?”

“Not at all. It’s picnickers stoking fires to roast artichokes, another of our traditions. Hours are required to prepare the coals, to heat them red hot, to let them cool to white before burying the carcioffi.”

Wow, getting up in the dark to do a choke justice, now that’s devotion. “I’ve tasted them cooked so many different ways, but never from underground.”

“Then you shall, today.”

“Primo dug a pit?”

“Primo has the day off. We’ll be eating out today.”

“Ah.”

Maia left the car next to a cream-colored stone wall which enclosed the monastery. We followed a path alongside, her walking shoes clacking against the caked earth. As if someone had suddenly turned on the volume, we rounded a bend and came upon a slew of folkdancers, singers, musicians in a clearing. Accordions bellowed, tambourines shimmied, mouth harps twanged. Someone kept spinning a painted vase high into the air and catching it, again and again.

“What does the vase signify?”

Maia gave it some thought. “Happiness,” she finally replied.

Compared to the somberness of the previous celebrations, this was all gaiety and frolic. The resurrection had occurred, the weight lifted, Lent ended, and vases flew. We heard a song about a donkey –Lu me’ Sciccareddu– each time the singer heehawed the audience went wild. I had a little donkey, very dear, and then they killed him, my poor donkey. What a beautiful voice he had, like a great tenor, donkey of my heart, how can I ever forget you?

The dancers cavorted along the road we’d followed, beckoning us onlookers toward a piazza where a brass band primped  and blastula-like bunches of red and yellow balloons bobbed in the breeze. Antique wooden horse carts painted in every bright color – the famous carretti siciliani that my grandmother of course had a two-inch version of on her windowsill – stood in a circle. The workhorses, all gussied up in magenta and green plumes, mirrored cloth, tassels and fringes, stamped and shook their heads, ringing little bells, raring to go. We moved in closer. Scenes of fierce battles and angelic visitations, dragons and steeds, paisleys and dots and portraits of saints, crowded every inch.

“Look underneath, Natalia, at Hell.” Carved devils, monsters with dangling tongues, winged beasts clung below.

“Fantastic.” I bent down to see the detail up close. Hell had no vacancy. Creatures crowded into every possible spot.

The drivers, wearing black caps and red pompons at their throats, cracked their whips and the wheels began to creak. Children in day-glo parkas, pinned in next to their grandfathers, peered over the sides. One cart, festooned with wildflowers and shafts of rye, carried a cage of songbirds and a wooden wine cask. A man following behind turned the spigot to dispense white wine into plastic cups a little bigger than thimbles, which he offered to everyone. “Made at home,” he smiled. “Good for the stomach. Don’t refuse it.”

Maia licked her lips. “Buono, no?”

And powerful as all get out, especially at 11:30 in the morning. The cart circled around again. We each accepted another thimbleful. This one went straight to the brain. All daytime wine drinking had to stop tomorrow, I affirmed. The circle being of modest size and the cask being full, we had a few more refills.

A priest wearing black-rimmed glasses clambered onto the cart, blessed the birdcage, reached inside and grabbed a few frantic, petite birds. He released them to the sky. They chirped deliriously and fluttered above our heads. He clutched another wriggling handful, and more birds swirled up into the sunshine. The crowd let out a cheer.

“I want to show you the Benedictine Abbey,” Maia announced. I followed her lethargically, heated up from five tablespoons of super-concentrate. Mass was in progress. Maia motioned that we squeeze in along the back wall onto the dark wooden benches. The congregation, mostly women, mumbled in response to the hypnotic Latin. Then a Gregorian chant, which fell and rose like a tide, reverberated from wall to wall. I sat marinating in the Gregorian scale, trying to decide whether it was more major key with a minor overlay, or minor with major. Or neither. Could there be such a key, neither major nor minor? “Only Gregory knows for sure,” I may have mentioned to the vibrating atmosphere.

Maia nodded along, hands folded, but then suddenly turned to me. “Time to eat.”

