December 11, 2017

Pennington Street Garage, Tucson. March, 2011

OK, what is this? Among the many public art projects that my friend Simon has devised in and around his hometown of Tucson are these panels to enhance a downtown parking garage. Charged with retaining the natural light of the garage’s open spaces, with designing something that would look good in both daylight and at night, and with keeping the materials’ budget as low as possible, here’s what he came up with: diagonal panels that zig-zag across the openings on each level, made from two perforated sheets of aluminum sandwiched together with blue and golden marble in between. Sunlight reflects off of them and also shines through them, bringing a watery shimmer into the garage. At night, lights inside the garage provide the opposite effect, illuminating the panels from within. When I showed this project to my friend Ted on his recent visit to Tucson, he wondered, “How do people come up with great ideas like this?” Ask Simon.

December 10, 2017

Çukurcuma, Istanbul. October, 2011

It was drizzling and raining on and off. We’d just had lunch with our new Istanbul friend Cenk, then stopped for a quince dessert before descending the very steep streets to this neighborhood of antiques dealers, one we’d read about in Orhan Pamuk’s extraordinary novel The Museum of Innocence. Jay had loved the book as much as I did, and I had promised I’d show him the area. Who would have thought we’d find the actual corner, the very house so pivotal to the book’s narrative...and that when we found it, we’d spy this plaque! A real museum? Even more remarkable, just then a small group from the German Bundestag approached in the rain, knocked on the door, it opened and they started to enter. When they told me they were having an “exclusive” advance tour, somehow I was bold enough to ask, “Can we join you?” They kindly asked the museum proprietress who said no. In Turkish I implored, “Lutfen?” (Please.) Then a miracle happened. As if entering the door to Alice’s rabbit hole, we were allowed into the most magical and wondrous and teary hour of our trip. Among the many obsessive treats in store when the museum opens to the public this spring: hundreds and hundreds of lipstick-stained cigarette butts, gathered after the novel’s “loved one” has dropped them, mounted as precisely and as tenderly as butterflies in a science display. Mesmerizing.

December 9, 2017

Coimbra, Portugal. October, 2009

It’s a given that the internet has made the world a smaller place. Or at least a more connected, accessible one. So why should I be shocked when I receive a comment here from a reader in Portugal, mentioning he’s been following SLS for some time now and saying, “Every day is a great and funny surprise”? But shocked (and thrilled) I was, maybe because the beautiful town he’s from, Coimbra, is one of my favorites. Our first overnight in Portugal. Our introduction to hearty Portuguese meals (and portion sizes!) Our initial encounter with pastéis de nata, the splendid custard tarts, which we then sampled as often as possible. And a memorable lazy Sunday afternoon spent sitting in a riverfront park along with like-minded locals. Earlier that day, we’d run through this same park, along the river, in and out of the dense morning fog. But once the sun came out, we were ready, just like this guy, to observe a wonderful day of rest. And to my new friend in Coimbra: Olá, Miguel, e muito obrigado.

December 8, 2017

Santorini, Greece. October, 2011

This volcanic Greek Isle, thought by some to be inspiration for the legendary Atlantis, blew its top a long time ago. The result: a deep, deep harbor (so deep that our ship, seen here, couldn’t drop anchor) called the caldera, surrounded by a number of remaining border islands. When you leave your ship and get transferred to the small dock area, you have three choices to get to the town 1,000 feet up on the cliffs. 1. A cable car for 4 euros. 2. A donkey ride for 5 euros. 3. Walk up a switchback path (carefully, because it’s the same path the donkeys take) for no euros. We opted for the cable car, as you can see. The donkey option sounded “authentic,” but everyone we know who made that choice smelled like donkey for the rest of the day. Some for longer.

December 7, 2017

Lynn, MA. September, 2011

Peter Madden and I have been friends for some 30 years. Since before he decided to go to art school, move to New England from NYC (where he grew up on Jane Street), and before he became an acclaimed book artist, admirably blurring the lines between book making and fine art. From early on, we’ve both shared an inordinate interest in singer Ronee Blakley and the films of Russ Meyer, specifically those featuring the late, great Tura Satana. In the years since Peter has gone legit, he’s taught and been an inspiration to countless students and has exhibited his work around the world. And whenever one of those exhibitions is local, I try to attend. Like this one, ‘Beyond the Book,’ at nearby LynnArts Center. You can see one of his stitched, accordion-pleated books in the back on the left, one of his cyan prints on the wall behind his head. Built from the simplest of materials and infused with his talent for quirky memoir, no wonder his books have such appeal.

December 6, 2017

Monemvasia, Greece. October, 2011

Our only stop in the Peloponnese, this beautiful medieval town has, like many coastal towns in Greece, an old city and a new one. This is the old one, a pedestrian-only island connected to the mainland by a thin causeway (off the left of the photo) that can barely accommodate the width of one car. (Monemvasia actually means “single entrance.”) The city was founded by the Byzantines in the sixth century and, as with other fortified ports in this part of the world, was conquered by the Franks, the Byzantines again, Catalonian mercenaries, Turks, Venetians, Turks again, Greeks, and now by tourists. Cobbled alleys and paths, many staircases built into steep cliffs, houses established wherever space appeared, often on the cliffs themselves between existing structures. Look at the top over towards the right. See the domed building? It, too, has a checkered past. Built in the 12th century as a Byzantine church (one of 40 in the small town), it became a mosque under the Turks and a church under the Venetians, etc. It’s called Agia Sofia reportedly because it was said to resemble its namesake in Constantinople. Only about 100 times smaller. Still, a lovely visual reward for our vigorous climb to the top.

