The Walker

A Wall of Remembrance

London, England
November 2-8, 2009
Reading Material: Jonathan Swifts' Gulliver's Travels

More to come...

Poppies amidst the Fireworks

Guy Fawkes Day
London, England
November 5, 2009
Reading Material: Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness

The moon is almost full. The sky is a strange mix of cloud wisps - wisps that crowd around the moon - encircling it in a frame that seems surreal yet majestic. It's like a werewolf movie right before the man becomes the wolf. Then, just a glance away and it is gone, covered by the clouds completely. It is nearing the chilly side and steam does rise from some lonely vent from the side of an ugly building: the steam rises and dissipates near an ancient streetlight.

It is an autumn evening and, as one friend noticed, it is very subdued. It is as if a stasis has been draped across the land. Of course the people in the Tube are still running around, silly chickens in this mad henhouse called London, but it seems somewhat slower, the pace. Everything seems slow motion.

Red on the shirts; red on the collars; red badges on breast pockets. It is poppy week - a time when many in the U.K. honor their veterans for service to the country. I learned the symbolism comes from a time after World War I, when memories of the "fields of blood" of Verdun and the Somme were fresh in the memories of those remaining. The red poppies which sprang in the fields in spring became a reminder and a symbol of the bloodshed in the same fields.

It is a nice gesture. You give a bit of change and get a nice little poppy to wear on your coat or shirt. Even though I stay out of the fray and keep my head down when it comes to politics, I find it timely to support the people of arms when faced with a harbinger of a conflict in Afghanistan. Just yesterday, on the covers of the evening news, five servicemen from the UK lost their lives in Afghanistan to a crazy man, high on heroin, who shot them in cold blood and then fled into the mountains. Such is the world today, where things around the world are captured and beamed in almost real time to every corner of the globe.

Pop! The fireworks go off in Kensington Palace. I can see them from my hotel window. It is beautiful, the blues and reds and flying-high whites. Odd how, shortly after rising popularity of the American Halloween, they have a festival in the UK called Guy Fawkes Day. This is an odd fest whereby they celebrate a man (actually burn him in effigy) who tried to blow up Parliament. Well, they actually don't celebrate him, as originally the bonfires were used as a symbol of good will that the monarch was not assassinated. So, they burn, in effigy, the man who was responsible for the plot, Mr. Guy Fawkes. Very interesting. I think the fireworks are to symbolize the explosion that could have occurred had he and his band of merry conspirators succeeded in blowing up Parliament. I am sure in today's embattled society, where a noxious expenses scandal has recently plagued the government here, there are several who would take pleasure in the explosion of that very building!

And so it goes: pop, bam, boom; and in the air that distinct burn smell of a thousand effigies burning, somehwere.

Dante’s Inferno Level 8 - the Malebolge

Aalborg, Denmark
London, England
October 26 - November 3, 2009

The horror of pain; and the realization it is there, includes the slow ‘sinking in’, and a final recognition of the terror of pain.

Let me explain. I normally do not write deep personal introspective, but this particular topic took over my life for one week. It was my existence.

Creepily your body seems to know something bad is coming long before your brain acknowledges it. It subconsciously prepares you for a pure physical onslaught, one which, by nature, includes small foreboding doses of strangeness; leading eventually to a pain that, at first, doesn’t feel like pain.

It is just ‘something.’

Call it what you will - ‘A Coming Storm’ or ‘Prelude to Terror’ – you know something bad is coming because you begin to feel so weirdly vulnerable, so utterly miserable, and hopelessly mortal.

There, at first, is a headache on one side. It comes with a boom like a young drummer hot to annoy the household with a single smash on the loudest Zildjian cymbal. It is profound and somehow ‘takes over’ one side of the brain; crushing it with a slow, pulsating grip. Then, shortly after, you feel your inner-ear canal on the same side of the head start to tighten and pulsate, causing violent signals and spasms of pain to race the short distance to the core of your brain.

Unrelenting, your mind starts to switch off from all signals and you retreat, deeply, from the world.

Then you notice your skin which, suddenly, doesn’t feel like your skin anymore. One side of your body becomes extremely sensitive to touch. It is as if a fine, yet small, fire has been lit in between layers of your skin – but only on one side of your body. You cannot touch your arm to the sofa (or anything for that matter) or wear heavy clothes that hang on the body. Your skin becomes like a force field that is ‘up’ and ‘on’ at full strength. Everything becomes noticed, forcing you slowly to abandon hope of movement for fear of more pain.

And the pain moves to different parts of your skin, all still on the same side of the body. It travels up from the arms and into the shoulders and then into the neck and around the already-pulsing ear, turning it a bright red.

