Swiss Miss

"Each friend represents a world in us, 

a world not possibly born until they arrive, 

and it is only by this meeting that this new world is born."

- Anäis Nin, Cuban-French writer/Bohemian (1903-1977)

A re-connection with an old friend, whom I hadn't heard from in quite some time. Nicole was studying at La Sorbonne during the same summer session as myself in Paris, 2000. She was an important cog in the machinery of friendship that was born of the lunacy of that time. She recently emailed me, saying she is back across the pond, traveling and tasting some of the nectar that Europe has to offer. 

Whilst in Switzerland, she went bungee jumping and hang gliding in the majesty of the Alps. She sent some pretty amazing pictures, and here are a few. She said she's conquering her fear of heights, but I suspect she's a bit of an adrenaline junky, as I know she's also enjoyed the thrill of sky-diving.

That last shot is of us, from Paris in 2000. A night out on the town, at a restaurant called (I believe) Coq au Vin, but that may be what we had for dinner. That's my roomie, P, in the background.

KJT - Stockhorn & Interlaken, Switzerland via Nicole (2008), and Paris (2000)

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Your Soul is Melting

"The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature."

- Anne Frank, German Jewish writer/humanist (1929-1945)

Three friends, a few tents, large quantities of beer, and some of nature's northwest bounty.

One of the great things about Seattle is the close proximity to lots of interesting things to do. Within a half hour drive there is great camping, hiking, skiing, many lakes, the Puget Sound, beaches, parks and trails. A little further out and you can really get away. 

We loaded up RJ's van with tents, stoves, coolers, and chairs and set off for a quick camping excursion. We took the ferry across the Sound to Bainbridge Island and hopped across to the Olympic Peninsula and headed north. After a couple hours we found ourselves a great camping area a little way off the beaten path. It was high up in the Olympics above the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The weather was a bit chilly and foggy, but we didn't mind. It was just good to be away.

We woke up in the foggy, grey dawn and I boiled water for French press coffee. Sitting in the stillness of the morning, the enormity of the wild, the hot coffee warming the hands as the birdsong welcomed the new day was invigorating. We hiked through quiet, lush forests and up steep, rocky trails above the tree line. Skirted snow fields and tightroped along narrow ridges overlooking deep, wide valleys on either side. Deer Park to Obstruction Point and back - 15 miles round trip. On a clear day you could see across the Strait, past the shipping lanes, all the way to Vancouver Island, Canada. Vertigo and exaltation. The fog shrouded the mountains and gave the area a feeling of quiet solitude, of generations past, of forgotten times.

The nights were spent around the campfire. Cheap beer and expensive tequila were passed around. We talked of politics and of philosophy. We discussed passion, sex, art, music, and food. We spoke of books and movies and thoughts and dreams. We stared, mesmerized, at the fire until the logs burned down and the coals glowed hot. I noticed that P's shoes were too close to the heat and were beginning to soften. "Your sole is melting," I said to him. He stared dreamily into the radiant coals and nodded, "Yeah, man. My soul is melting." I began to laugh, and pointed at his smoking shoes. "No, your SOLE is MELTING!" I cackled. He jumped up and shuffled his feet in the dirt. We laughed until the tears ran. 

Long into the night we waited for the occasional break in the clouds to give us a glimpse of the myriad kaleidoscope of stars and planets. The heavens high above and the tall trees encircling us relaxed and cheered our hearts. A shooting star painted the night sky. Our souls were rejuvenated and our spirits cleansed.

KJT - The Olympic Peninsula, WA (2006)

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Remembrance of Things Past

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness."

- Mark Twain, American humorist/writer (1835-1910)

This being Independence Day sparked a particularly strong memory of times past...

During the summer of 2000 I lived in Paris for a period of several months, studying the French language at La Sorbonne. I lived on the 5th floor of an apartment in the 5th arrondissement, a few blocks from Notre Dame - the famed Left Bank. The building was just around the corner from Place Maubert. I was quite a bit older than most of the students in my classes. Most were just out of high school or in their first few years of college while I had already earned my bachelor's degree. My roommate, P, was a nutty man and very much shared my world view of bohemianism, hedonism, and wanderlust.