The smell of something baked had swung out into the piazza like secular incense. Good thing we nabbed the last empty table at the trattoria.

“Cameriere,” Maia raised her hand to a waiter squeezing by with three steaming plates of pasta balanced on each forearm. “A half liter of red wine, please.”

“Right away.”

“I’ve already had enough vino, Maia. Really, I’m kind of drunkish.”

“Don’t worry about it. Drink what you wish, if you wish, when you wish.”

Pasquetta frolickers and all their relatives jammed three dozen tables which the waiter worked alone. After forty days of Lent, they were starving and clamoring for his attention. Feed us. Feed us now.

Even my stoic cousin sighed relief when he finally showed up with the carafe and wineglass stems laced upside-down between his fingers, and leaned down to be heard over the din. “We offer holiday specialties today. Capretto. Carcioffo. Pasta al Forno San Martino. “

“Baby goat for each of us, Natalia and an artichoke to share?”

I shook my head, trying to prevent the sight in front of the butcher store two days ago from returning.

“It’s traditional today, ” she lobbied, “you’ll like it.”

No goat. Never goat! I nearly hollered into the din. “I’m sure it’s delicious, but an artichoke is what I’ll have. The kind roasted underground, right?”

“Certainly. My brother in law and I stayed up last night making the pit. As a matter of fact, he’s still out there overseeing the operation. No first plates to begin with for you ladies? No pastas?”

No, but Maia pleaded for some bread before he raced off. We were grateful, desperate really, when he slid a plate of rounded rolls onto the table. My cousin grabbed one, tore it open. The crust cracked defiantly, curls of steam exhaled.

“Crunchy,” I broke open a roll. Its dough, stretchy, gave way, smooth and moist, flecked with bran.

“Perhaps you didn’t know that Sicily played breadbasket to the Roman Empire.”

“That’s amazing. I did not.” Two thousand years later the basket hadn’t emptied, Sicily kept giving of herself. Two thousand years later the bread kept breathing, body and soul.

Here,” Maia urged, “have a little to wet your throat while we wait. Salute.”

“Cin-cin.” I took a sip against better judgment, then bit into the crust. Golden durum semolina grown on the broad breast of the island’s interior, flung into last summer’s air to separate out the chaff, and ground between meter-wide stones; bubbly yeast kept teeming since Roman times; sea salt in sacks hauled by painted carts from the Tyrrhenian shore; water caught in a ceramic jug from the always splashing monastery spring – I tasted these immediate ingredients. How could a dough kneaded from them not effortlessly grow? Punched down – large and little gasps of air imprisoned inside – would it not triple in volume? Beaten down again, yea vanquished, would it not rise a second, a third time? Brushed with oil of olives from sacred groves, would it not meet its mysterious destiny – raw to cooked, matter to spirit – sealed inside the fiery oven, the rock rolled into place? Snatched at the right instant from that infernal heat, would it not thrust forth, to be borne triumphant on platters by monks (who had just completed their morning prayers, thus imparting a heightened spiritual zest to the loaves) through gardens respiring with spiky rosemary under the morning sun, and be delivered unto the trattoria’s back door in wrapped in cloth? And here kept warm next to the oven, guarded near Vesta’s sacred flame. This much you could – I did – taste in one mouthful. Everything alive. If a bite could bind a person to a place – to ensure becoming a part of it – this one bound me to the island. I was here for the duration. The reverse of Persephone, committed to hell because of the six pomegranate seeds she chewed, we bit into morsels of paradise.

“My carcioffo is probably still in the ground, down the mountain, miles away,” I yawned behind my hand.

Maia, was lost in studying the noisy room around us, consummate observer, anthropologist, cultural attache` to her own paesani. Every table had ordered before we did, and seated a full clan. Generations were crammed together, parents force-feeding toddlers, teenagers wolfing down pasta by the spoon and forkful, sleeping babies cradled by grandparents, everyone gabbing, laughing, eating, swallowing. The waiter oiled around the floor, delivering plates and platters, more bottles of water and wine. More bread and beer, bowls and bills.