December 5, 2017

Lucca, Italy. October, 1984

Long ago, when I was part of an international Mail Art exchange, my posts crossed paths with those of Antonio, a stranger to me then in Lucca. So when I was planning my first extended solo trip to Italy, he and I made sure we met. I arrived by train, Antonio took me to his family’s home, and later, introduced me to his girlfriend Roberta at the restaurant you see here. I wish I could remember the location or what we ate, but those memories are all overwhelmed by this one. The owner, for reasons only he can fathom, came out dressed as a woman (fully made up, wig, padded bra) and chatted with all the customers. No one batted an eye. One lunchtime at Antonio’s parents’ table, we were watching an Italian TV variety show (hosted, I think, by Fellini star Sandra Milo) and a man came out holding a flute, backed by a full orchestra. When the time came in the piece for the flutist’s entrance, the man played it fiercely. With his nose! Again, no one batted an eye. But I was astonished and started to giggle. Antonio’s family looked at me as if I were the strange one. And, under the circumstances, I may have been.

December 4, 2017

Cambridge, MA. Winter, 1980s

This is a color photograph. Taken in front of our old home at 125c Oxford Street after a surprise snowfall. One of the nice things about 125c was the off-street parking, a rarity in Cambridge, which really came in handy on days like this. (Snow-related street parking bans made the few precious spots even fewer.) That’s Jay, front and center, and the presence of a broom leaning against my car leads me to believe that this was not a major snowfall, though it looks like a heavy, wet one, no? We lived in this open-plan townhouse together for 10 years. And after we both moved, I lived there again some 10 years later, only leaving when an aggressively troublesome neighbor and her artless piano playing at all hours drove me up a wall. Actually into a wall -- I put my fist through one in anger and frustration and, after I calmed down and eventually repaired the wall, realized it was time to move on. A good move as it happens.

December 3, 2017

Košice, Czechoslovakia. July, 1972

Even though I don’t like the twerpy way I look in the photo, I do like the people in it. Especially Magda, a cousin of my friend Robert whose family we were visiting behind the Iron Curtain. She taught me some Czech (“Good night” and “next year”), I taught her some English (“Please” and “Thank you.”) My favorite of her English pronunciations was her reply every time I thanked her: “You wel cun.” Close enough. She and her husband and their son, Daniel, hosted us on their small farm for several days, bringing us tumblers of still-warm fresh milk and equally sized glasses of vodka for breakfast. Magda was the disciplinarian in the family and I still remember with astonishment how hard she slapped Daniel once when he back-talked. One night, staying with them in a vacation cabin (no electricity, no running water) here in the Tatry Mountains, I HAD TO wash my hair. I heard water. I snuck out of the cabin with my shampoo (and, truth be told, my creme rinse) and tiptoed to a nearby stream. In the morning, another cousin indicated she’d witnessed my little adventure and said something unfamiliar to me in Czech. We looked it up in the bilingual dictionary: “Snakes.”

December 2, 2017

Barcelona. November, 2010

Comimos de todo. One of the Pimsleur Spanish lessons that I studied before heading back to Spain included this essential phrase for “We ate a little of everything.” Or, as was sometimes the case with us, “We ate everything, period.” Take, for example, our first lunch in Barcelona on a recent visit. We were hungry, tired from a transatlantic flight and a plane change in Madrid. We started walking and wound up, as luck would have it, at El Xampanyet in the El Born section of the city, just across the street from the Picasso Museum. Small and welcoming, this tapas bar, we found out, prides itself on the quality of its fish. Especially its marinated anchovies and sardines of all kinds, some of which are seen here. Accompanied by a plate of artichoke hearts, some potato croquetas, some ham, some was just what we wanted. And so easy, especially when the welcoming and super-friendly waitress made helpful Spanish, in English, in French. Impressed, I said to her in Spanish, “You speak so many languages.” To which she modestly replied, “Yo hablo nada.”

December 1, 2017

Bari, Italy. May, 1988

Folks in this town on the Adriatic coast sometimes say, “Se Parigi avesse il mare, sarebbe una piccola Bari.” (“If Paris had the sea, it would be a little Bari.”) Um, that wasn’t really my first impression. I kept driving in circles, fruitlessly trying to find a place to park. But that minor annoyance quickly faded when Nick and I called upon Paola, a wonderful Roman woman who had settled in this Pugliese town, famed for its homeboy Saint Nicholas. (Though in Bari, he’s a saint, period; not a jolly heavy-set guy prone to red wardrobes and seasonal gift-giving. They leave that responsibility to a witch called La Befana.) Paola welcomed us into her home and, even though she couldn’t join us for a meal, she kindly made a lunch reservation for us at a great restaurant, Vecchia Bari, calling the chef to make specific recommendations as to which dishes he might serve us, among them the traditional Barese orecchiette con cime di rapa. (Later, Paola wrote out her own recipe for me in her spidery, Italian handwriting.) After lunch and a walk about town, I was driving Paola to the class Nick was going to teach at her cooking club, and she kept admonishing me in English that I was going way too fast (“I’m so angry,” she repeatedly said, meaning “scared.”) I love this picture. If all of Bari were as nice as Paola, Paris would have something to aspire to.