 

On this particular day (that happened to be July the 4th), we were all standing around outside the classroom building in Montparnasse. We were trying to decide where we should go to dinner that evening. One young lady spoke up that we should call first to make sure the restaurant would be open. P and I looked at each other somewhat confused, and asked her why they wouldn't be open? She replied that some things might be closed because it was the Fourth of July. We laughed and asked her why the French would feel it necessary to close for an American holiday that, while they had helped to bring about, they certainly didn't celebrate. She didn't understand, and we had to patiently explain to her that while certain holidays were truly world-wide events, such as Christmas, Easter, Yom Kippur and Ramadan, others that we celebrated in the states such as Independence Day and Thanksgiving were not celebrated or even known in most "foreign" countries. It took a while of explaining, but eventually you could see the dawn of comprehension in her eyes. It was kind of a cool moment. She had just shaken off the veil of ignorance that we all wear from time to time, but that is most permanent on those who haven't ventured from their home shores, or even home towns. She really began to look at things differently after that day. It may have been one of the best lessons she learned during that whole summer.

KJT - Paris, France (2000)

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El Aniversario

"A wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, 

trust, partnership, tolerance and tenacity. 

The order varies for any given year."

- Paul Sweeney, American writer

We rented a villa on a cliff overlooking the bay. It had five different levels, nine bedrooms, a swimming pool on a wide balcony, a pool table, and came with a cook and a bartender/housekeeper. We invited a small group of our closest friends to fly down and celebrate with us. It was June, the rainy season in Mexico. We were lucky during the days, the sun was out and it was hot. Every evening the clouds and wind would roll in from the west and there would be fantastic lightning storms out over the bahía de banderas. We would all sit out on the balcony in the warm rain, drinking margaritas, Mexican beer, mojitos, and watch the white sheets explode out over the water and slash down to strike the surface. It was beautiful and terrible. The days were spent snorkeling, shopping, deep sea fishing, swimming, and just lounging about. We would read for a bit, and then the housekeeper might ask if we wanted a drink or a shrimp quesadilla and perhaps some guacamole? "Splendid idea," we'd say. 

On the afternoon of the 19th, we all went out to Le Kliff and Stacie and I were married in a semi-traditional Mexican ceremony. She wore a beautiful pale pink sun dress and I had on hemp cotton pants, a Mexican shirt and sandals. The short, succinct ceremony was on a promontory out above the water of the bay. Afterwards we all traipsed up to the restaurant above and had a gigantic feast. Lobster, shrimp, chicken, and pork along side fresh flounder, snapper, tuna, salmon and scallops. Margaritas and Sangria in bowls the size of your head. G got drunk and made an ass of herself. We all laughed. She played the fool quite well, and wandered off with a taxi cab driver. Back at the villa, we were all in our cups, jumping into the swimming pool, cracking more beer, laughing, playing, and watching the storm show out over the dark water as the warm rain washed us clean. 

Best week of my life.

KJT - Puerto Vallarta, Mexico (2004)

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St. Michael's Mountain

"I believe in nothing, everything is sacred.

I believe in everything, nothing is sacred."

- Tom Robbins "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" (1976)

Paris > Rennes > Pontorson. Trains are the only way to travel.

