After only three days in Morocco, I believe I have come to understand the Moroccan driver just a little. I firmly believe it is not that Moroccan drivers are necessarily agressive; rather I believe they are opportunitistic, seeing every little possible hole in the constant wave of pedestrians, donkey carts, horse-drawn buggies (called caleches), bicycles, motorbikes, other cars and delivery trucks all walking and driving fearlessly and directly through town with a number of Moroccan curses and a constant stream of honking to alert all others that YOU have been the clever driver to have spotted that tiny hole in traffic first.
Now add the ever-present roundabouts and seeming lack of math ability (there is a speed limit but it is rarely posted and no one seems to pay attention to it) and you basically understand the traffic situation in Marrakesh. Frankly, driving in Marrakesh takes balls. I think that is why driving is almost solely done by male Morrocans. Not that women do not travel by vehicle - you see them in their lovely djellabas sitting side-saddle, confidently hanging on to their chosen gladiator with their backs very straight but completely relaxed on said gladiators' motorbikes. Meanwhile, you, the visitor to this madhouse, sit perhaps in the front seat and wonder why you let your life insurance lapse.
My hosts, Massine (his Amazigh name) and Adrienne, a friend relocated from my home town of Tucson, picked me up from the Marrakesh airport and the drive to 'have some lunch' was my very first adventure in Morocco. Then it was another adventurous drive to the middle of town and its ancient souk. I wonder whether these trips are somewhat preparatory for travelers for the initial souk adventure of having a writhing snake pushed in your face by the first snake charmer you might encounter.
By the time I passed the snake charmer, one of the first sights you might see at the entrance to the souk, perhaps my danger limit had been exceeded and I was just on autopilot. I didn't even blink, to the dissatisfaction of the snake's 'manager', who expected to extort a tip from me by 'protecting me' from having the snake wrap around my neck. Heck the snake wasn't even a viper; those - four of them including 2 cobras and 2 others that looked very much like my own native Diamondbacks - were undulating on the ground a few feet away to the beat of the snake charmers' drum and flute.
After walking around in the colorful souk, tempted by all the beautiful scarves and purses and spices and olives and...... it was once more time to board our BMW chariot and head to ' have a rest' before dinner. It seemed that only more gladiators had joined the melee as it was nearly sundown and locals, tourists and travelers alike were arriving at the entry of the souk for a Sunday night's entertainment.
The art of parking is very much part of the art of driving in Morocco. To park, one must first find a reltively empty hole in the line of cars lined up wherever cars are lined up but with an attendant wearing a yellow vest to signal that HE would be the protector of your car, helping you slide your car into the available spot after having everyone exit the passenger's side, and then colluding with street merchants to set up temporary shop right in back of your bumper in order to keep other drivers from damaging your vehicle. Then of course on your return and payment for his excellent service, your watcher (or his colleague) is there to help you squeeze out of your spot and merge with the line of traffic which he so gallantly stops with his very own body.
Believe me, this all works. The reason I know it works is because I am alive to pen this post - not only after this adventure but an even more challenging one up and over the Atlas Mountains. Have you ever been in a bumper car ride with some really challenging kids intent on passing everyone ahead of them all along misjudging the distance between, in front of and in back of the other cars? Think of this and you will almost have the picture of what happens on the National Highway from Marrakesh up and over the mountains to Ouarzazate.
Normally, I would reference the number but it does not show up on the two maps I managed to find. The thing is, this National Highway simply does not meet the standards of the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials in any way- you know, the folks who wrote the book on what you can and cannot build for the highways in the States. I'm sure the engineers from AASHTO could hardly wait to get out their pens and calculators if they saw the winding, narrow two-lane highway that carries most of the freight and tourists from busy Marrakesh to and from the verdant river valleys on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.
The first thing I noticed was the lack of decent shoulders (as in mostly none), then I noticed how far apart were the pullouts. I suppose the first time we came up behind a lumbering truck I remembered I hadn't seen anything like a passing lane. So when our driver decided he had tired of the scenery the back side of a delivery truck presented and began looking for that 'opportunity' to pull around it, I took careful notes, should I would ever need to do the same.
First, just like in States, if you are a careful (or at least smart) driver, you will have been observing oncoming traffic from the many twists and turns that provide you that view. Second, when you think you have an opportunity to do so, you pull slightly into oncoming traffic in order to cross-check your opinion that there is sufficient room to get around the truck before being driven off the road or possibly coming into contact with a vehicle bigger than you (the philosophy of chicken is to exhibit more bravado than your opponent). In those few seconds, it is also important to have checked for possible unknown curves or side roads from which an unexpected vehicle could pull into the lane traveling opposite of you.
