The Only One?

"Have you ever gone to a Star Trek movie?" I said as I turned to the gentleman near me on the lawn at Tanglewood. I think he was stunned by the question that had been prompted by the Boston Pops presentation at John Williams' Film Night of the opening sequence of "Star Trek into Darkness."

"Well, I've seen some of the earlier ones," he replied, "but not the latest movies."

"I haven't even seen the early ones, and after seeing the sections of film presented here tonight, I probably won't see any of the movies."

His daughter overheard the conversation. "We (She and her sister) have seen a couple of the movies. You're probably the only person of your generation who has never seen Star Trek."

I was caught again, out of step with more than several generations this time. A few years ago, I was told that I was out of step with the latest generation because I had not read any Harry Potter. I remedied that by reading the first book and watching although it really hurt to do so the second installment. There were some good points made. Certainly there are some unforgettable characters, whom I can't remember now. But I now was in touch with a generation that I had not been in touch with before. Phrases and characters from the Potter series will live on for many years as they are incorporated into the dictionaries and Wikipedia.

While I was at a party a few weeks later, I sat with a couple of young girls, aged 7 and 10. Fresh from reading and seeing Harry Potter, I attempted to relate by using my new arsenal of information gleaned from Potter. "So, do you read Harry Potter?"

The ten year old replied, "Not really. I like Lemony Snicket."

She and her sister told me about Lemony Snicket. I listened the best I could, distracted, knowing that I had some more reading to do to relate to another generation. I didn't go out and by a Snicket book, but I Googled it, and found a few things that would help me in the future. On the other hand, the next thing is probably already out there, and the generations keep on coming.

"No, I don't read Lemony Snicket... I just read good stories," is the latest response.

After the Star Wars sequence, I used my flashlight to see what the second half of the pops concert was about, "Jurassic Park," "Jaws," Throne Room and Finale from "Star Wars." Yes, I'm out of touch with something. "Scent of a Woman," "Fiddler on the Roof." I saw those two. Maybe I'm okay.

The daughter was folding up some of the equipment they had used for their banquet on the lawn. I reached down and helped unscrew a table leg. I thanked them for the great crisp chocolate chip cookie that tasted like the ones my mother had made. Then I packed up my chair. The daughter helped me with that. She assured me. "You may be the only one but you seem to be a man who has done a lot over the years, so you probably shouldn't worry about it."

"If I'm that singular, it's one more achievement. This is a big crowd tonight and I'm tired. I need to get to bed early more than I need the second half of this program. Enjoy and thanks."

Am I really the only one who has never seen a full episode of Star Trek?

Transformation: From host to guest

I sat dazed; not entirely sure of my feelings; where to start. I looked up, moved my head as if to speak. She gazed at me coaxing me with her eyes. "You want to say something… take your time…I'm listening." I had just been through one of the most moving experiences life has to offer on a Sunday afternoon in the Berkshires. The Boston symphony just completed a stirring rendition of Beethoven's Ninth. It's a tradition at Tanglewood to close the season with this inspiring piece that includes soloists and choir singing the Ode to Joy in German, but understandable in any language. You just know something great and wonderful is being spoken.


The wonder of this moment began about three weeks before. I am an Airbnb host. My guest was a young man named Nat who described himself as an extra viola player with the BSO. He wanted a clean place, where he could practice, and have some shelf space in the fridge. That was easy. I must say, and he would agree, that he got much more. A garage to park his bike, large bowls for morning cereal, a room with a fourteen foot ceiling and open sliding doors where he could practice without disturbing or being disturbed, and even a dresser that he could use as a workbench for his second career, rejuvenating bows for stringed instruments with horse hair.


Daily we sat at breakfast, he with his huge bowl of mixed cereals, fruits, and yogurt. Me with my cuppa. "So what's on today?" "Rehearsal for Saturday." "Who's performing?" "Andris Nelsons' wife will be singing. She's with the Metropolitan Opera. The second part is Richard Strauss, 'Ein Heldenleben', a story about a heroic life. Usually there is a story portrayed in the music; you notice it by the interaction between musicians and instruments" Nat then told me the story behind each of the movements. The next morning we talked about Beethoven's Ninth.


Although he was an extra, Nat played most of the nights. Over breakfast we covered Mahler "Watch for the hammerschlag, a huge hammer"; Sebelius, "Kavakos on the violin, an imposing presence, but only about six feet tall"(I thought he was a giant).; Mendelssohn "Tetzlaff on the violin loves to play softly, challenging the orchestra to also play very softly; that can be difficult for the conductor"; Berlios "You'll like this one"; Shostakovich "Not everyone likes to play Shostakovich"; and others. We talked about conductors, why one such as Nelsons was able to get so much out of an orchestra with what seemed to me to be such erratic and eccentric movements, and "The orchestra picks up on the passion of the conductor. He puts out. The orchestra responds." "Keith Lockhart, conductor for the Boston Pops, limits his movements and is more precise… it's clear what he wants you to do." We talked about Yo Yo Ma, the renowned cellist who is traveling with the BSO now and on a trip to Europe next month. I went to three of Ma's performances during the three weeks. It's apparent why he is so popular. At least three great violinists also performed revealing different styles and different strokes, each engaging the audience in various ways.


We talked about having a cookout for some members of the BSO, but they were busy entertaining relatives and friends. I wanted Nelsons, and Ma to come. That didn't work out, so we went out to Lagonia's in Chatham for pizza, and talked for about two hours. I prepared and we shared Indian food and lasagna on a couple other nights. Nat's bright charming Irish friend joined us for the lasagna. He brought a different kind of beer in every few days for me to try. We made up beds for a couple of his guests who stayed on some nights. "I don't care how you use the space," I told him. "I'm getting an awful lot from this experience."


So that final Sunday was the culmination of a three week immersion for me into the life of a gifted, struggling musician. He got me passes to the lawn for four weekends. The last Saturday night, he actually found tickets that put us into the fourth row in the Shed, just short of the stage.


The us who sat in the fourth row, and the she who was gazing at me in the first paragraph, was Mary, Nat's friend. She's a PhD. Mathematician from Ireland. I had two mornings of math seminar with her over coffee. Geometry, and specifically symmetry was her field in math. She also baked some terrific bread/cake laced with raisins and chocolate chips. She accompanied me to the Saturday night concert with the soloist and the Strauss piece. She sat next to me on the lawn on Sunday afternoon under a maple tree, entranced by Beethoven's Ninth. The music, the friendship, overwhelmed me. I got my voice back. "I just feel so grateful." I had become the guest in a wonderful world for three weeks.