November 30, 2017

Lisbon. November, 2010

Our only other visit to Lisbon (aside from a plane touchdown in 1995) had been in October, 2009, so we were unprepared this time for the city’s beginning to decorate itself for Christmas. Lights strung across streets in the Bairro Alto. Stores beginning to bling up their windows and facades. “Boas Festas” signs all over the place. Look at the snowballs or globes or whatever hung above the pedestrian street Rua das Portas de Santo Antão seen here on our way back from another satisfying dinner at A Esquina da Fé. Some guidebooks warn that this neighborhood may be too dangerous for tourists to stroll. What? That has never been our impression. We want the real Lisbon (and its restaurants), not the sanitized Disneyed attractions on offer to the timid. And besides, who would possibly misbehave beneath such well-wishing decorations as these?

November 29, 2017

Istanbul. October, 2011

I love that everyone drinks tea in Istanbul. All the time. And I love how tea shops transport take-out orders to customers at nearby businesses. Look at that ingenious device, a tray to carry four glasses (he’s just served one) on the ubiquitous red-smeared saucers plus a small dish of sugar cubes. Everywhere you look in busy sections of town (here in a crowded street behind the Spice Bazaar) you see men (never women) carrying these trays that are held by three “prongs” connected to a joining-point handle at the top. So much more genteel than a paper (or plastic!) bag filled with lidded styrofoam cups. No wonder Istanbul (and earlier Constantinople or Byzantium) has been a center of civilization for so many centuries.

November 28, 2017

Madrid. October, 2009

Lunch at the Taberna Almendro 13 in the La Latina neighborhood (after we’d fled the gussied-up and sanitized nearby Mercado San Miguel) and this Madrid specialty is what all the locals were having. Huevos rotos con jamón: thinly sliced fried potatoes doused with a slightly cooked “broken” egg and some diced ham. And no wonder it’s a popular dish; it was terrific. Ham, eggs, potatoes...sounds like breakfast, no? Not in Spain. I was amazed at the reverential place the egg has on menus at every meal. It could be in the fabled tortilla española (an omelette-like cake of onions and potatoes, served whole, cut up as tapas or as a sandwich filling.) Or maybe expertly fried as an entree...the “incredible, edible egg” (as the old ad campaign used to say) is everywhere. And, come to think of it, so are potatoes and ham. No problem.

November 27, 2017

Watertown, MA. December, 2010

Little yellow things. That’s what these cookies are called in the Venetian dialect of Italian: zaleti. How do I know all this? I learned it from my friend Nick’s Great Italian Desserts book, the zaleti page of which carries the smears and other marks of honor that bear witness to my having made this recipe more times than I can count. Of course, my results for these Venetian cornmeal diamonds may not have the professional finish that Nick’s do (as he’ll be happy to remind me) but no one (else) seems to mind. I make them at Christmas time. I make them in summer. I make them when friends request them for their birthdays. All the time. Cornmeal, flour, lemon zest, sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla, salt, baking powder, raisins or currants. Nick’s recipe is all over the internet (search: zaleti nick malgieri) and is foolproof, yielding terrific cookies every time. Make a lot because everyone likes them (even the many internet bloggers who’ve lifted Nick’s recipe uncredited), so they tend to disappear quickly. And if you want to see how a professional does it, go to Nick’s website, click on "Videos" and watch him make them with Julia Child. She liked them, too.

November 26, 2017

Los Angeles, CA. May, 2005

Los Angeles at night always looks like Christmas to me. The strings of lights spread out to the horizon. The colors. The activity. Even though I snapped this photo off season from the heights of West Hollywood, it still suggests December decorations, no? Actually I was in LA only once at Christmastime. Maybe I harbored unrealistic expectations, but what a disappointment. Elaborate front-yard Santa panoramas on bright green lawns (or, worse, sun-scorched lawns.) Huge decorative candy canes criss-crossing entranceways, roasting in full, bright sun. It just seemed wrong. (Like below-the-equator residents in Australia or South Africa who go to the beach on December 25, midsummer for them. No!) When Jay and I lived in Beverly, MA, in a house whose kitchen/dining room/living room was mostly glass that gave onto woods, I strung small white lights throughout the whole room one December. They reflected back and forth in the glass over and over, multiplying each time. Jay walked into the room and said, “It looks like Los Angeles.” QED.

November 25, 2017

Catania, Sicily. October, 1984

I chose Catania as my home base for travel through eastern Sicily. It had good bus and train connections, and plenty of cheap places to stay for a single. A walk from the train station, a check-in at a bare-bones pensione, and, of course, a stroll to the outdoor market. Where I saw this...a wonderful tableau of a butcher making sausage on the sidewalk outside his shop. This is varsity sausage-making, ingredients in the grinder on top, check. Pig’s intestine attached to the exit, check. Go! Soon, yards of salsiccia for sale, a meandering pile from the freshest of ingredients...and maybe just a little bit of cigarette ash thrown in for good measure. One of many such scenes in this lively and welcoming market. (The morning after I took this photo, there was a government crackdown on local Mafia chieftains less than a block away, gunfire and all.) I love Sicily.