Then come the stains of red that seemingly push out of your skin and look like large swathes of rashes. Then the skin, seemingly overnight, pushes up small mountains in the back of the head and neck. And the skin begins to feel like it is moving, or something inside the layers of the skin begins to move. Slowly, the bumps start to appear everywhere the rash had developed; and you feel it moving.

Imagine, if you can, an entire World War I army lobbing cannons inside your skin and hurling burning gas around for fun. Then, in some of the ‘mountains’ you feel implosions that turn into fierce explosions so brilliant you can almost see the white phosphorous shot from the back of your head. The small bumps of the rashes then turn into much larger bumps and begin to burn with heat intensity so strong you literally walk out onto the freezing deck and open your neck for relief – a relief that never comes.

You try to sleep, but the war(s) under your skin continue unabated. So you watch TV; try reading a book; attempt to walk around; eating at 3:30am to take your mind of the raging battles exploding around the half-ring that is your battle-scarred trench warfare neckline.

There is nothing you can do. Sleep is out of the question. Painkillers do not work, yet you try them all. Alcohol only increases the intensity of the battles – going from the Somme to Verdun to Trafalgar, to the Bulge. Just when one battle seems to fade, an even greater one commences, this time taking full control; almost knocking you down with hyperventilating ferocity.

Nothing to be done...nothing to be done. Your blank stares after two full days without sleep.

The doctor says "yes, this is a classic, textbook case of Zoster and I am sorry, but I wish you had come sooner. Here, take these pills, even though it may be too late to help you. It is best when caught in the first 24 to 48 hours. I am sorry; there is nothing I can do for the pain except extend my sympathies."

So the super-galactic flame-throwing battles continue, but then, just as suddenly as it started, something changes. The ‘soldiers’ under the skin are no longer at war throwing bombs around, but now it is as if a massive column of stinging red desert ants begins to march along the skin, injecting super stings deep into the skin with each step. And then the march, which started in unison, splits up so that the stings are no longer isolated, but spread to the entire side of the body.

Desperate, you ring a friend who delivers illegal herbals that you consume in tea out of desperation. They seem to work and you are able, if only momentarily, to keep the ants at bay in the mental fog which, thankfully, masks the pain and allows you to sleep for a few precious hours.

But just before the morning comes, the herbals wear off and you are jolted awake with a violent crush between your ears. The ants are moving into your ear canal and have made a mess of the outer ear. You want to reach down with your hand and pull them all out, but you cannot. You take it like a man (or a small, weeping and wet chimp which is exactly what you feel like); you trod on.

By this time, your skin looks like an imagined apocalypse. Bumps are everywhere and you cannot even "feel" your skin anymore. The nerve cells are, in effect, dead under this virus, this creature of dreaded creation (I call it). After a while, with all the medicine and lack of physical movement, the bumps turn into what look like a vast plain of big yellow pimples; yet they are not pimples. They are the "boils of ambitious temptation." Even though the mega-pain slowly subsides and you are able to stop from whimpering and crying (which, by the way, is completely out of your control), something almost as bad as the skin battles replaces it: the crazed lunatic itch from the ambitious boils.

This is the kind of itch that cannot be ignored; and it is the kind of itch that cannot and must not be itched – "you will scar if you itch" the doctor warned as I was leaving his practice. I am sure some form of torture involves an incredible itch that is so powerful only supernatural beings can withstand it. Torture: the only way to describe it.

You do itch, as lightly as you can, with the back of your hand and not the nails. Your boils turn to scabs and the itch, which you thought could not get any worse, becomes something of a nightmare on par with being buried alive: the scab covers the itchy part which you cannot get to and no amount of turning or rubbing with the back of your had seems to have any affect. The itch has conquered. It does not leave you for over one full week AFTER the week of torment from the initial flare up.

It does however, leave. After holding out for longer than any guest should, the evil virus finally gives way to a healing process which is both unsightly and uncomfortable.

I looked up journals of medicine as well as poetry and history to find a close connection which could describe this malady and found one with Dante’s Inferno. I looked at all the levels from Purgatory on down, described in detail, and found the best descriptor in Level 8 – the Malebog. This is one level above the area where the Devil is said to live. (he lives in Level 9 – the Cocytus). Here is why, as I quote from Dante about Level 8, it resonates:

Bodies are torn apart. When you arrive, you will want to put your hands over your ears because of the lamentations of the sinners here, who are afflicted with scabs like leprosy, and lay sick on the ground, furiously scratching their skin off with their nails. Indeed, justice divine doth smite them with its hammer.