Treaty with Iran

In February 2002, President George W. Bush, in his second trip to China, recalled the meeting that came out of Ping-Pong diplomacy, telling President Jiang Zemin: "Thirty years ago this week, President Richard Nixon showed the world that two vastly different governments could meet on the grounds of common interest and in a spirit of mutual respect."

Read more: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/ping-pong-diplomacy-60307544/#SIHOx8hE6yotZlUq.99

In 1972, the world watched with suspicion the move of China into the gallery of great nations. They came through a back door. A ping pong tournament. Because of the respect born on the tiny table, Richard Nixon and Chou en Lai were able to open the doors to each other's nation. A wary eye from each side has marked this relationship ever since. It would be great if there were no sides and no wary eyes. We know that the world did not end when relationships were normalized between these two great countries. We know that there have been tests of will over the years. We know there has been great good done because of the relationship. China is a huge country still controlled by a powerful few. The results of cooperation have made the world more prosperous for all, and generally more peaceful.

Barack Obama has made a similar opening to another great country, Iran. It too is controlled by a  powerful few. It's a country rich in people, natural resources, and history bearing on our Judeo-Christian heritage. The country has been ostracized as a rogue state, similar in many ways to China. The efforts to open the door to Iran has been monumental, except for missing the ping pong. An agreement has been hammered out, not perfect by any means. Agreements, compromises never are perfect. They can only be evaluated by results. If a war is prevented, if lives are saved, if the breath of freedom can be felt by another country long suffering from sanctions imposed by other nations, then the agreement  is worth it. If it's war that nations want, that can happen anytime. We do that too often. When it comes to waging peace, it takes something else. It will be good to give peace a chance.

The world will not end when relationships are normalized between Iran and the rest of the world. There will be tests of will over the years. Great good will result from this new relationship. Although Iran is a huge country controlled by a powerful few, the results of cooperation will make the world more prosperous for all, and generally more peaceful.

Be careful what you drink!

Dylann Roof is not crazy. What he did is. He slaughtered innocent black people who had welcomed him into their discussion group last week. He was the only white person there. They thought he came to discuss. He knew that he had come to kill. According to believable reports, Roof was a member of a white supremacist group that has a stated goal to kill black people. Apparently that is covered by freedom of speech.

Roof is not crazy. He was simply following the logic of the group to which he belonged. The group is a garden of hatred.  Kill black people. He took his belief to heart. He is being cheered, I'm sure, by his fellow believers who hope that others will follow the dictates of  conscience inebriated by the draught of hate, and do likewise.

People drink from the draught they choose. Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Communism, Buddhism, Atheism. There are divisions and subdivisions, offshoots and inbreeding, from all of them. Extreme versions of any of these ideologies often deny others the right to live, think, speak, even breathe, eat, or drink; they deny a right to an education, insist on inequality, supremacy for the few. They kill.

What I would like to see is something simple to happen. Thinking people, explore the destiny of the path of your chosen ideology. Where does it lead in this life? I am not talking eternity here. No one knows what happens in eternity. We believe or guess at that. It is important to know the logic of our path in this life. How does our chosen ideology allow us to interact with others on the journey who may be different from us. The common denominator: we are all on the journey. We were born naked. We go into the ground with nothing. What do our choices mean as we speak, act, live, love along the way. Bottom line…beware the draught of hate.

Nightmare

I reached for the kit. It had dozens of little figurines in it, three or more littles statues of several different chess pieces, kings, queens, knights, bishops, pawns, rooks. It was unreal. The instructions on the test stated that I had to figure out the probability of several of these little people to pop up together under each set of circumstances that would be described in the first ten questions of the exam.

It was a standardized test. I was already way behind in the timing because of some irregularities that I demanded the test proctors remedy, and that they report to the testing organization, a branch of the SAT. I was so screwed. After they distributed the test packets, the area where I was to enter my personal information on the answer sheet was ripped off and lost. My question to the proctor- Where should I enter the information. Can I have a new packet? No, there are just enough for the candidates in the room. Write it on a little piece of paper and staple it to the place where it will go. But the testing company will just throw it away, it won’t fit into their scanning machines. Do it that way. I want you to report this as an irregularity so they know the problem and that I did the test. Yeah, right.  I was wasting precious time that I needed to do the test. I’ll do it and take care of making sure they handle it after I’m finished. I returned to my place, my chair was gone. The others were working diligently on their test. I saw a huge King James(LeBron) oak chair that I managed to lug to my place. I opened my booklet, prepared my answer sheet by printing my name along the margin, stray marks that would probably invalidate the paper, and invalidate me. I read the directions about the little people. One of the other test takers sneered as he shoved the box of little people in my direction. Then he returned his eyes to his paper fearful that he might be accused of cheating. As I opened the box that was tightly wrapped in cellophane for security, I felt frustrated...so much to do...they are so far ahead… they know what they are doing...

I woke up to a sunny day and laughed out loud. My interpretation....feeling inadequate.

Veni Sancte Spiritus

Thirteen of us, young men, mid-twenties and a few older, lay on the cold marble floor in the sanctuary of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Albany, N.Y. The ceremony of ordination concluded eight years of study that prepared us for the priesthood. The choir in chant called on every saint that ever lived, and some that didn’t to “pray for us” and the angels “to intercede for us”. We all needed a lot of help to do what we were going to do. All those who ever were saintly in life would have our backs. We were not alone. Priests from within a hundred miles came and laid their hands on our heads as a sign that the Holy Spirit would guide us in some way to do a good job. One by one they came. Some pressed hard to ensure that the Spirit was there. Others not so hard. The Spirit smelled, some times like Aqua Velva, and others like he needed a bath. It had boney fingers and stubby ones. I learned that it takes all kinds to make up a Spirit. The choir struck up the 9th century hymn, Veni Sancte Spiritus, “Come Holy Spirit”. Finally we participated in our first mass with all those priests, and Bishop Edward Maginn as chief priest.

We were proud of the journey through the years in the seminary. The church was different from the time we first began to study. The second Vatican Council had occurred . Pope John 23rd had opened the doors to the fresh currents that flowed into religious circles- the use of the vernacular in rites and ceremonies instead of Latin, increased tolerance for other religions, active participation of the congregation in liturgy and parish governance, lifestyle changes for priests and religious. Perhaps a softening stand on contraception. This group of newly ordained became the vanguard to initiate the changes on the local level. We had nothing to do with the changes that were handed down. We looked forward to those in leadership positions to guide us.