We headed out from the City of Light, pilgrims to witness the splendor of Le Mont Saint-Michel: a small stony island in the tidal flats of the mouth of the Couesnon River, on the coast of Normandie. An abbey was built on the island around the year 700, and repeatedly added-on and built-up over the centuries. It had been used as a monastery, a site of pilgrimage, a fortification during the 100 Years War, a prison, a church again, and finally a tourist trap. We booked a hotel in Pontorson, whose only claim to fame is that it is the closest train station to the abbey. We missed the last bus out to the Mont so had to share a taxi. We wandered through the snake-like lanes of the abbey, stopped in at several cafés for cocktails, and had a quick dinner of agneau de pré-salé (salt meadow lamb), a delicious local specialty. We stood out on the high parapets and gazed over the countryside. In years past the Mont had been connected to the mainland only during low tides by a narrow causeway. During high tides it was completely cut off. The tides could come in at an alarming 6 1/2 feet per second and vary by 46 feet between low and high. A permanent land bridge had been constructed in 1879.

 

We watched in amazement as the water rushed in, and what was a vast field moments before was transformed into a churning, frothy sea. It was well past dark when we decided to depart. We began walking back along the causeway with our thumbs held out. Very soon a car pulled over and a nutty Italian couple leaned out the window. Eliano & Cinzia asked us in an absurd mix of broken English, bad French and frenetic Italian if we needed a ride. We laughed and jumped in. The trek back to town was a chaotic journey as we all tried to communicate with one another and succeeded only minimally. But they were great fun and we asked them if we could buy them a drink when we arrived back in town. We stopped at a small café and continued the ridiculous attempt at conversation over wine, Ricard, and Sambuca. They lived southwest of Rome and were on their honeymoon. We laughed long into the night and made plans to see them again when our journey took us south into Italy.

KJT - Le Mont Saint-Michel, Normandie, France (1998)

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Simple Pleasures

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, 

"what's the first thing you say to yourself?" 

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same thing," he said.

- A. A. Milne, "The House at Pooh Corner" (1928)

I received some duck eggs. Fresh duck eggs. A good friend 

(and photographer extraordinaire), Earl, raises chickens & ducks. He and his wife, Doreen, were gracious enough to gift us some eggs from both fowl. If you've never had fresh, real farm eggs, either from a chicken or a duck, you are truly missing out on one of life's simple pleasures. The taste is wholly incomparable to the eggs you buy in a grocery store. And the duck egg - that is in a different realm all together. Bigger, with a larger, creamier yolk, it is a gift befitting a king. I like eggs in any and all manner of preparation, but these fresh duck eggs I needed to eat simply. I poached two of them this morning and lightly dusted them with ground sea salt and fresh ground pepper. At the same time I made some grilled sourdough toast and a few pieces of bacon. I ate the eggs first, mopping up the yolk with the toast and finishing with the bacon. Simple, elegant, delicious. 

A finer breakfast I've not had in a long while. Rounding it out was a rich espresso prepared with a pinch of cardamom.

KJT - Seattle (2008)

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Viva Ziya!

"Young is the one who plunges into the future and never looks back."

- Milan Kundera, Czech writer/philosopher (1929—)

UPDATE: Ziya Zappa, RJ and KM are now back at home and (hopefully) resting comfortably. The new kid had quite a momentous and terrifying birth. I'll not go into details, but it's enough to say we are all thanking whatever higher power we believe in for smiling down upon our friends. They were, however, given the green light from the doctors so all seems well. May their days be filled with wonder and joy, their nights filled with peace and love, and their lives long, interesting, and full of adventure.

Cheers, friends!

KJT - Seattle (2008) Photos by the family

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Alpine Repast

"Landscapes have a language of their own,

expressing the soul of the things, lofty or humble,

which constitute them, from the mighty peaks 

to the smallest of the tiny flowers hidden in the meadow's grass."