I am lucky. Once a person has this virus, they usually never get it again as they have built up immunity to this. But, for all those people who have ever had Chicken Pox in their life at some point (usually as a child), get ready – for you too, one day, may get to experience the Malebog on Level 8.

This virus (Herpes Zoster, also known as "HellFire") sticks around dormant in your nerves since your childhood Chicken Pox. It remains waiting, just waiting for the right moment to bust out (the Pox all over again). And when it does you just may remember my small blog write-up about it here.

Of course, once afflicted, you will weep, but hey, there is nothing and I mean nothing, my dear sweet child, that you can do. Nothing, except try to have a good night, lamentations and all.

Fall Before the Deep

Aalborg, Denmark
October 20, 2009

 

The hues change from reds to lighter oranges to subtle transparent shades of tan. The end is a fall from a tree after a breaking point, after a weakness at the base finally releases the leaf to an earthly plot where it remains, darkened; broken.

 

Then, as if on a whim, a sudden wind tosses it to and fro; over fields and grasses still green, still holding on to their color. The leaf remains, if not picked up by another wind or sucked into a gardeners machine, or a pulled in by a garderner's rake. It remains until the wet and cold finally remove the tatters away from the stalk; awash and away back to what it was before: nothing.

 
 
Sleep is longer in the morning and earlier in the night; it comes easily, drowsily. The remains of what was summer is such a distant memory; light years, "what was that?". Darkness falls early across the land; the silhoettes rising fake-out the brain into an early time change: "but I thought it was already 8pm and it is only 4pm!"

 

Some of the morns are glorious to see, with bright lights and everything looking as crisp and new, just like newly minted money. Some of them are so full of fog and mist there is no "seeing" allowed.

 
 
A walk in the park and a tree cracks just in passing. The aches of these trees, releasing all their bounty at the end of their summer reign, translates into the aches of the body, one not ready to surrender to the coming hybernation, the coming "deep."

 
 
A seasons' change, so abrupt, makes for a melancholy day, where thoughts of the speed of time drift. Wisdom of the ages cannot detract from emotional thoughts brought from a passing of seasons. We become the sentimental creatures we disdain: mush.

 
 
Candles appear in abundance again and the roots and "heavies" flavor our culinary life.

 
 
We pause and look out the window and wait for the thickening; the deadening; and the dark. It is coming; we brace before the deep.

Pocket of Wealth

Monte Carlo
Monaco
October 5, 2009
Reading Material: Irène Némirovsky's All Our Worldly Goods

 

"Even the air here smells rich!" He said, looking around at the Japanese gardens tucked next to the freeway, down below the massive skyskraper apartment blocks. "And the peoples' colognes are all rich ones with those great spices. Everything..." he trailed off.

 

It was true. Even the trees and bushes radiated with luxurious smells of jasmine and lavender and other intoxicating fragrances. The cars that drove by, almost all luxy Maybachs, Mercedes, Lamborghinis, Rolls', and on and on...seemed to be emmission free as they were all the latest models with the cleanest burning engines. This, combined with the proximity to the sea enabled an environment pleasing to the nose and the lungs.

 

Coming recently from and tourist-transitioning from the land of Robbin Hood (not England in the fairytale sense, but modern-day Denmark with the 'take from the rich and give to the poor' attitude) to the land of Grace Kelly and the Grimaldi-enabling laissez-faire, hands-off, free-wheeling capitalism was a heady experience.

   

The contrast was extreme. The attitude a complete 180.

 
 
I saw more luxury cars in one hour here then in three years in Denmark. A group of Germans driving the latest Porshe "station wagon" drove close to the casino and fans were flocking round to see it. A man from New Zealand blurted out next to me "have you ever seen such a collection in your life?! To which I replied "no, I hadn't."  It was mind blowing.

 
 
In juxtaposing a land where there are strict controls in place which keep the society flat (Denmark) to a place where there are no limits to what money is allowed to do is a jolt. They are completely different worlds separated from a two hour flight time. Not that this is unique in the world (the delta in societies so close together - i.e. Tijuana, Mexico and San Diego, California) but the mentality of Monaco to the rest of Nordic Europe could not be farther apart.  In Monaco, it appears that wealth is celebrated, whereas in the Nordics, wealth is seemingly associated with an envious suspicion - "Take from the rich..."

   

The citizens of Monaco have zero income tax. They keep 100% of what they earn. In Denmark, citizens of any "wealth" must give up 60% of their income to the state, which, in turn "takes care of them." Whatever your political views and 'spectrum', it makes me wonder if the citizens of Monaco are, in some ways, more sophisticated with money in their lives as they must take responsibility for more of their lives (and money) than those in Denmark. But I digress. 