November 24, 2017

New Orleans. March, 1991

Okra. Love it or hate it. No in between. I love it. Seen here in the French Market in New Orleans, its mucilaginous (aka slimy) qualities are one way the natives thicken their gumbos. (I had less success with said qualities when I sliced up some of the pods to make soup once.) I also like crisp pickled okra, which I’ve found both in Middle Eastern and Middle Western venues. The Armenian markets in my neighborhood feature both homemade and commercial varieties. And the Talk O’ Texas brand (”makes your mouth happy”) can be readily found in pickle-loving communities nationwide. I’ve put up jars of my own with iffy results. Hell, even Martha Stewart’s got a recipe for them. In Istanbul, baby okra is strung into “necklaces” and hung up to dry, later to be reconstituted in stews and other vegetable dishes. Closer to home, it’s still a mainstay of Southern and Southwestern buffets, breaded and deep-fried, the perfect accompaniment to chicken-fried steak. On the “hate it” side: My friend Nick makes a face whenever i mention okra (maybe he remembers that gooey soup referenced above) and always hopes his okra-lovin’ friend Nancy will forget to order it at the Manhattan Vietnamese restaurant they frequent. For the especially vehement, there are several “I Hate Okra” websites and even a Facebook group. Enjoy.

November 23, 2017

Rhodes, Greece. October, 2011

Who says the Greeks have no sense of humor? It seems the Greeks on the island of Rhodes do. I was just leaving a group of friends in a non-touristed part of the capital city, assuring them that I knew my way. And moments later, you guessed it, I was completely lost. In a dark maze of streets, no sidewalks, unable to read the map, traffic whizzing by. Finally, a glimpse of the sea. And I thought I’d just follow the coast to the harbor and my waiting boat. No such luck. I had wandered far afield and was on the other side of the island, nowhere near the harbor. Don’t panic. The ship won’t leave without you. Sure. So I retraced my steps, consulted the map more seriously...and started running. I soon found civilization, spied the boat on the horizon...and then saw this, a sign.

November 22, 2017

Ephesus, Turkey. October, 2011

Ancient and well preserved. Not me. The Library of Celcus within the remarkably reconstructed and maintained ruins of Ephesus, once a major city of the Roman Empire, second in size and importance only to Rome during the time of Augustus. Just over a mile long from entrance to exit gates, the site was blessedly free of summer tour groups during our recent visit and made for a wonderful cloudy-morning walk. Roads, fountains, columns, theaters, markets, a gymnasium, even a public toilet...all part of a city layout that’s so well annotated with posted information that no tour guide is really necessary. Though there were plenty on whom we could eavesdrop from time to time. (Musical comedy fans will note that although Ephesus is the setting for Rodgers and Hart’s The Boys from Syracuse, we managed to control all impulses to break into song. Just saying.)

November 21, 2017

Lisbon. November, 2010

Duas bicas, por favor. My Portuguese is not all that great, but it’s good enough to order us two rocket-fuel espressos and a pastel de nata at the wonderful Confeitaria Nacional on Lisbon’s Praça da Figueira. We have this theory: The further south you go, the stronger the coffee and the smaller the amount. (The strongest-smallest I’ve ever encountered was in a small cafe on a lazy Sunday afternoon in Enna, Sicily: it appeared to have been dispensed from an eyedropper and had the consistency of maple syrup. Terrific.) It seems the Nacional subscribes to this theory, too, serving us a bica that consisted of a scant tablespoon of very powerful stuff. Not a problem. Especially when Jay and I split the first emblematic custard tart of our visit. The first of many, needless to say, sampled at a wide range of pastelarias across the city. (We even bought some warm pre-packaged ones in a downtown supermarket to bring home with us. Not the best, naturally, but they still somehow disappeared within hours of our Boston return.)

November 20, 2017

Watertown, MA. October, 2011

When a favorite writer authors a book about a favorite city, well.... Irish novelist and journalist Colm Tóibín spent much of his restless twenties in Barcelona, just at the end of Franco’s reign and afterwards. So his book serves up multiple perspectives. Not just his own as a foreigner (no matter how much Catalan he studied or how many Spaniards he slept with) but also those of the lifelong residents whose confidences and memories he secured. A great book, Homage to Barcelona (whose title offers a respectful nod to Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia) provides an insider’s look into the city’s various neighborhoods and sights, of course. But also an accessible and enjoyably readable look at how being Catalan informed the visions of such native masters as Picasso, Gaudí, Miró and Casals. It’s also the first book I’ve come across to make sense for me of the various factions involved in the Spanish Civil War and how they interacted over those turbulent years, how Franco’s tenure suppressed (but didn’t snuff out) the art, the language, the heart of Catalonia.

November 19, 2017

Gloucester, MA. March, 2005

I’ve taken a different attitude toward snowfall here in New England now that I don’t have a pre-dawn, hour-long commute to the middle of nowhere. I see it as decorative rather than menacing. In the past, one flake and I’d begin to fret. Now, like kids in my neighborhood, I still watch the streetlights on snowy nights, but instead of hoping for “snow days” as the school-age kids do, I look at it more as the pre-schoolers do. Something to enjoy, have fun with. For a different perspective, check in with my friends whose flights to Europe last Christmastime were completely fouled up for almost a week by European airports’ panic over unaccustomed snow. And one pal whose Boston flight to Houston was weather-inconvenienced. (He arrived at Logan Airport at 11am, finally got on his delayed flight, which was then de-iced, taxied down the runway...then it turned around and emptied its passengers back at the terminal. TWICE. He finally took off to sunny and warm Texas after 10:30pm.) In this photo, taken in our Gloucester front yard, I am happily accepting one of those “things I cannot change.”

November 18, 2017

Amalfi, Italy. October, 2011

On my only other visit to Amalfi some 27 years earlier, I’d arrived by bus. I can still remember my heart being in my throat as the driver twisted and turned high up on switchback mountain passes, no guardrails, honking his horn to alert any hidden cars that might be blindly speeding toward us around the narrow curves. Yikes! This time was blessedly different. We sailed along, gently approaching the tiny city that gives its name to the entire coast. The summer crowds were gone. School kids crowded the streets on their way home for lunch. Farmers on the hillsides made small bonfires of fallen leaves and long-spent vines. The light was beautifully muted, the colors autumnal.

