Worcester, MA. March, 2011

Welcome to the land that time forgot. The real reason I made a pilgrimage to Water Street in Worcester was to see the “surreal icons” of artist Scott Holloway on exhibit at the Secret Society tattoo parlor in this funky neighborhood. (And they were great, all anatomical parts shown reverently against fields of gold leaf, displaying the artist’s interest in the dogma, science and painterly craft that all surfaced during the early Renaissance.) But the real find may have been the neighborhood itself, a neglected piece of the past, retaining vestiges of its history as the early home of Worcester’s Polish and Jewish enclaves. Not much left, alas, but what there is delights. Weintraub’s Deli on one side, Widoff’s Bakery on the other. The venerable throwback Broadway Diner and Bay State (Lebanese) bakery just down the block. Before I met my friend (and local resident) Patty for coffee at the Broadway, I had already purchased both bread pudding and a cinnamon/raisin babka from Widoff’s, reluctantly taking a raincheck on the heavily powdered-sugared chruschiki (the “angel wings” cookies I hadn’t seen since the Polish mother of a high school friend had introduced them to me some 45 years earlier.)

Centro Habana, Cuba. February, 2012

Meet my new friend Hanoi. (Yes, como el Vietnam, as he clarified for me.) I was introduced to him one evening, and when he asked if I was interested in folk art, we were off and running. What a golden opportunity. He guided me through after-dark neighborhoods I never would have entered on my own, showing me murals and shrines in some pretty dicey places. Like this one in Central Havana’s Callejón de Hamel, fine by daylight, much less so at night. Hanoi is a babalao, a diviner, a priest of the highest rank in Santería (itself a heady blend of bits of Roman Catholicism and African Yoruba religions, somewhat akin to Haiti’s voodoo.) So he not only showed me some insider’s hotspots, he also provided me with ample protection both physical and spiritual. We wound up at Coppelia, Havana’s fabled ice cream emporium, where we each had two small cones of rizado chocolate (mixed vanilla and chocolate.) Heaven.

Vatican City. October, 2011

We took the metro early one Sunday morning to the Vatican so that Jay could see the magnificence that is St. Peter’s Basilica. As we passed mile-long lines of people waiting to get into the Vatican Museums, and even several hundred in queue just to enter the church itself, we saw smoke, heard music. And there, coming up the main street, was a Señor de los Milagros procession by Peruvian members of a Spanish-language church in Rome. Ladies in mantillas, walking backwards, systematically dispensing clouds of incense. Then honor guards bearing banners embroidered with images of Christ on one side, his mother the BVM on the other. (You can just make out the Blessed Virgen on the back of the main banner there.) Then this marching band, which, for trumper-player Jay, was more thrilling than any dome, colonnade or baldacchino could ever be. Wonderful surprises at every turn here in the Eternal Città.

Belém, Lisbon. October, 2009

Waiting in line. Who likes that? Especially when you’re on vacation. I still remember the long lines during Christmas week 2005 in Paris. Everywhere: to get into the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Musée d’Orsay. Non, merci. I’m happy to have already visited the first two many years ago. And the third? Well, I went back 30 minutes before closing, asked just to visit the gift shop, and was shown a side door that led to...the entire museum! I decided to just pick one painting (Manet’s Olympia) and spend my half hour with it. A recent visit to Rome found a line easily a mile long waiting to get into the Vatican Museums on the last Sunday of the month when it’s free. How free is it when you spend hours waiting on line? Above, the relatively short line to get into the Pastéis de Belém, the storied pastry shop in an outlying Lisbon neighborhood that claims to be the inventor of the pastel de nata. “Loucura” (madness), I said to the saleswoman. “Sempre” (always), her answer. Worth the wait.

Cefalù, Sicily. May, 1988

I love this corner clock (can you see it?) in the seaside town of Cefalù. It’s 3:12 on September 18 at one angle, 22:27 on March 28 at another. Ah, Italy, Sicily. The land of dolce far niente. I remember when I needed a new battery for my watch and went into a jeweler’s store in Siracusa. At first, a limited vocabulary made my request rather a strange one (campanile, alas, means belltower not wristwatch.) And when I finally made myself clear, the watchman went to work. Searching for the right-sized battery and coming up with nothing, he handed my powerless watch back to me and cheerfully said, “Time has stopped for you in Siracusa.” If only.

Blue Mosque, Istanbul. June, 2007

The Blue Mosque (so called because of the color that radiates from the extensive tilework within) is one of Istanbul’s top tourist attractions. Consequently there are tour buses lined up outside, visitors aplenty at the entrance, and inside...well, it’s hard to distinguish the sauntering crowds from those at the Grand Bazaar. The mosque is also still a functioning house of worship and a large section of its interior is, admirably, roped off to keep away the throng. You must remove your shoes before entering. Sleeveless tops and shorts are no-nos. (There are shawls available for use at the entrance.) Disturbing flash photos are discouraged. And while admission is free, there are groups from the community soliciting donations at the exit. A beautiful and important building, yes. But I'm glad I didn't bypass many other smaller mosques nearby that seemed all the more beautiful for being almost empty except for those few faithful engaged in daily prayer.

Ruth's Chris Steak House, Boston Restaurant Week. March, 2011

Our second try at a Restaurant Week dinner was more successful than our first. Probably because we’d already been to the establishment, the punctuationally challenged Ruth’s Chris Steak House, once before. We’d taken our friend James to this swank eaterie housed in Boston’s Old City Hall for a birthday dinner a few years ago, had the absolute best steak of a lifetime (a medium-rare rib-eye, no garnishes, just the meat on a plate, $40) and then swallowed the $180+ bill for three salads, three steaks, three sides, no drinks. A perfect candidate for a return visit at Resto Week’s promotional three-courses for $33.11. This time: a dollhouse portion of the savory crab and corn chowder, a very good NY strip steak (itself $45 on the regular menu!) done medium-rare (“pink inside with a warm red center,” explained our server) offered with sides of garlic mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, and warm bread pudding with whiskey sauce (tautology if you ask me.) Our server explained that Ruth’s Chris (say it five times fast) has its meat specially bred for its restaurants, corn- and grass-fed cattle, “wet aged” (described to us as a kind of brining) for tenderness and flavor. It seems to work as the steaks were very good all around. And mercifully more economical than those of our last visit.