Little did we know about the politics of change. We did not appreciate the depths of the old roots. Like playing follow the leader, we accepted celibacy as part of the terms of our service. “Promitto” “I promise” we responded when asked in Latin if we would be faithful and obedient to the Bishop and his successors.

Why wouldn’t we accept celibacy? We all had lifelong schooling that taught this as an excellent way to serve God. We had anticipated this commitment, had warded off temptations to abandon the pursuit of the priesthood, and here we were. There were many talks given about the value of celibacy in order to dedicate oneself to God’s work.

The first conversation I had with a spiritual director in minor seminary- the first two years in college after high school- I was asked “ Why don’t you want to get married?” My programmed response was “Because I want to be a priest and do God’s work.” I was so sure at the time. The director then said “ Wouldn’t you like to have a nice house in the suburbs...wife...kids… barbecuing on the patio?” I guess he didn’t know much about my small city background far from the suburbs. Our family of seven lived in a two story brick house in a residential neighborhood, with a small fenced in yard. I never dreamed about the suburbs. I had never been there. We only had a family car for the last three years of my high school career. Besides, that lifestyle did not fit in with the life of poverty that Jesus led. “No…,” I responded, “I hadn’t really thought much about that.” “It can be a great life,” he suggested. I thought..If that’s so great, why aren’t you there?... and then said “I would rather be a priest.” With this answer, I was cleared to go on. “You will do okay,” as he affirmed my desire.

Through the eight years of study, I managed to stay focused on my goal. Shortly before the eighth year began, I was called into the office of one of the priests at the Theological College in Washington, D.C. where I had been studying, for what was known as a “canonical examination”. This was an interview to determine my general thoughts and intentions about being a priest, and about celibacy in particular. The Church was in a state of flux. Vatican 2 had raised hopes for change in so many areas of church practice. The law of celibacy for priests was different. An effort was made by officials to assure that no one was entering the priesthood under the delusion or condition that the law would be changed. I honestly assured the examiner that my acceptance of celibacy was unconditional, and I was ready for the commitment.

Within a few months, I was ordained a deacon, and a year later, I spoke the word “Promitto” as Bishop Maginn held my hands within his in the ceremony of ordination.

“Veni Sancte Spiritus” echoed in my mind,

Come father of the poor, come giver of gifts, come light of hearts
The best Comforter, delightful guest of the mind, sweet relief.

The spirit descended and I was ready.

The House

The frustrated anxious realtor brought us to the last house of the day. “This house has been on the market a while,” she said. “I haven’t seen it yet, but it’s old.”

The aroma of baked ham, drizzling fat mingled with pineapple and cloves inhaled us into the unpretentious little house that we had passed so many times on our way to Chatham. A half mile up the road from where we were living in one of the oldest houses in Austerlitz, Dorothy and Howard Twiss were sitting in the brightly lit living room warmed  by a  glowing fire. “It’s cozy in here,” Dorothy said. “Put the baby down here while you tour.” Phyllis put Dan down on the couch next to Dorothy. Dorothy reached out and patted him a bit. “You’ll be alright. Mommy will be right back.” It was safe and warm.

“Take your time, look around; check out the upstairs,” Howard urged. “We don’t get up there much anymore.” The steep stairs brought us to three dark cob webbed laced bedrooms. There were lots of beds. “We used to take in borders,” Howard exclaimed. “It helped pay the taxes.” The upstairs hallway was tiled, but seemed to have a bulge. The bedroom doors were original and sported original 18th century hardware. The ceilings had cracks, but it was warm up there. I spied a hatch to the attic.

“We seal that off in the winter,” Howard said. “In the summer, there is a fan to cool the attic.”

“Is the space usable?” I asked.

“Well... there are no floorboards up there.” he sheepishly replied. “I needed money to put in the furnace, so I sold them to pay for it.”

We tromped down the stairs. Dan was beginning to stir. While Phyllis picked him up I studied the woodwork in the living room. It was similar to what was in the house where we were living, 1788. The plaster was cracked in a few places. The floor there was shiny, well cared for,and  ancient.

“A little  linseed oil once a year is all I do to keep them nice,” Dorothy offered.

Beautiful!!“ Phyllis told her.

Dozens of little window panes magically filtered the early moonlight, distorted through the molten glass that had drooped over hundreds of years.

“The house was built around 1790,” Dorothy informed us as we continued to wander.

The kitchen, where the roast was baking had a new linoleum floor. “We wanted it to be easy to take care of….just use mop n’ glo“ Howard boasted. “The floor’s a little uneven, but it will last a long time.”

So’s the ceiling, and it probably won’t last long at all. I thought to myself.

There was a slight uphill rise toward the chimney. “There used to be a fireplace that took up this whole wall,” Howard explained. “The floor is built over the stones where it was… that’s why it’s so uneven. The Mercer’s before us took it out so they could have a bigger kitchen.We had a wood stove here before we got the furnace.”

I opened the door to the pantry. The handwrought hinges creaked. “It gets cold in there,’ Howard said. “Cans freeze in there. We try to keep the heat in the kitchen.” I quickly closed the door. Dan was restless in his mother’s arms.

“He’s hungry. Can I nurse him in the living room?” Phyllis asked.

“Sure she can,” Dorothy shouted from the other room. “Come in here and relax.”

Dan had his first of many meals in that house.

“That small bedroom upstairs is warm and quiet. Good for the baby.” Howard said.

While Phyllis took care of Dan, Howard showed me the other living room that was set up as a bedroom. “This room used to be a post office. Maybe it was used before that as a store.” he said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The floor was really a mess when we moved in,” he explained. I put in new floorboards and then the rug to keep it warm.”

It was warm. There was a picture window facing the back of the house. “We used to take that window out during the summer,” he said. “We had cows here at one time… scared the heck out of us one day when one of ‘em stuck her head inside and mmmooooed.”

Dan was content, and back to sleep. Phyllis said, “We love it.”

“I guess we’ll get back to you,” I said. “we want to look around outside in the daylight.”

“Come any time,” Howard said. “There are five acres, and another 39 up the hill. You can buy it all if you want.”

We were excited. “Make an offer!”  the realtor suggested. “They are asking $35,000, but are anxious to move south where they have family.”