November 17, 2017

Istanbul. October, 2011

Our first trip across the Bosphorus on this most-recent visit to the City of the World’s Desire was magical in every way. The sun was setting over Aya Sofia. The ferry sheltered a gentle and uncrowded mix of families, pals, businessmen returning home to the Asian side of the city from their work in the European section. No one was pushing, no one in a hurry. Tea was offered. Smiles. Welcomes. And we were on our way to a wonderful dinner at Çiya. Every time I cross this fabled waterway I can’t help wondering about all those who have crossed before me. How these same currents have carried passengers since the days of antiquity. And will continue to do so. Humbling.

November 16, 2017

Madrid. October, 2009

Look at this thing. It’s a wall of greenery planted onto the side of an otherwise nondescript building, a 78-foot-high vertical garden, a work of art. It stands outside the CaixaForum gallery not far from the Prado, and even though Madrid is a city where one gets used to surprises, this “living painting” of 15.000 plants from some 250 species by French artist Patric Blanc comes as a surprise. Blanc believes that “plants don’t need earth: only water, minerals, light and carbon dioxide,” and he’s been putting his belief into practice, building these vertical gardens since 1988 in such places as Paris, Osaka, New York, Bangkok, New Delhi and Genoa. He hopes gardens such as these will be created in train stations, parking lots, the metro, “those difficult spaces where you don’t expect to see greenery.” Surprise!

November 15, 2017

San Francisco. November, 2005

People sometimes ask me why I bother with Isn’t it filled with suspect information from know-it-alls with bad taste who gravitate toward the common choices of restaurants and meals? Um, no. Well, not all the time. When I was going to San Francisco on business a few years ago, I posted on the SFO Chowhound board asking where a solo diner might be able to get a good meal and not feel uncomfortable dining alone. I got dozens of replies, some repeats, but enough for me to start investigating. The result: I wound up with some mighty fine eats when I was there. My favorites were the Anchor Oyster Bar on Castro Street (where I sat at the small bar and had a great conversation with the bartender/server who made me feel right at home) and Tommy’s Joynt -- “Where Turkey Is King” -- on Geary at Van Ness (a rough and tumble, no-frills cafeteria/bar where I met a visiting couple in line and wound up eating a great meal and laughing a great deal with them.) I took this picture at Taylor’s Automatic Refresher (now renamed as Gott’s Roadside Tray Gourmet...why?) in the Ferry Building Marketplace, a place where I didn’t actually, um, EAT, but whose sign appealed both to me and to all that I stand for.

November 14, 2017

Kuşadası, Turkey. October, 2011

When Jay and I walked into the small delicatessen-type shop in Kuşadası, I was first struck by the many barrels of different types of olives. Then by the kindness of the owner who came right over and offered us a piece of helva. And then, there among the cheeses in the case, a big tub of what looked like clotted cream. “Kaymak?” I asked, wondering if it was indeed Turkey’s wonderfully thick cream that they layer onto so many of their desserts. “Hayır,” answered the clerk shaking her head. "No." It was, she explained, Turkish yogurt. Sold! They filled a small container for me and I brought it back to the ship, intending to have it with fruit and nuts at breakfast the following morning. And here it is, rich, resplendent and thoroughly resistant to any attempts to stir it. (Photo taken after several fruitless tries.) Like butter, some might say. And so began my comparison taste tests of yogurt over the next few weeks through Turkey, Greece, Italy, Switzerland. The winner? Nothing even came close to this unbelievably thick contender from our first stop in Asia Minor. Nothing.

November 13, 2017

New York, NY. December, 2008

Is Julius’ the oldest gay bar in New York? It claims to be. Also the oldest bar in Greenwich Village, serving up drink since 1864. And on a bad night, it looks as if many of the original patrons are still in attendance. I think Julius’ may have been the first gay bar I ever went to, back when I was in college in the late 1960s. (Or was it the Stonewall? One or the other.) I remember being terrified of going inside, practicing what I would order in advance, trying to act nonchalant. I worked my way up to the bar and asked the flamboyant bartender for an Old-Fashioned. (What made me choose that? Why didn’t I just go for a beer?) The bartender screamed to the crowd, “Oh, this one wants an Old-Fashioned! I guess she’s just an old-fashioned girl!” I was mortified. Years later, after attending Lily Tomlin’s opening night on Broadway, I popped in to this West 10th Street mainstay for a drink and realized I was in line behind the priest who was the headmaster of the Catholic prep school I’d attended. He got his drink, turned around, saw me, blushed and said, “Oh, well. I guess my secret is out.” “What secret?” I asked.

November 12, 2017

Boston. October, 2008

I have no idea who these guys are. Jay and I were visiting Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art one day and started to pose in front of the lobby’s installation-in-progress of Boston Globe pages (later whitewashed and hung with mirrored panels in many colors by Swiss artist Ugo Rondinone.) These two charming copycats decided to do the same thing and gave me their camera so I could take a picture of them. When I was done, I shot them with my own camera, and here’s the result. I’ve started to imagine who they might be. (Friends, one of whom lives in Boston, the other in New York, they only get to see each other occasionally and make the most of their limited time together.) Part of the fun of visiting the ICA is the building itself, perched as it is over Boston’s harbor. Its oversized internal glass elevator serves up an amusement-park thrill as you ride to the exhibition galleries on the fourth floor. Even a simple stop at the gift shop is a creative experience. And, as you can see, the lobby offers an easy photo op. Cheese, guys.