Pulling out to check on your passing status seems to be a signal for the observant and cooperative truck driver in front of you to put on his left turn signal, affirming that you are free to pull around. I found that signal reassuring at times the mountainside on the other side or next to my seat in the front dipped immediately below my view. Our driver sometimes found it helpful to call other drivers rude Morrocan names in order to convince them they needed to slow down so he could maneuver the vehicle around or in between two trucks.
Another driving tip - it is useful to stay as close as possible to the posted speed limit unless you feel driving faster might help under the current road conditions. That, and calling the other drivers rude names, seem to assure safe passage on that tiny, twisty road. I also noted that having the passengers frequently and plaintively remind the driver to slow down or be careful around a curve does very little to change the driver's strategies.
One final tip. You might want to practice holding your breath before you attempt to drive or ride on Moroccan National Highway between Marakech and Ouarzazate. Driving that road for the first time is probably not the best time to find out holding your breath makes you pass out as you or your driver powers around that big truck in front of you.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
A FEAST FOR MY EYES
Today I saw one of the most famous paintings in the entire world. Picasso's Guernica, his commissioned painting for the industrial Exhibition in Paris of 1937, depicts the carnage of a unprevoked bombing of the civilians of a town in the Basque region of Spain by the combined forces of Germany and Italy. The painting is huge; I doubt I have any uninterrupted wall space which could house this painting. It dominates the gallery of the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid where it is displayed.
I am not really a student of art nor an artist myself. I can only tell you what I experience when I see a particular piece of art. I do not know anything about the tools every artist uses in order to elicit the emotion for which they are striving with their work. But I can tell you that Guernica makes me angry at those who would give reason for such art to be painted. Images have power and this image not only made me angry but it prompted me to want to know the circumstances behind its commissioning.
The painting was completed at a time Hitler was tightening his noose around 'undesireables' and the Spanish Civil War was in full swing. In order to shore up Franco's war efforts in Spain, Germany and Italy bombed the Basque town of Guerneca, beaking the previous rules of war. The civilian deaths were not collateral damage from the bombing but its intended mission. Picasso use of powerful images and symbols elicited horrow at such an event and drew attention to Spain's struggles.
As I reflected on this painting trying to put it into my own perspective, the closest thing to this image I could remember in my lifetime were the stark black and white photos coming back from the cameras of the photojournalists from New York Times and Life Magazine in the 1960s in the United States. These images of our boys dead and dying on the battlefield turned the tide of support against the Vietnam War. Images have power.
Yesterday, I spent several hours at the Prado, viewing paintings not only from Picasso but from such Spanish painters as Goya, Valeques, Murillo and El Greco. The Prado collection of Spanish masters is massive. It holds (and displays) so many Goya and Valeques, I was able to trace the evolution of their art. I could sense there was a profound shift in the type of art being commissioned - from religious subjects and portraits of the monarchs and cardinals to more secular subjects. I wondered just how historical events influenced art and of course, whether art had returned history's favor.
Frankly, I don't know if the Prado's collection contains much more than the paintings on the second floor as I took so much time here, it was time to close by the time I was ready to begin the first floor. But the floor I covered most thoroughly had already given me a glimpse into the history of Spain which I was eager to pursue at the Reina Sofia Museum today.
The Reina Sofie holds Spain's collection of 'Modern" art, including the core works of Picasso and of surrealist Dali. Like the Prado, its collection of Spainish artists' work was comprehensive. Even with my limited knowledge of art, I could see the progression of Picasso's styles fromThe Seated Harlequin to Guernica. I could see the growing confidence of Dali's work including the giant surrealist dream self-portrait 'The Great Masturbator'. I was also pleased to see artwork of non-Spaniards whose work I admire, like Diego Rivera, Alexander Calder and Mark Rothko.
I like surrealism and modern art so I particularly enjoyed the Reina Sofia, even though many of the films shown to explain how modern culture informs art and vice versa, were difficult for me to understand with my limited Spanish. But over all, the museum attempts to encompass more than painting and sculpture media for modern art to expand one's understanding of what exactly art might be were thought-provoking and interesting. My limited perusal of the Prado and my more thorough visit to Reina Sofia left me with a lot of questions about how the art in these two immensely popular museums (the line for tickets was still very long at 7pm, only 2 hours before Reina Sofia's closing) informed the culture of Spain and, of course, how Spain's culture informed the art.