The next day, we went back. Despite the snow, we looked around outside. The garage housed Howard’s elongated 1967 Pontiac. The wall had been bumped out to accommodate that. There  was also a 1938 Rototiller that Howard had used to plant a potato garden. “It’s one of the first ones built by Frazer!” he remarked. “I’m going to leave that here if you don’t mind. When it warms up in a month, I’ll show you how to start it.” He wanted the tiller to have a new life, that he knew he could not give it. A younger man, a younger couple, children can bring life to the cold, tired landscape.The stream flowed rapidly between the ice sculptured banks toward the south. There was a small hill, apple trees, and blueberry bushes poked through the snow. Visions of sledding, pies and more pies danced in our mind.

The asking price was $35,000. We offered $25,000, and we finally agreed on $30,000 for the house and 5 acres.

As the winter snow diminished, we toured the old cobbler shop behind the house. It housed fire wood, and old tools. There was a tumble down turkey coop, a little tool shed, and a ramp that ended in  mid air where the entrance to the barn once stood.  Parts of the barn were stacked, rotting around the back of the ramp. Much of the barn had been taken away, sold to pay taxes and put a new roof on the house. “When the roof goes, the house goes” Howard advised.

The snow had covered a lot of problems: piles of debris from the barn, little hills of garbage here and there, old wagon parts rotted into the ground, wire fences along the boundaries, lying where their posts had died, now rotting, and a junked 1960 Rambler .

In mid-March, the spring sun encouraged crocus and other bulbs to peek up, and the outline of Dorothy’s gardens were revealed. Periwinkle poked out around the foundation. A bed of rudbeckia was outlining itself near the driveway. Howard dragged out the tired old Rototiller, and gave me lessons. “It’s pretty heavy, but you let it do the work… It just goes along...wear boots… sometimes you hafta’ help it out,” he explained as he ran the tiller again and again over the Rudbeckia. He let me start it. I too made a pass over the RudbecKia. “It won’t hurt the flowers,” he assured me. “They’re tough, and the tiller isn’t going too deep. Ground’s still frozen.”

We walked around a little. He opened the tool shed. “I’m leaving you these mowers… they run...I used ‘em last year. They need fresh gas,”he advised, “but they’re all you need..” The treasures were not impressive.I was not brought up with engines of any kind, and suddenly I was inheriting a barnful of yesterdays toys.

Wherever I went, outside or inside I saw work. Phyllis also saw work, but concentrated on the beauty, the setting, the antiquity, the possibility.

On April 1st, Fools’ Day, we had the closing. We checked hourly from 11:00 a.m. until 2:p.m. and by 2, the Twisses had gone south. They left a studio couch in the living room. By 3:00 , we had moved enough things in so we could be comfortable, including the crib for Dan and a changing table. With firewood, courtesy of Howard and Dorothy, I started a fire in the fireplace. Phyllis prepared shipwreck in an electric frying pan also left by the Twisses.  While the baby slept,we were warm and together by the fire. In our new space, there was no "spaces". We were all babies.

Resurrection required?

I have been thinking memoir almost around the clock lately. Then, Holy Week arrives. I continue to be  intrigued by the story of Jesus, his life, teachings, cruel and inhuman death and improbable resurrection. The stories about Jesus written over time by the"evangelists" portray a very good person, betrayed, disgraced, and crucified. We would know little about Jesus if it weren't for the writings that we have come to know as the gospels, and the new testament. He would have been a footnote in history along with the other messianic figures and rabble rousers that came on the scene to oppose the domination of the Jewish land by the harsh Roman Empire. That harshness is evidenced by the method of execution for the worst revolutionaries who challenged the rule of the Caesars, including Jesus. This humble teacher was considered a threat. He had to go.

If you follow the story in the gospel of the author called Mark, there are parables, events, miracles, and relationships. He ends it with the story about Jesus being seen by the women in his life, some disciples that are not too well known and finally by the apostles who traveled with him most of the time.

Remember Jesus. It’s a memoir.  It's similar to what I'm writing. Different in that the author of Mark tells the story in the third person. A memoir is usually in the first person. Perhaps the epistles of Paul are more akin to the first person memoir.

The stories of Jesus are compelling adventures of a great teacher, who attracted a faint hearted band of followers. The teachings stand on their own as timeless truth, lessons to live by. The parables attach new meaning to scenes from everyday life.

The tragedy of the crucifixion of this good person would be a sad and brutal ending for any story. The short resurrection ending helps us forget the tragedy and revert back to the teachings. A story of goodness requires a happy ending. A resurrection. Not only did this provide a wonderful ending to the sad story, but it made a great spin into a belief system for generations.

New endings are written every day as people encounter and survive tragedies.  New beginnings are required for the survivors. A personal resurrection.

As I write more and more of my memoir, I realize the need for a resurrection narrative of my own. I know it is there, and it’s real. What do I write? How do I write it?

The meaning of Christmas

What is the meaning of Christmas? Simply put,it's about innocence, and if the whole story is considered, the betrayal of innocence. We tend to focus on one part at a time, Good Friday celebrating the betrayal.

No matter what you think of Jesus, if he was born into this world to suffer and die, you have to wonder about a Father God who would concoct such a scheme that would target a child from birth to go through what Jesus has purportedly suffered. That is the first betrayal. Fathers should not do heinous things to their children. No excuses, no theology should speak of it, nothing, nothing should permit it. I have to believe that the Father God really had other plans, and did not approve of the situation he found his son in. If he had a do it over, a different path to salvation would have come about.

I think a second betrayal of innocence is what happens in society today. We see it in schools and on city streets throughout the world. For some reason, it has become okay to snuff out life of the innocent. Young people who have had little opportunity to blossom as individuals get destroyed, often because they happen to be in the wrong place in the neighborhood, or city, or country.

The betrayal is supported by the system that encourages revenge, an eye for an eye; a body for a body; a crime for a crime. It's supported by a bureaucracy that allows virtually anyone to have a gun. In some places, the gun can be worn as an appendage, and is used as such. The betrayal comes full circle when grand juries decide justice, denying a fair public trial based on evidence. The innocent, the victim lying in the street, and the person(s) causing the death, cry out for justice.
Justice assumed is the betrayal of innocence.

So we celebrate innocence at Christmas. We revel in it. We pray, we are mindful of its importance and it's fragile nature. We celebrate our determination to protect it, to work for it, no matter our beliefs, no matter our petty differences, no matter the thoughtless Facebook aphorisms to the contrary. Let innocence reign, please.

Hail Zeus

We shared the bread after a team effort to bake it, and then the two lively girls bowed down in adoration to their new friend Zeus. Zeus, the elegant old boxer, leapt for joy as they entered the kitchen area, prepared to take on all comers, jumping around, his 95 pounds, jostling the lithe ten-year olds, nearly knocking them over. Eventually he calmed down, and the friendship began.