So if artichokes took hours to roast, the brother in law, equipped with walkie-talkie, was probably just loading the baskets with the last of the blessed thistles onto a sciccareddu’s back right now. I relaxed into my chair with more vino. Treat the donkey well, give him a handful of hay and a drink from a trough, sing him the donkey song, and take your time because, man, those tenors were tiny beasts of burden. I could wait – we had Bread and Wine. An excellent sacramental appetizer. An old favorite. A meal really. A religion. I refilled Maia’s glass and added a few centimeters to my own.

The waiter was nowhere in the dining room. I took another roll, broke through the crackly crust stratas, pulled at the elastic, steamy dough, probed and pinched the warm mass. There must be a technical name for the meeting of crust and dough, brown and white, a baking term for the realm between exterior and interior… the body and spirit… the dead to the living.

“You know, both my sisters have an allergy to wheat. Can you imagine life without bread?” I asked, my mouth full.

“Why? What happens to them?”

“Oh, they get sleepy, lethargic, yawn I lot. I’m so lucky to have escaped it.”

“I should say.” She drained the carafe.

“They even get disoriented,” I kept chewing.

The waiter stood over us with plates, trying to remember who ordered what: sacrificial kid goat and the huge vegetable, like a baked green crown, The capretto smelled sort of barbecued.

“Buon appetito, ladies.”

I loosened the first outer charred leaf off the subterranean globe – rounded like a basilica dome – and nibbled its meatiness, bittersweet and mineral. Though seared in a mini-inferno, it hadn’t given up any moist ghost. I plucked my way through complexity, spiralling in, the marinade of lemon and olive oil, mint, crushed garlic yielding up.

“Fabulous! So delicious I can’t tell you.”

“Would you care to taste the meat?”

“No, no. I’ve got this.”

We savored without conversing, the best way to manage in such a loud room. A person achieves something engaging with an artichoke, Does any other vegetable in the world have a built-in goal? Leaf, leaf, leaf, leaf, leaf, leaf, leaf, thicker to thinner, exterior to interior, then the prize of the huge heart. All those roasting hours made this apotheosis. At the end I was just sated, full of Sicily’s generous fruits. When the waiter set our bill down I grabbed it, but my cousin fixed me with a no-nonsense look and demanded the slip.

“Maia, you must stop treating me as a guest, or for sure I’ll get on your nerves very quickly.”

“We have to eat.”

“Exactly, and here’s my contribution to that effort.”

“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” she stood, brushed the crumbs off

her lap and firmly pulled the slip from my fingers. The woman was not to be messed with.

We crossed the empty piazza, strewn with plastic winecups, peanut shells, shreds of burst balloons and horse manure, and circled the cream-colored monastery walls to her Fiat. We were well on our way down to Palermo, past the Mafia-Nightmare architecture up on the crest when a herd of goats – leaping, stumbling, tripping and glorious – filled the road. The unruly carpet of fur and horns that maaa-ed insisted upon right of way. Maia turned off the motor and nodded. She knew the score.

– Natalie Galli

As I have mentioned before, I love to drive my old Subaru. Dear old companion . . . more than 197,000 miles. But I also enjoy sitting back, watching the world roll by in the comfort of alternative transit. Sacramento isn’t all that transit friendly except when thinking about trips to the Bay Area. Then Amtrak and, sometimes, Bay Link Ferry, come into the picture. What it means is fewer traffic and parking hassles and being good to the environment by having one less fossil-fuel consumer on the road. That would be me and my faithful Subaru.

Amtrak (photos © Barbara Steinberg)

This weekend I am thrilled to be heading off to San Francisco via Amtrak. I have taken this trip many times but still love the experience. I look forward to the shrill of the train whistle, rumbling away from the station and crossing the Sacramento River. The endless debate — which side has the best views? It doesn’t matter if I choose right or left. Somewhere along the way I am certain to jump to check the scenery on the other side. There are just so many things to see that can’t be seen from behind the wheel of a car. . . . Subaru or otherwise. My favorite views come once the train diverts through Suisun Marsh and on towards San Pablo Bay and past the coastline around Port Costa and Crockett.

