New York, NY. December, 2010

"Chance of flurries." So said the forecast when I left Boston for Manhattan on December 25. The next day, a blizzard. High winds, more than a foot and a half of snow, freezing temperatures. We were housebound in Nick’s apartment on West 10th Street, watching in amazement as the wind-blown snow accumulated. Flights, trains, buses were cancelled for that night and the next day. (Fortunately Nick had terrific leftovers from the Christmas dinner that he served up in any number of ways: ham and baked beans, ham and eggs, ham and cheese omelette, etc.) After the snow stopped and the sun came out, so did I to shoot this picture of cars parked along Washington Street. Imagine the owners arriving to find their vehicles buried. Surprise!

WGBH Studios, Boston. November, 1978

I had only been working at Boston’s public television station for a few months when I saw a small posting by the elevator inviting staff to be in the studio for an interview with Maya Angelou. Of course I went. The audience was a dozen or so young women bussed in from a local college...and me. I was the only man. And the only white person. When Angelou entered (in an orange, wide-wale corduroy pants suit), she came right over to me and graciously extended her hand: “Hello, I’m Maya Angelou.” I was stunned. “I’m Sandy Leonard. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.” And she smiled broadly, “The pleasure is mine, Mister Leonard.” This was not the only time we would meet over the years, but it certainly was the most memorable. And long before that whole Clinton thing.

Madrid. October, 2009

Because we wouldn’t be able to get to the northern Spanish region of Asturias this trip, I had asked cookbook author and restaurateur Teresa Barrenechea for some recommendations on where I could find authentic Asturian cooking in Madrid. She pointed us to Los Asturianos. Muchisimas gracias, Teresa. This small bar with tables (outside in nice weather) was terrific, just what we were looking for. Good food, welcoming staff, no fuss. After some chorizo in cider and some fried potatoes with melted Cabrales cheese, came the fabada, perhaps the dish most closely associated with Asturias. A bean and sausage stew made with the prized large white beans called fabes de la Granja, the dish also contains lacón (pork shoulder), thick bacon, morcilla (black pudding), chorizo, and sometimes longaniza (a sausage similar to linguica.) Spain’s answer to the French cassoulet, it is not for the meat-averse. For the rest of us, it is magnificent.

Rome. October, 2011

We are now, my friend Ernest (who revels in such things) tells me, marking the Ancient Roman Juturnalia Festival, honoring Juturna, goddess of lakes, rivers and, yes, fountains. I’m assuming that would include this peaceful dribbler outside the Palazzo Farnese (Tosca, Act II.) As Ernest tells it, “The story goes that it was on this date that the divine twins Castor and Pollux miraculously appeared in the Forum, watering their horses in the fountain of Juturna (adjacent to the Temple of Vesta), announcing that the Romans were victorious at the battle of Lake Regillus.” Because twins C&P (aka Gemini, whose mother was Leda and whose father, well... Castor had a mortal father -- the King of Sparta-- while Pollux’s father was Zeus, who’d ravished Leda while disguised as a swan) chose Juturna’s fountain to proclaim the freedom of the Romans from the tyranny of their kings, succeeding generations looked on their city’s fountains as “a continuing, ever-flowing symbol of Roman freedom from monarchs.” Thank you, Ernest. And grazie mille, Juturna.

Provincetown, MA. August, 1989

When I signed up for a second summer poetry class in Provincetown, I did so through my friend Kathe’s organization, Thalassa Writing Workshops. I had taken one with Mark Doty the previous year and loved the exercises, the communal meals (cooked by Sharon, Kathe’s girlfriend at the time and a featured player in several John Waters’ films), the musical evenings as Sharon sang to Neal Sugarman’s sax, bunking in the farmhouse next to the dunetop barn where classes were held. This time around, the workshop was helmed by another poet I admired. And during the week, we’d bonded nicely both in class and in shared off-hours conversations each night about personal issues we were both struggling with. So as the week ended, and we were saying goodbye, I asked, “Can we be friends?” He paused in thought for a brief moment, looked at me directly and said, “No.” I started laughing. He didn’t.

Barcelona. November, 2010

Instead of spending upwards of $350 on a tasting dinner for two (with water and wine) at Comerç, 24, an early pioneer in the molecular gastronomy phenomenon, why not just shell out only a tenth of that amount and still have a great meal by the same great chef? Tapas, 24 is Michelin-starred Carles Abellan’s bow to the wave of gastrobars that are popping up all over Spain and serving up modern takes on the tapas classics. Located just off the fashionable Passeig de Gràcia in Barcelona’s fashionable Eixample neighborhood, Tapas, 24 is an entertaining, noisy, rambunctiously popular spot for breakfast, lunch, dinner and late-night snacks. We were lucky to get a table on our arrival around 8pm (early for Barcelona) and soon were agonizing over which (and how many) of the tapas del día to share. Seen here, the first three to arrive: a wonderful spin on the tortilla española (potato/onion omelette) topped with cheese and sectioned for sharing; ham and cheese croquetas, plus the ubiquitous and always welcome pa amb tomàquet (grilled bread rubbed with a ripe and artfully squeezed tomato, then drizzled with fine olive oil.) Oh, sure, we enjoyed our pricey din-din at Comerç, 24. But we also loved our casual cheapie at Tapas, 24 just as much.

The Dardanelles, Turkey. November, 2011

On the morning after our ship had sailed all night from Istanbul through the Sea of Marmara, I made sure to be awake early enough to witness this storied waterway, fabled in legend and in song. Literally. AKA the Hellespont, this narrow passage connects the Aegean Sea to the Sea of Marmara (and then via the Bosphorus to the Black Sea beyond) and as such has been strategic (both militarily and commercially) for millennia. Leander swam it nightly to keep his rendezvous with Hero. Bryon did likewise to show how manly he was. These days, there is an annual swim across its one-mile width that’s rather more for sport than a show of love or bravado. (My linguist friend Michael knows someone who has swum across it twice, “a Sanskritist,” he adds, as only he could.) I was just happy to be there, to see it (Look! There’s Gallipoli! Look! There’s Troy!)...and then to go have breakfast.