Originally intended as a small book, I should like to share it with my readers in a more informal manner as a series of Blogs accessible on our website.
Czech Republic: Prague: We walk across Karl’s Bridge with Jacky and Jörg and go to a restaurant under the abutments on the far side. Like walking into a grotto. Who had sat in my seat in the past? I can’t recall the food. The next day I find an art shop and buy a print of the bridge. It now hangs in my dining room and each time I look at it I am reminded of the restaurant, the castle up on the hill, and the artists working along the bridge.
Italy: Carrara: Cavi di marma loom, white marble glinting in the sun, the road narrow and twisty as we rise in our little rented car above San Pietro. At the end of the road, a small town — Colonnata —full of old men in the square, all with some visible disability (seemed like I was visiting some home/place for the disabled)..found out they were all local, hurt in accidents from their mining work. A monument honoring the men and the marble stands at the edge of town. Intermittent dynamiting disturbs the quiet little town. How difficult must it have been without modern technology during Michelangelo’s time!
Germany: Bergisch Gladbach: A small gathering at the home of Heinrich and Christiane Jarczyk celebrating Heinz’s 70th birthday, several of the people “new” to us, apparently friends and neighbors who were outside his artistic circle. At one point during the evening, an elderly gentleman, ramrod strait and very formal, remarked to me in a clipped and precise Oxford-English, “You call him Heinz?” “Yes,” I said somewhat lightly. “That’s his name.” The old man — I could picture him with a monocle and fencing scar — pulled back his head and said emphatically, “I know Herr Doktor Jarczyk for almost twenty years — and I do not call him (a slight hesitation here) ‘Heinz’.” I shrugged. “Well, I’m American, you see. We do not stand on such ceremonies. We are friends and he calls me ‘Ray’, and I call him ‘Heinz’.” I bowed slightly to his rigid glare and moved to take part in another nearby conversation. He did not deign to speak to me again for the rest of the evening.
Japan: Narita International Airport: On our departure flight from Japan to Beijing I was watching out my window as we taxied to our runway and noted a line of workers — baggage handlers? I was not sure, but they were all dressed in a white, work uniform — facing our plane and, as we taxied by, bowing deeply at the waist. I’d never seen anything like that and, to this day, do not know if it was a customary farewell to all airlines or was there perhaps some political VIP up in first class. Whatever, it was an extraordinary sight and strangely comforting to me as we took our leave.