 

The feeling of a place which has no income tax burden, as well as an attractive magnet for the "monied" due to their tax policies for "expats" (and sometimes, as I have heard, 'shady' money launderers) is astounding. Every corner seems to produces more stores with goods I have rarely seen elsewhere; goods of such incredible quality and style to make the eyes bulge in wonder. Like Beverly Hills on steroids, this place is amazing with the variety of luxury on display.

 

I noticed how clean everything was and how much art surrounded us - like a Disneyland for wealthy adults - with their own requisite casino. The streets and pavement (sidewalks) were remarkably clean and the horticulture variety prevalent combined with the highest caliber of manicured landscaping I have seen anywhere outside national historical monuments (think Versailles) was remarkable.

 
 
Nestled in the hills in one of the most gorgeous areas of the world, with weather that is almost sinful in its delicate ocean breezes and perfectly mild temperatures, you don't wonder why people flock here. You wonder where are the super markets! In all our driving around, I never saw one. How do these people shop for basics, or do they? You can't live off of fine restaurants, everyday, or can you?  Maybe the servants deliver? Who knows. 

 

Reminders of Grace Kelly are everywhere here, with streets and parks and buildings named after her. She even has her own trail which has signs and placards devoted to happenings in her life. She definitely made her mark her and she is adulated for, methinks, putting little Monaco on the jet-set map.

  

We watched as one mega-yatch after another slowly glided into the ever-crowded Monaco harbor. It seemed as if the harbor's assets contained more wealth than the annual GDP of some small European countries. One yatch in particular looked like a small cruise ship rather than a private yatch.
 

We thought the casino looked a bit tacky, almost fake in its beauty; like something in Disneyland rather than in the old world. Of course we could only enjoy it as toursists and could not partake in the fun inside, wheeling and dealing and playing their hand with lady luck.

 

Speaking of toursists, the place was crawling with them - one Chinese woman in particular who would not move from the prime picture taking spot for seemingly forever, annoying the rest of the quick snap digital camera fans (including moi!). She finally moved and we all swarmed to the same vantage point to get the same snap that is used in postcards you see everywhere here. 

 

All these high rises, I thought. No one has a garden. No one has a backyard. All they have is a breathtaking view of the sea to wake up and watch with their coffee; a beach almost at their doorstep; and a large wad of disposable income.

 

O.K. a garden is nice, but maybe with all that cash, they could just, well, buy a second home with a garden somewhere else. 

 

Sounds like a deal. I'm sold.

The Meaning of Tarte au Citron

Menton, France
French Riviera
October 5, 2009

 

This is where I'd wish to die. This is where my partner wishes to die. But we wish to live here long before we lose all faculties.  The entire F.Scott Fitzgerald thing always spoke of the 20's and 30's American upper-class leading idle lives along the French Riviera. I never connected. After a visit here, I am tapped in to the entire genre, the entire deal.

  
 
This is the South of France, a place of mystique and beauty and the lure of all France. Unlike Italy, which has warm coast from the Cinque Terre down and through Sicily, France only has the South, and particulary, the Cote d'Azure, on the Meditterean (O.K. they have Corsica, but it is an island far from the mainland). And because France congregates and concentrates in this lovely area, the area becomes, in the summer, like a Paris by the sea: a place of sophistication and wealth.

  

The flowers, the plants, the air, and the architecture and the super mild weather make this a magica-fantastica place to be.

Menton is next to Italy; the last town before the border. The ice cream girl was Italian. She greeted us in Italian as well as said goodbye in the same.

So we were in international land, yet in France. Maybe that, along with the great weather, somehow mellows the French?

  

Most of the people on the beach were over 50. Makes sense. It is off season. We tried st. Tropez off season, but made the mistake of a Saturday. Won't do that again. We sat in traffic there for too long to recall. Maybe in January that place would be nice, but not in this time.

 

Menton is famous for lemons and for a special cake called "Tarte au Citron" which is like a small lemon Meringue pie, but the crust is more sugary, more cakelike , but the taste is like this place: superb. It is a symbol here of the area and a cherished desert. It comes in a small box and has a chocolate on top of the small waves of white fluffy cream. It is sophisticated and intoxicating at the same time.

   

They have a festival once a year here to celebrate lemons, and you know why - the lemons help produce this great little cake. . You can see the lemon trees everywhere here, among the copious flowers and lush greens.

  

They place cemeteries in the best locations in town, high above the city and the sea. It is odd that the top of a hill, with a great promontory view is used for coffins and tombstones and mausoleums. Most of those buried here are foreign-born nationals, most likely on holiday here from foreign shores?

   
  
Driving out of town, on the way to Monaco, we bit into the Tarte au Citron and we were taken for a ride - wow -  and not just in the car.