November 11, 2017

Siracusa, Sicily. May, 1988

Pasqualino Giudice in his great restaurant Jonico ’a Rutta ’e Ciauli in Siracusa. We’d learned about Pasqualino and his local recipes (pasta with anchovies and toasted breadcrumbs, spaghetti with bottarga and smoked herring) from Paula Wolfert’s World of Food, so when we landed here in southern Sicily, we made a beeline to his table. A real showman, he soon presented us with some special memorial menus he’d had printed, signing them with calligraphic flourishes that added new meaning to the word baroque. When faced with non-Italian visitors, Pasqualino told us, he’d calmly say the only words he knew in English (besides “Paula Wolfert”): “Just a moment.” Then he’d hot-foot-it into the kitchen to fetch his English-speaking brother to help the conversation along. Nick and I had a great meal at Jonico and have since sent many friends there. Fortunately we did not have to consume any of the dishes shown in the photo, all of which (pork chops, sausages, pig face, all the rest) were fashioned out of almond paste. Today, the Giudice Family still runs the place, offering up “the ancient flavors of Magna Grecia” in their same location on the evocatively named via Riviera Dionisio il Grande.

November 10, 2017

Barcelona. November, 2012

When I visit a city, especially a European one with a strong culinary tradition, I’d much rather check out the produce in the market than the cathedral. In Rome, the open market in the Campo de’ Fiori displayed the most beautiful, long-stemmed artichokes I’ve ever seen. In Paris, the Bastille open market offered so many different kinds of shellfish. Montreal’s Marché Jean-Talon still has the most amazing samplings of cauliflower, like wedding bouquets in their extravagant splendor. And just look at these strawberries and mushrooms, side by side in Barcelona’s La Boqueria, formally known as the Mercat Sant Josep. In early November, the mushrooms were at their glorious peak. So many different varieties and in such abundance that they were on every menu of every tapas bar within the market, served up in a rich roster of preparations. Gaudí, the Picasso Museum, fine. But give me La Boqueria any day.

November 9, 2017

Istanbul. October, 2011

What do you think? Can I get away with harem pants? Fran Lebowitz once wisely advised never to get a haircut when you’re traveling. And I think the same wisdom can be applied to any number of trip-based decisions where the appeal of mysterious foreign surroundings can so easily cloud judgment. Here outside the walls of Topkapi Palace, the siren song of these exotic, overpriced vestments beckoned. Not really. As you can see, I’m a flannel-shirt-and-jeans kind of guy, not given much to billows and bling. At least not in public. Still, the display alone was enough to catch my eye. And I can imagine that less reality-based tourists may have succumbed...and are now dazzling all of Des Moines and Omaha with gauzy Turkish delights such as these.

November 8, 2017

November 7, 2017

Tangier. November, 2010

We arrived in Tangier on a Friday, market day, the most important day of the week in Islam, when Muslims are called by the millions to midday prayer. It was also the eve of Eid al-Adha, the Festival of Sacrifice concluding the Hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca), celebrated by Muslims all over the world and one of Islam’s two most important festivals. Eid al-Adha [which began at sunset last night and ends at sunset today, November 7 in 2011], commemorates the prophet Abraham’s willingness to obey Allah’s command to sacrifice his son Ishmael, a slaughter avoided by Allah’s last-minute replacing of Ishmael with a ram thus sparing the boy’s life. The festival is marked by sacrificing a lamb and distributing the meat to relatives, friends and the poor -- an expression of zakah, one of the five “pillars of Islam.” Which explains why, as we exited the medina, we saw a crowd gathered around the open trunk of a car from which had just emerged two rams being prepared for on-the-spot sacrifice. Just one of many experiences that wonderful day that made us feel we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

November 6, 2017

Tucson. November, 2006

On the first Sunday following the Day of the Dead, Tucson puts on a big show. Costumes, lights, floats, altars, music, puppets, masks...artists of all kinds come together and parade through downtown in the city’s famed All Souls Procession. There are some who revere this tradition for its deeply spiritual connection to family and friends who have died. Others for the spectacle and circus atmosphere. And for some, it’s just an exciting night out. I’ve been a few times now, and nothing beats the memory of this end-of-show extravaganza put on by Flam Chen Pyrotechnic Theater, Tucson’s daredevil dance-meets-acrobatics fire performance group. Their flame-infused finale, complete with aerial artists and an intentions-filled cauldron that ignited above the crowd, forged a memorable blend of sacred and profane, and brought smoky closure to this annual madhouse of an evening.

November 5, 2017

Spanish Steps, Rome. October, 2011

Daddy’s little angel. One of the many scenes here on Rome’s Spanish Steps on this sunny Sunday morning. (And I don’t think the girl’s wings were in any way related to Halloween.) I had forgotten how Romans (all Italians, really) while away lazy Sundays, just strolling about with family. On streets full of closed shops. In parks like the Villa Borghese and the Gianicolo. At fountains, on benches or on storied steps such as these. Jay and I on this, our second day in Rome? After tracking down some favorite Caravaggios, I’d left him to find his own way through the Eternal Città as I backtracked to my favorite pizza place, wound my way through the centro to make dinner reservations in the Jewish ghetto and spent some silent time (in spite of the crowds) in my favorite building in the world, the Pantheon. A lovely Sunday for dolce far’ niente.