Particularly in the Reina Sofia, I was very conscious of how my lack of knowledge of the history of Spain impeded my ability to fully appreciate the art within its galleries. Did subtle differences between decades even in the prodigious portraits of those in power indicate certain historical trends - such as the waning influence of the church and the increased acceptability of socialist ideals? I wnted to know more and walked away with a book on the History of Spain in the late 19th and 20th Centuries.
My biggest disappointment was the almost complete lack of female artists. Not even in the Reina Sofia would I see the work of female Spanish painters although Dora Marr's photography was represented. I find that deeply unsettling but don't know enough about Spanish culture to interpret the conditions under which this lack came about. I sincerely hope this does not represent an invisibility of female participation in all aspects of Spanish culture. Perhaps the book I am reading will help fill in these gaps.
I actually have one more day in Madrid on my way home and, armed with newly informed understandings of Spain in the last century, perhaps my trip to the last of the museums in Madrid's 'art triangle' will help me see the last pieces a little more clearly. I'll certainly be back to Madrid because after art there is also Madrid's music, architecture and history to explore!
I am not really a student of art nor an artist myself. I can only tell you what I experience when I see a particular piece of art. I do not know anything about the tools every artist uses in order to elicit the emotion for which they are striving with their work. But I can tell you that Guernica makes me angry at those who would give reason for such art to be painted. Images have power and this image not only made me angry but it prompted me to want to know the circumstances behind its commissioning.
The painting was completed at a time Hitler was tightening his noose around 'undesireables' and the Spanish Civil War was in full swing. In order to shore up Franco's war efforts in Spain, Germany and Italy bombed the Basque town of Guerneca, beaking the previous rules of war. The civilian deaths were not collateral damage from the bombing but its intended mission. Picasso use of powerful images and symbols elicited horrow at such an event and drew attention to Spain's struggles.
As I reflected on this painting trying to put it into my own perspective, the closest thing to this image I could remember in my lifetime were the stark black and white photos coming back from the cameras of the photojournalists from New York Times and Life Magazine in the 1960s in the United States. These images of our boys dead and dying on the battlefield turned the tide of support against the Vietnam War. Images have power.
Yesterday, I spent several hours at the Prado, viewing paintings not only from Picasso but from such Spanish painters as Goya, Valeques, Murillo and El Greco. The Prado collection of Spanish masters is massive. It holds (and displays) so many Goya and Valeques, I was able to trace the evolution of their art. I could sense there was a profound shift in the type of art being commissioned - from religious subjects and portraits of the monarchs and cardinals to more secular subjects. I wondered just how historical events influenced art and of course, whether art had returned history's favor.
Frankly, I don't know if the Prado's collection contains much more than the paintings on the second floor as I took so much time here, it was time to close by the time I was ready to begin the first floor. But the floor I covered most thoroughly had already given me a glimpse into the history of Spain which I was eager to pursue at the Reina Sofia Museum today.
The Reina Sofie holds Spain's collection of 'Modern" art, including the core works of Picasso and of surrealist Dali. Like the Prado, its collection of Spainish artists' work was comprehensive. Even with my limited knowledge of art, I could see the progression of Picasso's styles fromThe Seated Harlequin to Guernica. I could see the growing confidence of Dali's work including the giant surrealist dream self-portrait 'The Great Masturbator'. I was also pleased to see artwork of non-Spaniards whose work I admire, like Diego Rivera, Alexander Calder and Mark Rothko.
I like surrealism and modern art so I particularly enjoyed the Reina Sofia, even though many of the films shown to explain how modern culture informs art and vice versa, were difficult for me to understand with my limited Spanish. But over all, the museum attempts to encompass more than painting and sculpture media for modern art to expand one's understanding of what exactly art might be were thought-provoking and interesting. My limited perusal of the Prado and my more thorough visit to Reina Sofia left me with a lot of questions about how the art in these two immensely popular museums (the line for tickets was still very long at 7pm, only 2 hours before Reina Sofia's closing) informed the culture of Spain and, of course, how Spain's culture informed the art.
Particularly in the Reina Sofia, I was very conscious of how my lack of knowledge of the history of Spain impeded my ability to fully appreciate the art within its galleries. Did subtle differences between decades even in the prodigious portraits of those in power indicate certain historical trends - such as the waning influence of the church and the increased acceptability of socialist ideals? I wnted to know more and walked away with a book on the History of Spain in the late 19th and 20th Centuries.
