Lexington, MA. April, 2009

Why Lexington when this is clearly the main hall at Ellis Island? Because this was a photo on display at the National Heritage Museum in Lexington, part of an exhibit of Augustus F. Sherman’s Ellis Island photos that I visited with my pal Eileen. She and I each possess a great fascination and reverence for Ellis Island, the legend-filled entry point and processing center for thousands and thousands of immigrants to the US of A in the early 20th century. The first (and only) time I visited the actual Ellis Island was with my brother in 2003. We drove to Liberty State Park on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, caught the first boat, and arrived early before the crowds. Then (employing a trick I’d learned to access the Sistine Chapel) I avoided the main entrance on the lower level and raced immediately upstairs to the Great Hall. I was stunned being in that mythical room all alone. Well, not alone actually. The memories and spirits of those who’d passed through this “golden door” to a new life, all seemed to be there with me. Who had stood on this spot before? Where did they go from here? How scared were they? How excited to leave their past behind and begin anew? No wonder I got all teary and emotional. Brien and I later backtracked through the rest of the exhibits, fascinating all. But nothing could match my first solo moment in that great Great Hall.

Boston. May, 2017

On view at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, Derek Jarman's film 'Blue,' a rumination on life and death, health and disease from the acclaimed filmmaker who died of AIDS after a long battle. The screen remains as you see it, blue, as the audio offers a mix of conversation, sound effects, diatribes, you name it. People walked in and out of the gallery where 'Blue' was being shown, taking in as much as they wanted or could.

Watertown, MA. May, 2017

I've recently begun to volunteer to tutor English to local immigrants through the Project Literacy program at my town's library. I love it. My student Mohammed is from Morocco, speaks Arabic and enriches my life in so many ways. Project Literacy's annual picnic was almost rained out this year. Yes, it rained, but huddling beneath a gazebo's canopy, we mixed, mingled and sampled the potluck offerings from so many different cuisines. I met people (and sampled the dishes) from Turkey, Syria, Iran, Jordan, Moldavia, Ukraine...and this young man from Brazil, Anthony, who didn't seem to let the weather dampen his spirits one bit.

Grand Bazaar, Istanbul. June, 2007

Souvenirs. Why do people buy what they buy, I often wonder. But then, others could justifiably wonder the same thing about me. Instead of the typical snow-globes, keyrings and ceramic knicknacks that crowd the shelves of thousands of souvenir shops worldwide, my tastes run toward the practical, the personal, the jokey. (Unless the venue itself is a bit of a joke -- ex. Las Vegas’ Liberace Museum -- in which case, bring on the refrigerator magnets. Oh, and there’s that Pope John Paul II bottle opener I bought at the Vatican; I’m not kidding.) Sometimes it’s a T-shirt or team memento from a local sports shop (I still treasure the Slavia Praha towels I bought in then-Communist Prague in 1972.) When I visit Tucson, I have a tradition of bringing home at least one item that is excessively bulky to pack and highly breakable, too (dozens of votive candles, huge tin or glass Mexican stars, mirrors, framed artwork, etc.) I buy kitchen utensils for friends who cook (knives and wooden spoons from Paris, Lisbon and Istanbul.) Food items not readily found in New England (carrot jam from Portugal, smoked black Urfa pepper and candied olives from Turkey.) I recall the beautiful Shostal shop in Rome every single time I wear the pajamas I bought there. And the “Turkish towel” store in Istanbul where I bought Jay a luxurious terrycloth robe. Dehillerin, the wonderful cooking supply house in Paris, comes to mind each time I slice bread with the sturdy knife I bought there. And isn’t that what souvenirs are supposed to do, bring you back?

Stow, MA. May, 2010

Until recently, I did not have a cell phone. I didn’t really want one. Though I did admire the creative uses that many people put theirs to. For example, this photo, one of a series from a former co-worker friend who will remain unnamed. Months after I walked away from my most recent place of corporate employment, I received this photo via email. Accompanying it was a brief note indicating that my colleagues missed me and thought I might like to see the new buzzcut and up-a-notch style of dressing that an attractive favorite was now sporting. (Attractive? Colleagues of both sexes would gasp audibly as this guy sauntered into the cafeteria each day precisely at 12:10pm.) How do people manage to have the nerve to snap photos like this? Granted it’s hurried and blurred and doesn’t do its subject justice, but still. Another great use of cell phones: The friend who sent me this photo was entertaining us at lunch in the cafeteria one day with a tutorial about the M4M cruising app Grindr that he’d installed on his iPhone. Suddenly, a shriek: “Oh my god, it says the closest person also on Grindr is only 13 feet away! Who is it?” Sadly for all of us, it was not Mr. Gasp.

Üsküdar, Istanbul. June, 2007

After a morning at Topkapi Palace, a wonderful lunch of fried Black Sea sardines at our favorite outdoor waterside fish fry along the Golden Horn, Nick wanted a nap. I wanted adventure, so I hotfooted it to the Eminonu docks and boarded a ferry across the Bosphorus to the less-touristed Asian-side neighborhood of Üsküdar. It was a lovely revelation. A student who was learning English engaged me in conversation. I found some mosques that were so far off the vacationer’s path that they seemed more solemn, more serious. And I found this market street with many vendors whose shop windows opened to the sidewalk. What drew me to this one was more than just a chance to speak with this charming young man whose English was on a par with my Turkish. It was that he was offering two of my favorite local desserts. Ekmek kadayif (left) and tulumba (right), both sticky with syrup, both magnificently simple, both sold by the pound. Or the kilo, actually. Ekmek kadayif is bread (or rusks), syrup-soaked and softened. Tulumba are extruded lozenges of dough (see the ridges on the three-inch "fingers"), fried, then also soaked through and through with a sugar-water-lemon juice syrup. Both treats are often served topped with kaymak (the clotted cream of Turkey) and dusted with crushed pistachios. I can’t remember exactly how much I bought of each delight, but I know that it was, well, significant. A memorably sweet close to a fine Asian afternoon.

Gloucester, MA. May, 2009

Don’t you love leftovers? I think the pleasure of having containers of favorites waiting in the refrigerator may be one reason I indulge in high-yielding recipes whenever I have the chance. Say, for our annual boat parade party on Labor Day weekend. Or for this warm, late-spring afternoon when we welcomed Julia, Daniel (did he take this picture?), Jim and Mike to Gloucester for an outdoor lunch. I can see some reliable standbys on the plate here -- a roasted bird done in the Weber grill, some homemade pickles, Jay’s bread and three salads: a standard green, Itch and beet tzatziki. I could probably make the Middle Eastern grain salad Itch blindfolded at this point, I just couldn’t make a small amount. Sauté three medium chopped onions (and sometimes a chopped garlic clove) in 3/4 cup olive oil until tender. Add a 28oz can of crushed tomatoes and a healthy tablespoon of Turkish hot pepper paste. After 10 minutes, remove from heat and stir in the juice of one lemon, salt to taste, two cups of fine bulghur. Cover and let sit off heat for 45 minutes. Then fully mix in a chopped-up combo of one bunch of scallions (white and green parts both), one bunch of parsley, one green pepper. Serve at room temperature. Makes a ton. And, fortunately, even better the next day.