November 4, 2017

Santorini, Greece. October, 2011

Ah, the beautiful Greek Isle of Santorini. Whitewashed houses perched high on dramatic cliffs. Deep-blue domed roofs that mirror the surrounding sea. Sunsets fabled in legend and in song. Or, if you’re on a mission as I was, bakeries offering traditional Greek pastries like this bougatsa. Before I left on this first visit to the Aegean, my knowledgeable friend (and unsurpassed holiday baklava baker) Lea suggested that I pick out a specialty food item like this phyllo-and-custard confection, and then see how different areas of the country prepare it. Sounds good to me. Layers of the thinnest, most buttery sheets of dough wrapped around a rich filling of sugar, eggs and cream. Mmmm. Jay and I bought this fine example and brought it back to our ship to share (sort of) with onboard friends. The first of many such crunchy and satisfyingly smooth “pillows” that we tracked down. Thanks, Lea.

November 3, 2017

Barceloneta. November, 2010

Fear of tapas. Not knowing how to order, when to pay, what to choose. Jay and I had experienced this fear on our previous two trips to Spain and we were determined to walk through it this time. And we did. With a vengeance. Within two hours of arriving in Barcelona we were already ordering up a multi-plate lunch at El Xampanyet, a tapas bar near the Picasso Museum that specializes in sardines and anchovies. That night we hit Tapas,24, a bustling place in the Eixample neighborhood. Lunch the following day at Jai-Ca (shown here) began with fried baby octopus, fried fresh anchovies and pimientos de Padrón. Followed by broiled razor clams, boiled octopus and, always, pa amb tomàquet (the ubiquitous Catalan toast rubbed with garlic and a ripe, juicy tomato.) The next day, lunch at Sagardi, where you choose by yourself from platters of toothpicked tapas and your tab is tallied at the end by counting the toothpicks. What could be easier? Or more delicious? Afraid no more.

November 2, 2017

Tucson, AZ. November, 2010

Of course, I love Halloween. But I really love what follows, The Day of the Dead. Especially if I happen to be in Tucson or Mexico on November 2. The personal Día de los Muertos altars to honor family and friends who have died, filled with mementos, letters, talismans. And bread -- the famed pan de muerto prepared especially for this occasion. I love the “mixed emotions” that participants embrace on this day, too. Sadness, of course, for loved ones who are no longer with us. But happiness and conviviality, too, as this day is an honoring of their lives and an opportunity for connecting and “conversing” with them. Sassy grinning skulls are everywhere from sculpted sugar candies, to keychains to T-shirts, but most famously as catrinas, skeleton dolls elegantly dressed to remind us that even the rich are no match for Death. Candles abound. Flowers, too. Just take a look at this beautiful altar prepared for the Tucson Museum of Art by my wonderful friend David (with help from his very-much-alive loved one, Simon.) He sends this photo and writes: “I tried to include departed family members and friends using photos, objects that reminded me of them, hand embroidered ribbons, etc. I grew most of the flowers: white marigolds, tuberoses, cockscombs, some yellow and orange marigolds. Silence, quiet, reflection.” Gracias, David.

November 1, 2017

Cambridge, MA. August, 2017

Looking at this August corn on the first of November, I'm reminded of something a woman barber once said to me. I'd gone for a haircut at the beginning of autumn, back when I had longer hair that the sun had streaked blonde. When I saw the light locks falling to the shop's floor, I said, "Oh, no, all of my blonde hair is gone." And she replied, "Summer's over, hon."

October 31, 2017

Watertown, MA. October, 2010

Why is Halloween my favorite holiday? Maybe because even as a child I looked forward to changing identities for one evening and running around in public, being rewarded for my efforts with sweets. Or because of the silliness of it, even among otherwise staid adults. The license it offers. For several years I was in Montreal on the days around Halloween (dressed each night in my standard costume as an altar boy, a big hit in the bars of this largely Catholic city) and the shopkeepers, the parents walking their kids to school, people on the many were in costumes. I loved it. I’ve heard it called “The Gay National Holiday,” but I think it’s bigger than that. Seen here, seasonal decorations from my youth. Three papier maché pumpkins that I treasure. Originally they had paper inserts to indicate eyes and teeth behind the holes, but those papers disintegrated years ago. Actually, I prefer them this way because they look creepier, which is what the day is all about, no?

October 30, 2017

Rome. October, 1980

My late friend Dali had some wonderful ideas when it came to taking travel photos. She introduced me to the seminal concept of “jumping pictures,” which are covered elsewhere on this blog. She also was a proponent of having a friend stand near interesting strangers whom she wanted to photograph, shifting her aim from the friend to the strangers at the critical moment, also featured elsewhere. Here, an example of her enviable power of persuasion. Not that I gave much resistance. We were walking through the Villa Borghese one morning, very few people around, and this opportunity, well, just presented itself. Snap.

October 29, 2017

Rome. October, 1984

Grandeur. I see it every time I visit a European capital. It’s there in the architecture, the ornamentation, the history as backdrop to modern day-to-day life. London, Paris, Istanbul, Madrid and here in Rome. Every opportunity for a flourish taken. You’ll be waiting for the bus and suddenly realize there’s an angel looking over your shoulder. In the center of Rome, for example, it’s not unusual to find a sweater store or laundry shoulder-to-shoulder with a ruined temple. The small store where you buy toothpaste sits next to the ancient Teatro di Marcello. You’ll turn an ordinary corner on the way to the post office and find yourself in a piazza flanked by buildings designed by Michelangelo. Or on a wide set of marble stairs built to a scale so grand that you wonder if you might need an invitation to be admitted. Istanbul native Cenk Sönmezsoy, who maintains the excellent Cafe Fernando blog, once told me he aspires to abandon digital photography and cultivate the beauties that only film can deliver. I thought of him and his remark when I came across this slide recently.