Ellie and Sophie had come with Jenny to bake Bucellate, an Easter bread that I had taken on as my tradition, following in the footsteps of my mother and Italian grandmother. The recipe is different from theirs, but the ritual of making festive bread is what counts. As I got out the bowls, one for each of the four bread makers, the girls lay on the floor next to mighty Zeus, imitating his stretched out image. Then as I prepared the yeast and added ingredients to the individual bowls, they began petting him, rubbing his soft fur, certainly dislodging  a great deal of it with each stroke.

The hairs will be in the bread I thought. "Wash your hands, girls," Jenny said, " They have to be clean so you can knead the dough." Reluctantly, the girls rose up from their coddling and repaired to the bathroom to wash up. When they came to the table to mix the ingredients, Zeus followed them. His tradition was to hang around wherever there was food, hoping to have some scraps from the table. No pieces fell, but he did get a few more pats on the head from the girls, much to my chagrin since I was trying to do the process with no contamination from dog hair.

Eventually, the bread dough got mixed and kneaded the required time and was returned to the bowls for the first rise that would take about an hour. The girls went out to play in the sunny 50 degree heat that was melting the few patches of snow cover remaining from the April storm of the day before. Zeus, excited to have playmates, romped out to the stream with them. All returned within a few minutes, and then the girls, uncertain about the adults reaction,  popped the question, "Can we go wading in the stream?"

My internal reaction was "Are you crazy? That water is barely above freezing!" But Jenny said "Isn't the water cold?" "No" was the reply. "We felt it and it is very warm."  "I'll get some towels," I said, "but you have to be careful out there. There are a lot of rocks and stones that will hurt your feet." "We will be" was the response. Zeus stayed in, a little tired after all the romping.

The bread making progressed while they were in the stream. Jenny and I formed the risen dough into circles and prepared them for the second rising. The girls were a little disappointed to have missed that part, but after taking off their wet socks, they decided to explore the house. Zeus continued to rest.

Their youthful curiosity brought them upstairs into the alcove where they found the treasure trove. First, they brought down Bob, a big overstuffed furry cat. They talked to the stuffed animal that quickly became their friend. They held its paws as they introduced him to us, and carefully set him down, near his protector Zeus, so he could watch as they painted the egg white glaze onto the breads before baking.

"Did you find the frog?" I asked. "A frog... there's a frog!" they screamed with glee, and they thundered up the stairs. We heard stomping, and then thunder as they came down the stairs, each wearing a straw hat, a Huck Finn and Pancho, with Sophie solemnly bearing the green frog on her hat. They introduced the frog to Zeus and to us.

The house was filled with the aroma of the fresh bread, and we removed it from the oven. We decided to sample one loaf because it fell apart as we were removing it from the pan...so unfortunate. We tore it apart, little chunk by little chunk, and I realized that this was the best Bucellate that I had tasted in years, and there were no dog hairs. Zeus got his crumbs.

As they were about to leave, the adoration of Zeus began. First the girls knelt next to him and imitated his pose. Then they stroked and petted him. And finally turned to him and bowed their heads to the ground. "Hail...O great Zeus" they proclaimed.

Zeus saw them to the door. He got his obeisance, and ate his food, and then some leftovers from lunch.

In retrospect, over the past several months, I had noticed occasions when the great dog seemed to have difficulty getting his legs straight. I attributed that to the cold weather. He also snored a lot. All dogs do. And his appetite, except for treats, was waning. He had been coughing, perhaps kennel cough. Swallowing was difficult the past few weeks. He didn't run back into the house the way he used to. But that night, Holy Thursday, he had a seizure that lasted several minutes. After resting, he went outside for a few minutes, and then rested and panted for about ten minutes before he settled down to the evening sleep.

I had scheduled an appointment with the vet at 11:00 the next morning, but after going outside on his usual morning routine, the regal dog rested, and again had difficulty getting up, and over the next twenty minutes, panted. As I talked to the vet on the phone at 10:00 on Good Friday, Zeus stopped breathing. He had lived for twelve years. Ten of those years, he was the protector of my daughter Meg as she walked him on the streets of Boston and New Haven. He came to me and Dan just before the birth of Khaled, now one and a half years old. He was with me when my dear wife Phyllis passed shortly after the baby was born. And he charmed Ellie and Sophie the other day, so that he had a loving send off to reign on high. Hail Zeus!

Redistribution of wealth

CNN Money has an article about "Foreclosures hitting a six year low" emphasizing  "And it's coming at a good time as home prices rebound. 'There is unprecedented demand from institutional investors willing to pay with cash to buy at the foreclosure auction, helping to raise the value of properties with a foreclosure filing in 2013 by an average of 10% nationwide,' said Blomquist."

The winners are (no surprise) again the banks and the investors. Those who were foreclosed upon are screwed. This would be  almost 500,000 people in 2013, and the over a million in each of 2012 and 2011. And I wonder how many of the million or so long time unemployed have lost their  remaining life savings in this way.

What you have is an instance of a huge transfer of wealth from the bottom to the top. The foreclosures will sell at 10% or more than the foreclosure price. The banks will unload this "bad debt". Speculators will buy them at the beginning of a recovering market, and do well as they rehab a bit and resell. The folks who lost their homes will continue to plod along, having lost their most valuable possession with little hope of ever owning again.

Our millionaire congress people will continue to be on break, careless of the plight of their people. They passed a trillion dollar budget as they ignored the plight of the over a million and growing long term unempolyed.  Extending unemployment costs 27 billion. The amount of fraud in the process is minuscule in comparison to the cost. Pumping  27 billion into the economy so that some folks in dire straits can invest in their families, education, and a  life does not seem like too much to ask of our government.

As an offset, if that's necessary, why not raise the capital gains taxes on the 400 or so highest taxpayers who in 2007 and 2008 took a record share of capital gains during the meltdown years of the Great Recession, according to Forbes magazine. ( http://www.forbes.com/sites/janetnovack/2011/05/11/richest-400-took-record-share-of-capital-gains-during-market-meltdown-year/)

Joseph Stiglitz, a Nobel winning economist out of Columbia University, estimates the loss in revenue to our national treasury at $30 billion over these two years when the tax rate on capital gains was first reduced to 15%. (The Price of Inequality by Joseph Stiglitz, p. 72) Talk about redistribution of wealth, social programs are among the first to be cut or mitigated by our congress. That redistribution is from the poor to the rich, rather than vice versa as some would have us believe.