- Alexandra David-Néel, Belgian-French writer, explorer, spiritualist (1868-1969)

We had been searching for peanut butter through three countries. We had seen (and consumed) lots of Nutella, some paté, butter, honey, jams and preserves, but had found no peanut butter. Until we stumbled into a small shop in Zurich. There on the top shelf, a bit dusty and lonely looking, sat a small jar of that golden goodness. We bought the jar, some salmon paté, a couple beers, and a thick loaf of dark, German bread. We then took a Swiss train high up into the mountains, next stop: the Principality of Liechtenstein. We changed trains in Vaduz and continued up on a slow local. We disembarked, took a right outside the train station and began to climb. The road cut back and forth across the steep hillside. After some time we veered off of the road onto a well-worn path. We followed that through a thicket of trees, over a couple more hills, and were treated to a sight straight out of The Sound of Music. A lush, green Alpine meadow studded with yellow wildflowers dropped away to a small village of lovely chalets. Beyond the village the earth rose up again to tower in the clouds. The peaks cresting above the valley (the Gorfion and Augstenburg) were still ringed with snow, but the air was warm and fragrant where we were. We hopped the fence, laid down on the verdant hassock and opened up the beers. We toasted the beauty of the scene. Breaking the bread, we slathered the peanut butter on rough hunks and ate them voraciously. Alternately we scooped out the paté, and with the beer ate a very passable lunch under the noonday sun.

KJT - Malbun, Liechtenstein (1998)

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The Big Easy

"There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God, I know I'm one..."

- The Animals, "House of the Rising Sun" (1964)

It was late. We were all quite "in our cups" as I liked to say. We had made the introduction of the Mint Julep, the Ramos Gin Fizz, a Hurricane, and numerous beers. We'd been imbibing since dinner 

(red beans & rice/crawfish po' boys) - and it was now well past midnight. We had roamed from one bar to the next inside the French Quarter. Our only criteria: live music. And we'd found a smorgasbord. All evening we'd been treated to the best the Crescent City had to offer: a rich musical gumbo of funk, jazz, blues, cajun, and second line sounds all liberally seasoned with as much trumpet, sax, tuba, trombone, and stride piano as we could stomach. Now, as we stumbled along Decatur street some distance from Jackson Square, we could smell the Mississippi just over the levee. We were making a roundabout way back to our hotel as a vague light in the eastern sky was slowly erasing the dark. Suddenly P stopped short. "Wait," he hissed. "Listen." In the distance we could just make out the high, thin wail of a lone brass instrument. "BONE!" P cried. "I hear trombone!" He had a huge, Cheshire grin and a wild, manic light in his eyes. He raised his finger and pointed. "This way..." He turned north and began to follow the music, being led by the pied piper once again. We looked at each other, shrugged and then followed willingly, realizing that this night would not end with the dawn...

KJT - New Orleans, Louisiana (2003)

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Ziya Zappa May

"Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible."

- Frank Zappa, American composer & musician (1940-1993)

Welcome to the world! Cigars are in order.

My good friends, RJ & KM, had their baby boy last night (June 9th, 2008) at 7:01 PM. "Ziya Zappa" weighed in at 8.4lbs and he was 20.5 inches. Ziya: gender=masculine, derived from Arabic (diya) meaning "splendor, light, glow." Congrats to both of them, especially KM for going through 28 HOURS of labor. Good grief!

I raise my glass to all three of them, Sláinte!

KJT - Seattle (2008)

Photo by Stacie, from Havana (2004)

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Georgetown Art Attack

"The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls."

- Pablo Picasso, Spanish artist (1881-1973)

(PAINTINGS and PHOTOS by DORIK DOWNING)

My good friend, Dorik (Double D), is having an ART SHOW this Saturday, June 14th, 2008 from 4 to 9 pm. 

It's at Earl Harper Studios in Georgetown (Seattle). 

Should be a good weekend. 

It's the Georgetown Art Attack on Saturday night, 

and the Georgetown Music Fest Friday and Saturday.

Harper Studios is located just south of downtown (sort of near the stadiums - well, south of Spokane Street) on Airport Way South, two doors south of Stellar Pizza. Address is 5531 Airport Way South, 

Studio B, Seattle, WA 98108. Phone is 206.763.9101.

He'll have paintings for sale, there are numerous bars, coffeeshops and cafés right there, live music, food, fun, etc. 

Hope I see you there...

SUPPORT LOCAL ARTISTS!

KJT - Seattle (2008)

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