So, on this adventure I am doing all that I can to be kind to the Earth. I walked to light rail which whisked me away to the Amtrak station in downtown Sacramento. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden light rail and was shocked (really shocked) to see that a one-way ticket has skyrocketed to $2.50. Talk about discouraging the use of public transit. I know Sacramento Regional Transit has suffered in the economy along with the rest of us, but Sacramento officials have done little to encourage alternative transit. The big investments all go to more lanes of traffic on the interstate.

Arriving at the Amtrak station, I board the Capitol Corridor train heading for San Francisco.I know the routine. . . in Emeryville we will board a connector bus that takes you across the Bay Bridge — no tolls, no lanes of traffic at the toll plaza “parking lot.” Once on the other side, you have a range of locations to disembark. On this day, I am heading to Moscone Center. This is actually my final destination, heading to a trade show that starts tomorrow. But getting off the bus, I will walk a few blocks to overnight lodging at Good Hotel. It figures into this whole good travel experience.

Good Hotel in San Francisco

Another in the long line of Joie de Vivre Hotels, Good reinvented and re-opened in 2009. It defines recycled and kind to the Earth philosophies. Many decor features are reclaimed or recycled construction materials. The registration counter is recycled newspaper. Some light fixtures are made from recycled water bottles. There’s even a box in the lobby to recycle dead batteries. Bed frames are 100% recycled wood. In-shower soap dispensers feature holistic bath products. There bikes available for guest use. Signs of water and power conservation are found throughout Good Hotel. They really are walking the “good” talk.

Good Hotel is part of the South of Market District and walking distance to many attractions and was easily accessibile from the Amtrak connector bus. I made good on my quest to travel green this weekend. And will do the same in reverse on my way home.

It really is all good! And pet friendly, too!

– Barbara L. Steinberg

Several years ago, while riding on a cross-country bus in Costa Rica, I was seated next to a stranger from the States.  We start talking, and he soon figured out I was a travel journalist.  “I imagine you’ve traveled extensively?” he said.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I’ve been around the world about four times.”

He then asked, “So what did you learn?”

That was my epiphany because until then I had never really thought about lessons learned.  I had been too occupied savoring sights, sounds, scents, and people encountered to stop and analyze the essence of the odysseys.

So, what have I learned?  Foremost, it is that people across the globe are fundamentally the same; they embody tremendous similarities and minimal differences.

Paradoxically, yet too frequently, I have learned that peace unravels between rival groups with common roots.  It is less often the boogeyman from the other side of the world that stirs disorder.  But the vast majority of people on the planet are peace-loving, inquisitive and friendly.  It is typically less than five percent of a given population that foment evil.

Most people are inherently good
Whether it is a friendly encounter with two ragamuffins in a back alley of Shanghai, a shopkeeper in a Moroccan souk, or a restaurant owner in Malaysia, almost everyone I meet extends warm welcomes and many ask me to stay and visit.  Around the globe, when I visit with everyday people on the streets and inquire about their lives, most desire better jobs, decent housing, food for their families and opportunities for their children.

In spite of the heartbreaking atrocities going on in the Sudan, the Middle East and elsewhere, the majority of the world is at peace, and the chance to see the sights and visit with the people of the world is much too tempting to let the possibilities of harm stop anyone from traveling.

Life is inherently risky
It is a fact that your chances of being injured or killed in an automobile are far greater than flying around in an airplane.  Before I took off for a journey through Eastern China sixteen years ago, I mentioned a concern for my safety to my father.  He responded with a comment that has guided me well, “Do not forget that a fear of death is actually a fear of life.”