It is easy to say but the rich have earned it, and the poor haven't. If society is to work for all, all should contribute as they can. This asks more of the rich, who in turn profit from a great economy, and opens the door for others to move up the social ladder. Some of us near the middle of the ladder will dismiss this by saying "I did it myself." But I say, hold on there. It was  a different time, and the climate that lets you say that now is completely different. There are problems that need more attention than shifting blame to those who have lost much, if not all in the redistribution of wealth.

Illusions dashed-Consumer Reports

I have always liked Consumer Reports. I think I still do...but!!!

I received notice in snail mail that my subscription was up. Fair enough. I don't like to send money or checks by snail mail and echecking seems to get mixed up because I cannot send the return stub back. Somehow, just using the account number doesn't work.

I wanted to take care of the subscription as soon as possible...remove one thing from my plate, so I called the 1-800 number "for faster service". The consumer report customer service was slow, and I was placed on hold. They have terrific classical music to soothe the customers on hold, so I put the speaker phone on to enjoy the fine quality of the sound. About a minute into it, I was encouraged to take care of my business on www.consumerreports.org  and it would be easy.

I listened to more music, and another minute or so, the same message came on. This was getting to be a long hold, and the music was becoming less soothing. After about the third announcement of the www address, I keyed the address onto my browser. The home page came up, sleek, business like.

I was experienced in these things. I went to my account, knowing full well that I had never set up an account, but this was an opportunity of a lifetime. I had two choices: enter my user id and password or subscribe. I entered my email and pressed "I forgot my user id" and the message returned was no email on file. That to me was unbelievable because every organization in the world seems to be able to get to me by email, to the extent that the first five minute after I open my email in the morning is spent deleting messages from every organization under the sun, most of whom I had never contacted had my email. These are the ones who make it through my generous spam filter.

I waited on the phone, listening to more music, and finally, after a five minute wait overall, a person came on. I paid for my subscription, and then popped the how come question. "While I was waiting on hold, I was told I could take care of all my business at the .org address. How come there was no window to open an account? (get a user id, and password, and pay for my subscription)?"
My courteous rep told me I had to click on subscribe, "You have to open an online subscription for $30 to use that service."

Boy was I deflated. I would have to pay Consumer Reports $30 to manage my hard copy subscription of $26. There seems to be a disconnect here. Shouldn't an online version be cheaper than a hard copy sent via USPS? Wouldn't it make sense to encourage people to select online services with a lower price. What really boosts readership and cuts costs?
Whose side is Consumer Reports on?

Journey''s end

After two and a half weeks, I finally feel like my journey to the Mediterranean Sea area is complete. My daughter and grandson arrived home on Tuesday night, and I visited them the past couple of days.
She wanted to do the Tunisian leg of the journey on her own. She was meeting her relatives there and baby Khaled was being introduced to his grandparents on that side for the first time. It was a joyful occasion for everyone with welcome parties and birthday parties for the baby. Meg was treated to some of the beauty of this small North African country, and had much to say about the hospitality of the people. She walked around ruins that dated back over two millenia, and put her feet into the sea that was the center of the known universe for such a short time in history.
But the center of the visit was family. I can appreciate the grandfather holding the baby for the first time; singing the songs of Tunisia to his grandson. I enjoy thinking of the grandmother cradling the boy, telling him how beautiful and happy he is. I can picture the pride of his father as he spoke of his son to uncles, friends and neighbors. His aunt also loved this beautiful bundle of energy and fun.
Baby Khaled, speaking the universal language of smiles and cheer, squeals and infant sounds has proven to be a great ambassador to Turkey and Tunisia.

Travel observations

Upon reaching Taksim square after an afternoon in Kadikoy, we decided to relax, have  a nice dinner and get ready to leave. The airport “limo” was to pick us up at 10 a.m. the next day to get us to Ataturk airport so we could go through security before my plane departed at 1:15 p.m. Istanbul time.
We decided on an Indian restaurant that was a half block from the hotel. In America, when you go Indian, rice is served with almost all meals. Not in Turkey. Rice was a separate item. It was not a deal breaker, but little things like that often happen when traveling.
There were no wash cloths in our hotel room. We asked for them, and the maid said “No washcloths.” affirming and denying my request. I suppose it is important to bring a few with you while you travel, or one of those polyester puffs. Another thing that was different, but not unusual was the absence of a top sheet. A duvet over a comforter took its place.
Money is important. I worried about that part. I set out from here with 12 US dollars in my wallet. I returned with $2 and a few coins worth about 15 cents in Turkey. I suspect most of the things purchased there were rounded up to the nearest lira. Before I went, I visited my bank to make sure my debit card would work in the ATMs in Istanbul. I also called my Mastercard company to let them know I was traveling, including the dates so the card could be used abroad. These instruments both worked well. On a couple of occasions, the ATM said wrong pin, and I immediately withdrew my card, and went to another machine. The Mastercard was excellent for meals. No, I did not eat the card.
At ATMs, I would withdraw small amounts, like 80 lira ($40) so I would not be loaded up with foreign money at the end of the stay. This would not have been a problem since there are exchange kiosks at the airports.
The Metro pass was a mystery to me. Meg solved it. We had to put down a 7 lira deposit to acquire a plastic card at a store. Then, we had  to go to a machine near the Metro stop to get it charged for the amount that we estimated would be needed for the rides that we intended to take. Meg put 10 lira on the cards for each of us. The Metro plastic purchase was a bargain when compared to a taxi both in time and cost. We used the cards for ground travel and the ferry to Asia. It was really neat speeding along the streets by rail, missing the traffic tie ups and the vendors who seemed to know that the cabdrivers in the traffic jams  needed sunglasses and water, and if I rolled my window down, someone was bound to come up to the stopped vehicle with water or looking for a handout. The Metro was great, used mostly by working people who enjoyed the smile and flashing eyes of the baby.
We never figured out what to do with the cards to get our deposit back, so we left one with a friend who was staying another day, and the other in the room as a partial tip.
Security at airports always seems to be a hassle, but I suppose it is effective. At the Ataturk airport, it was necessary to pass security immediately on entering the facility. Bags had to be placed on conveyor belts, and everyone walked through a screening booth with hands held high. I had a laptop in my luggage that Meg wanted me to bring home. At first, the security person requested that I remove the laptop and send it through separately. I fumbled with several zippers on the suitcase, opened the wrong one, fumbled with the zippers on the second case, and the line was getting backed up. Finally, he said never mind, and I was through. I went to the line to get my boarding pass and check my bags.
Another screener asked if I had a laptop, and I answered yes. "Is it yours?" she inquired. I realized that I could claim ownership, but the next question in my mind would have proven me a liar, and then I might be sent to jail, so I said "No, it belonged to Yale University." The truth. She brought me back to the original luggage scanning area, and asked that I open the case and remove the laptop. Yale was written all over it, and threats about stealing it. She put it through the screening line, and then asked me to turn it on. Somehow, I found the button. She looked at the screen, pressed some more buttons, turned it off and returned it to me. She then ushered me to the head of the line for boarding passes. that was neat. I am not sure whether she put some stickers on the bag or not. Soon the bags were on their way to the plane.
When it came time to board, I went to the gate. Attendants looked at the boarding passes of the travelers, and showed them to the waiting area. As I walked through, I handed the attendant my passport and boarding pass, and she pointed me toward a ramp that led to a table. "Why are you traveling in Turkey? How long have you been here?"   "Why me?" I thought. "I'm just a gray haired old man!"  "One week, on a pleasure trip" I replied. They presented me with a sheet of paper that I had to sign twice in little boxes that were next to each other, as if to prove that I could sign the same way twice within 10 seconds. One of my signatures filled both boxes, but I wrote the second one over it. They put some stamps on my passport, and I was free to go.
Reentry at JFK...more to come.