October 28, 2017

Grottaminarda, Italy. September, 1984

Talk about slow food! I love this woman making tomato paste the old-fashioned way. I saw her as I was walking through this small town where I’d come by bus from Naples to visit with Nick’s cousins. She was out in the street in front of her home, spreading the ever-thickening paste over these planks, allowing it to evaporate further in the warmth of the late-summer sun. I suspect she learned this from her mother, who learned if from her mother. (She wasn’t given much to conversation so I didn’t ask.) Imagine how good this must taste, especially when winter descends on this hilltown, when summer is just a bygone time whose memory stirs up the taste of, well, of tomatoes.

October 27, 2017

Urbino, Italy. October, 1986

“I am standing in the most beautiful place in the world,” said art historian Kenneth Clark in his TV series Civilisation as he stood here in the cloistered courtyard of Urbino’s Palazzo Ducale. Clark was referring to the perfect measurements, the symmetry, the balance and peace of this space. And even if you don’t agree with him, there’s plenty in Urbino that you’ll find most beautiful. The Palazzo itself houses the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche with its works by homeboy Raphael, its Piero della Francesca Flagellation, its Titian Resurrection. This was where I got a wonderful, cheap hotel room “con vista” at the centro’s Albergo San Giovanni. Where I found the delicious pizza at everybody’s hangout, Il Buco. Where I connected with local hero, sculptor Fuffi, a relative of a Ravenna pal. (Years later, when I asked my new Urbino-raised friend Paolo if he’d ever heard of Fuffi, he smiled and said, “Of course, I know of Fuffi. He’s one of the great characters who bring Urbino to life.” Who knew?) At the end of my short stay, I was waiting for the bus to my next stop. Also waiting, a young man on his way to military service and his pals who, kiddingly, kept urging him to stay. In the end, he wound up staying, waving the bus goodbye, squeezing one last bit of dolce far’ niente from his beautiful hometown.

October 26, 2017

Siracusa, Sicily. May, 1988

There are so many things I love about Sicily. High among them, the wide range of approaches to problems and official situations, completely dependent upon individual whims. When I approached a watchmaker in the old town section of Siracusa for a replacement battery, he took my wristwatch apart, tried a few batteries he had in stock, realized none fit and said, “Time has stopped for you here in Siracusa.” Poetry in commerce. Another example: When Nick and I were about to leave Siracusa early on a Sunday morning to continue the Great Italian Desserts research, we were delighted to read in a guidebook that the abbey of the Church of Santa Lucia, containing Caravaggio’s Burial of Santa Lucia, opened at 9am. We arrived, found a parking space on the deserted streets, knocked on the bolted door. Nothing. After trying a few more times, a custodian appeared and announced that the abbey would not open for several hours and seeing the painting was impossible. Oh, too bad, we explained, because it was one of the few Caravaggios we’d never seen, we were leaving Sicily this morning, etc. He smiled, shrugged, unlocked the door and escorted us to the painting, waited, then escorted us out again. Grazie mille. This photo, a souvenir of our whimsical private viewing.

October 25, 2017

Cambridge, MA. July, 2017

Look at how dapper this man is, even in the heat of July. I was sitting inside a bookstore when I saw him outside the window. Hat and all.

October 24, 2017

Ávila, Spain. October, 2009

Whenever I travel someplace that I want to remember, I try to buy something that I’ll use often, calling up memories each time. The luxurious light flannel pajamas I bought almost 30 years ago in Rome (when the dollar was molto strong.) The paring knife from Dehillerin in Paris that I still use daily. The larger, sharper knife from an Istanbul bazaar that I manage to cut myself with every time. The hammered tin faceplates from Tucson in my downstairs bathroom. The drinking glasses from Mexico. I was explaining this “memento theory” to Jay before we left for Spain, asking what he might need and acquire on our trip. A sharpening stone for his kitchen knives. Which is why he quickly learned many possible ways in Spanish to say (or at least to explain) the item he wanted. And why he also picked up, soon upon arrival, the local word for hardware store.

October 23, 2017

Milan. October, 1984

This photo tells you all you need to know about Milan. The fashion. The duomo. Well, not all, but most. Every important designer has a showroom along the Via Montenapoleone. The duomo is at the center of everything, even if the Church no longer is. My first visit here was on the cheap, staying in the clean but inexpensive Pensione Kennedy not far from the centro. I visited Peck, the fancy food store and admired the goods available, especially their cafe salad bar featuring boiled octopus. Leonardo’s Last Supper, of course. And when I approached La Scala to check out the storied opera house, I noticed two American guys trying to get into the building. They spoke no Italian; I did. So I helped them, partly, I admit, because one was the actor John Glover (on a break from filming White Nights) and the other, his boyfriend, a featured dancer in Broadway’s La Cage Aux Folles, introduced to me as “the lovely Nicole.” I told Glover I’d seen him onstage in NYC in Linda Her and The Fairy Garden, to which he responded, “No one saw that!” I scored points, I guess, because we palled around for the afternoon as they bought sweaters at Missoni and then treated me to lunch at the excellent Bagutta. We parted at evening, and I’ve never seen them again. Except on screen.