Yes, bad things can and do happen when we leave home
A man threatened to shoot me when I was walking through a market in Rabat, Morocco; as I exited a subway in Atlanta, a hoodlum attempted to mug me, and in Toronto I foiled a pickpocket, but that’s life – and a life not worth risking isn’t worth living.  If I had arbitrarily changed a booking for a Kauai helicopter flight, I might have crashed into a volcano. But none of that has slowed me up. You see, some people have a burning desire to travel. It permeates your heart and soul. You cannot not travel if you have that burning desire.

Those with so little are often blessed with abundance
It is often the little things that make for lasting memories. For example, while spending time on the island of Nevis, a local acquaintance introduced me to his friend, a tailor from India. who lived in a remote part of the island in a dirt floor shack with crumbling cinder-block walls and a pockmarked corrugated roof. As I entered the tailor’s hut, his wife extended a Coke as a welcome drink. A can of Coke cost one dollar on Nevis at the time. It suddenly dawned on me that their libation cost the couple the equivalent of $50 dollars. Matilla, the tailor, earned about one dollar an hour and I earned about $50 an hour; yet this couple proudly and readily shared a gift they really couldn’t afford.

I have encountered endless examples of trust and good faith. While spending time on the Caribbean island of Virgin Gorda, I was in a rural general store when a tourist attempted to rent a video. The tourist paid for the video and then placed her driver’s license and credit card on the counter. “What are those for?” the clerk asked.

“Oh, for the security deposit.”

“This is not necessary”, the clerk replied.

“But what if someone were to steal the video?” the tourist countered.

“Honey, no worry. No one will steal your video!”

Moments of fear that conclude with a laugh
A friend, freelancing for the Boston Globe, was waiting with me in the Honduran customs queue. We stepped across the white line and presented our passports. The stern looking customs officer never looked up. His only communication was the thud-thud of his official stamp colliding with our passports. He mechanically slid our passports out of his cage, and we assumed that everything was fine. But then the agent stood and leaned over the counter, gave my friend the evil eye and surreptitiously asked, “Are you Santiago?”

My friend turned ashen and asked me, “What did he say?”

“I think he wants to know if you are Santiago.” We both shrugged and agreed that it was probably some sort of trick or code word and if improperly answered would land us an immediate trip to the secret side-room for further interrogation. My friend stood at attention, looked directly at the agent and confessed. “No. Sir, I am not Santiago!”

The officer gave him an incredulous gaze as he retorted, “What? I say to you, ‘Are you Sunday to Go.  Do you go home Sunday?’”

“Oh. Yes, Sunday, we go,” responded my relieved friend, and the agent pointed his index finger toward the exit door as he shook his head. To this day, my friend’s nickname remains “Santiago”.

Song and dance of life
I have learned that song and dance define many cultures and serve as integral ingredients in people’s daily lives. While visiting tiny Saona Island in the Dominican Republic, I stopped in at a thatched-roof, open air, seaside pub as salsa tunes boomed out across the sandy seaside village. Washerwomen with bundles of clothes piled atop their heads, teenagers and little kids alike strolled along gyrating and swaying to the beats belting from the grog shack. The lively, infectious tunes brought smiles throughout the ramshackle community.

Similarly, while traveling through the Canadian Maritime Provinces, I was invited to dinner at a 17th century historic restaurant in New Brunswick where everything – from the dress of the servers to the cuisine and brew – was authentic 17th century fare. While waiting in the adjacent pub for the single-seating, family-style dinner, two young women next to me stood up and started belting out a Nova Scotian folk tune in Carnegie Hall-quality two-part harmony.

After the women finished, I turned to my local historian host and commented, “That’s so cool that they employ live entertainers.” He laughed and replied, “Actually those two are just patrons like you, waiting to dine. It’s quite common for folk up here on the spur of the moment to entertain each other like this.” A second later, a white haired woman, well into her 70s, got up and belted out an Irish sea shanty to raucous applause from her fellow, mostly thirty-something diners.

What I have learned
I’ve discovered that we have so much to learn from the people around the world. People and cultures, when viewed from the outside, might have less than we do in terms of material wealth, but their lives are none-the-less blessed with abundant and priceless treasures.

– Thomas C. Wilmer