Asia calling

Asia in the background. This was taken at a
reception at Bahceshir University
sponsored by Meg's group.
Wine and appetizers.

Meg thought it to be cool to set foot on four continents within a week, and we set out to accomplish this on Friday, our last full day in Istanbul. Across the Bosphorous River, a short Ferry ride from the Eminonu, lay the Asian side of Istanbul. The same Metro card used for land transportation is used for the ferry. Over  a quarter million people use the service daily to get to jobs in the European section, and return. The ferry from Eminonu runs every twenty minutes. All we wanted to do was cross over. The word "No" came in handy at the ferry station. There were people all over the place attempting to sell us a tour of the river for 35 Lira. "No, we just want to cross over" and someone directed us to the right wharf for that. Still we were dogged with tour offers. "No, no, no..."

We found the queue for the ferry to Kadikoy, and the tour book was correct; people push hard to get to the front. Fortunately, it was not rush hour. In about fifteen minutes, we were in Asia. 

I went into a tourist information kiosk, and was directed to the town shopping area, just up the street.

Street scenes in Kadikoy 

I took these pictures to give a flavor of this part of Istanbul. Istanbul is 99% Muslim, and probably 60% Western. The ads in the background of these photos definitely have a Western appeal. I found this to be an odd conflict, produced by Turkey's relentless pursuit to join the European community, and yet retain its ancient Muslim heritage.

Often on the street, there are shoe shine stands, a lost occupation here in the US. My father used to shine shoes in his father's barber shop in the 1920s. In Turkey, it is still a living.

The down town of Kadikoy reminds me of old down town Troy, NY except the buildings are taller and the streets a little narrower. There were no department stores as we know them, but plenty of shops where you could get what you wanted- clothing, jewelry, knickknacks, children's items. All in all, Asia was a pleasant experience going back in time only a few years. I know there is more to Asia than Istanbul, and it would be different. Some year, I hope to check out the rest of it.

We became very confident of our ability to navigate the waters and the land transportation that we took the ferry to a different location on return. We went to the Kabatas wharf, and then had only one Metro stop to Taksim square, where it continued to be sunny and cheerful.

European Istanbul from return ferry

more to come....

Grand Bazaar

The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul is in the old section of town, two stops from the Sultanhamet district where we were the day before.
 photo from Wikipedia

It is hard to capture this immense place in a photo, or in words. This is all indoors, packed with vendors and shoppers. The photo seems to be cleaned up. To me it was dimly lit and cavernous.There are a few main streets, and lots of connector streets. It is an old place that at one time was the center of commerce in this part of the world. I am guessing that you could take Crossgates mall, multiply the number of stores times 1000, and reduce the size of each store to maybe the size of your living room, you might get the picture. Then add a small front area about the width of the living room for displays, and racks of goods, and you have it. The Bazaar is divided into sections for gold, silver, copper, bronze, etc., jewelry,dry goods, spices, carpets, and more. there seem to be hundreds of shops in each category. No price tags on anything, forced an interaction between the shopper and the vendor.
So Meg, Khaled and I ventured into this huge building with a few things in mind: a shawls, some trinkets, and a handbag. Meg wanted to get a Longchamps bag. We looked over a number of bag displays, and what I thought looked good, she dismissed as cheap knockoffs. We then inquired in one shop about Longchamps bags. The vendor did not carry that line, and a young boy was assigned to us to usher us through the streets to a Longchamps supplied shop. His first attempt was incorrect, and that vendor had him lead us to another shop. We came to a display of bags, and he said something that made us believe we had arrived at bag almighty.
Soon, a young man approached us, and we told him what we were looking for. He opened a door next to the display and we were in handbag heaven. It was a bright, air conditioned room, way smaller than your living room. Handbags on the shelves. No Longchamps on display. Another man came in. Meg described what she wanted. He told us to have a seat, and he would be right back. He probably went to what we would call the basement or store room, and returned in 5 minutes with an armload of Longchamps in a variety of colors. He poured them out on the floor. Meg seemed to know that they were genuine, and she chose a color that the vendor agreed was very beautiful. "How much?" Meg inquired. "90 lira."  "Will you take 60?" she shot back. "No! Maybe 80." She offered 70 and the deal was struck at 75. " Would you like another?" he asked. But Meg declined.
Meg wanted to see the carpet section. The bag man had a friend who sold them, and another young man ushered us to the brother's carpet shop. We were ushered into a secret room, and the pitch was about to begin. Meg explained that we were not about to buy anything. The man was nice enough to back off, and let us admire the rugs. Upon leaving that shop, we noticed another that was more open. On the back wall there hung a huge carpet, worth $25,000. It was beautiful, way better than Huck Finn's Warehouse. But we could not carry it so we didn't buy it.
We were looking for some gifts for me to take back for friends and relatives. Vendors of shawls were all over. We came to a place that had wool, cotton, silk, pashmin, and blends. Honestly, they were all beautiful, and every one of them as priced seemed like a bargain. 40 lira was the highest priced. Nevertheless, Meg would not settle for their price. She manged to get the price down 5 lira on a mid-priced shawl, and then we chose one that was a traditional Ottoman pattern. The silk felt elegant to touch. We looked through some of the gold and silver shops on our way to find some memento type jewelry for gifts.
On the corner, a  bracelet display caught Meg's eye. When the vendor came up to us, he gave us some prices, and then found some that we less expensive, and oddly the price was not bad. Meg haggled a bit. We bought three bracelets. When the man found out that it was Khaled's first birthday, he pinned a traditional "evil eye" charm on him to ward off the evil eyes (poverty, disease, etc.) of life.
My honed math skills came in handy here, The three bracelets cost 30 lira. I had only 20 lira and one ten dollar bill in my wallet. I  offered the ten dollar bill as partial payment. The man said sure. So I  gave him just 10 lira and the ten dollars in payment. He was hoping for the 20  lira, plus the ten. He was obviously disappointed, but knew it was right.
We eventually left the Grand Bazaar, had a drink of bottled water, used the public WC where you had to pay a lira to urinate or squat in a trough. We made our way to the Metro.
After dinner, while relaxing, the phone rang in our room. It was for baby Khaled. The management had a complimentary birthday cake to deliver to him. It came with two candles...one for the first year and one for the upcoming second year. Two layers of chocolate sandwiched slices of banana. Delicious.
It was a great beginning for the second year of life. (More to come)

