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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 tortilla...it was just what we wanted. And so easy, especially when the welcoming and super-friendly waitress made helpful suggestions...in 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.”

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.