A day to tour

I spent breakfast the next morning trying to figure out what had happened the night before. No one was talking about it. Al Jazeera English had no news. The Wall Street Journal had nothing. Apparently a demonstration in Taksim Square is not news.
Meg did not have to be at her conference until 2:30, so on the anniversary of 9/11 Baby Khaled, Meg, and I headed out for sightseeing. We didn't get far before someone asked us where we were from. "New York!" we replied in unison, and then the person said, "I'm sorry." referring to the 9/11 attack twelve years ago.
We got into a taxi, and told the driver to take us to the Blue Mosque. He pointed out some of the sights along the way, other mosques that were important, and ruins dating back to Constantine.
We then came into a section of town where the streets were lined with merchandise, mostly hardware: tools, both hand and power, small tractors and mowers, carpets, tiles, lumber, shower, bath, toilet and kitchen fixtures. There were competing vendors and there were a stores with more stuff. In my mind, I saw Home Depot before there was such a place. "This street is deserted at night, the driver said, "no one comes down here." That answered a question of logistics that was gnawing at me, "Do they take this stuff in at night, and how do they do it?"  I guess it is all a permanent extension of the store, and no one dares to steal in Turkey.
We arrived at a place in the street near the Blue Mosque. It appeared to be a dead end, and we were greeted by a man who was very friendly. He would show us how to get to the mosque. We assumed he was some kind of tour guide there to help ease the traffic flow. He led us down a street past some beautiful shops. He was cheerful and seemed helpful. He offered to walk us to the mosque. "No." I said, "just point us in the right direction." And he did, through another block of restaurants and shops. We found our way without him.
In retrospect, this was a neat set up for the tourist industry, one of many to take advantage of the tourist. the cab driver could have easily dropped us off closer to where the mosque was. Instead, he left us where we were actually preyed upon by a man who wanted us either to buy his guided tour, and short of that, introduce us to the wonderful shops and dining facilities in that old section of Istanbul.
The guide books about Istanbul have a short section with word to use while getting around the city. Translations of hello, good morning, yes, no, and thank you. I think the most important one to actually learn is thank you. The others are for the most part understandable around the world. And we used the word "No" a lot. That is a big word when confronted with the many dealers on the streets in any big city.
Meg told me not to use hand gestures since they may be interpreted as rude or insulting. I probably insulted a half dozen people an hour during our stay. Thumbs up is okay.
We made it to the Blue Mosque, or the Sultan Ahmed mosque built by him in the early 1600s. It was beautiful outside and in. There was a long line, and many steps to climb with the stroller before we actually entered. A man came and offered to take us on a tour that would eliminate the lines and get us to see some extra parts of the mosque. "45 Euros". That is between 65 and 90 US dollars. "No!" We waited our turn. At the top of the steps, fifteen or so, we had to abandon the stroller... not allowed. We took off our shoes, and carried them in a furnished plastic bag. Meg donned her shawl. Other women were given a shawl, and even a robe if not attired properly.
We then strolled through the part of the mosque that was reserved for visitors. the prayer area was cordoned off. Both sections were huge, and the blue beauty of the mosque was astounding. It, as with many of the mosques and churches are remarkable in structure, vastness, and proportion. These were all built before the age of steel, and will probably not be duplicated too soon.
As we exited, we put on our shoes, found the stroller, and headed to Aya Sophia.               
                   photo is from http://www.hagiasophia.com/listingview.php?listingID=18

From the same web site:

"Hagia Sophia was choosen a world heritage site by UNESCO in 1985. "Rebuilt by the orders of Emperor Justinian in 537, for 900 years Hagia Sophia had been the center of Orthodox Christianity until 1453 when the city was concurred by Ottomans. 500 years following the conquest of Muslims, it became a jewel for the Muslim world and as the grand mosque of the sultans. "In 1935, Hagia Sophia had been converted into a museum of Turkish Republic by the orders of Ataturk, and became one of the most significant monuments not only in Turkey but on earth with its architecture and its historical richness."

It was neat walking around a building dating from before the fifth century. The only thing that old around here are rocks.

After touring this vast museum, we walked back to the street which we had been shown to by our first guide, and had lunch.

 It was a narrow street, the width of two cars. You could call it two lanes, but one of the lanes was used for parking, and it was a dead end for traffic. We sat an elbow from the traffic. Perhaps two cars came up the street to turn around during our lunch.

We were running out of time. Meg had to get back. We realized that it would take hours to travel by taxi, so we decided to use the Metro (they call it that). We figured it out. Meg carried the baby, and I had the stroller. Immediately, two people gave up their seats on the train: to Meg because she was  carrying the baby, and to me because I was a tired old man. Of course Khaled rewarded the other passengers with lots of wide eyes and smiles. We had to transfer to get to Taksim Square station, and then climb about 50 steps to the square where there was no evidence of the previous night's protest... just sun and fun. "No!" to the kid who was selling tiny packs of kleenex for 1TL (50  cents). And "No!" to the guy selling water, and "No!" to the woman who offered to baby sit (or was that a proposition?) ...more to come.

Some Photos from Istanbul

At Taksim Square

Street behind Aga Triada

Aya Triada- Holy Trinity

Icon in A. Triada

Icon in A. Triada

 

Blue mosque - Sutanhamet

Blue mosque interior

Aya Sophia interior

crossing the Bosphorus to Asia

Fruit vendor cart in Taksim Square

Looking for treasures at Taksim Square