My biggest disappointment was the almost complete lack of female artists. Not even in the Reina Sofia would I see the work of female Spanish painters although Dora Marr's photography was represented. I find that deeply unsettling but don't know enough about Spanish culture to interpret the conditions under which this lack came about. I sincerely hope this does not represent an invisibility of female participation in all aspects of Spanish culture. Perhaps the book I am reading will help fill in these gaps.
I actually have one more day in Madrid on my way home and, armed with newly informed understandings of Spain in the last century, perhaps my trip to the last of the museums in Madrid's 'art triangle' will help me see the last pieces a little more clearly. I'll certainly be back to Madrid because after art there is also Madrid's music, architecture and history to explore!
Friday, May 15, 2015
A WALK IN THE PARK
I've been told by the at the lobby bar that Madrid is too hot. It was all of 32 degrees Celsius here yesterday, a very nice day by the standards of my desert home in Tucson. After flight delays, luggage retrieval, the inevitable confusion about sorting out local ground transportation in a country in which you do not know the language, I didn't get to my hotel until a little after noon.
My plan was to nap just a wee bit, having slept fitfully on the flight over, then visit the Parque El Buen Retiro (literally Park of the Pleasant Retreat), which must be about 2 square miles, to walk off my jet lag. I remember setting the alarm for 1 hour but woke up at 3:30, past the hottest part of the day. Thank goodness Madrid is a city that stays up late. Everything I wanted to visit stays open until 9 or 10 p.m. so my over-sleeping was perfect.
From the air, Madrid seems to be on somewhat of a plain, you know, the one the rain stays on. But as I began walking, I realised that the park was UP from my hotel. As I approached the city's largest park, soulful R&B, mostly B, came blasting my way. At first I thought it might be coming from the various cars on the road but the music, loud and consistent in decibels appeared to come from the Park. Following the music I walked all the way up to the Monument of Alfonso XII, a rather large lake with a many-columned amphitheater on one side. Strong, good-looking young Spanish boys, splashing and laughing, rowed small blue boats all over the lake. A larger excursion boat deftly lumbered its way among them like a graceful dowager with a much younger court.
The music, coming from large speakers on the steps in front of the columns, suddenly ceased abruptly. I will probably never know exactly why the music called me there but I snapped my way around the lake, taking many pictures of the green oasis and its local ducks and swans. Several small cafes around the lake tempted but this was my first night in Madrid and I was determined to see as much of the Park as possible on this night. How a city treats its outside spaces tells me a lot about the people of the place and this Park was telling me that Madrelenos are comfortable with the outdoors. Madrelenos are careful with their Park, proud of its deep and inviting shade and ancient trees. I saw very little litter or graffiti for so many people about.
I enjoy a city that commandeers so much valuable land for its main city park. Madrelenos were everywhere on the spacious grass lawns, visiting the exhibits in the Palacio de Velaquez and its sister building the Palacio de Cristal. Lovers, young and old alike, were entwined with the familiarity of love, embracing each other with their eyes, their legs, their arms. A young father kept a tender eye on his toddler as he attempted to perform crunches on the lawn. Small packs of young students wandered with their elbows entwined or sat on the grass talking and laughing as happy young people do.
Alfonso's monument is only one of the several public buildings in this Park and has I rounded the lake, I saw the beautiful brick Palacio de Valequez, with very clean marble steps and very old tiled frescos painted at the entry and along the base of the building. The Palacio currently hosts a retrospective art exhibit for Carlos Andre, a minimalist artist who sought to explore the essence of an object 'by employing industrial materials and processes that allow serial reproduction, eliminating the subjective trace that most artwork would refer exclusively to itself' (brochure). His stark, almost industrial, pieces were precise and engaging at the same time. I took many more pictures.
Conscious of the time, I sought out the Crystal Palace, a glass structure reminiscent of an enormous and beautiful greenhouse. As I approached, I was awarded with quite a surprise as a giant Berber tent had been set up inside the pavilion, brightly dyed cotton sheets moving in the light breeze. Inside the tent were Madrelenos, old and young, lounging on the comfortable cubes and rugs set up inside the enormous tent. Some were listening to an explanation of the exhibit on a TV screen; others were lounging, or talking animatedly with their little ones playing in this delightful space. The exhibit, called 'Tuiza', refers to an act of gathering, participating and constructing something with everyone's collaboration. In a very real sense, all visitors to Tuiza are 'performing', becoming part of the exhibit on how space can be designed to encourage hospitality and conversation among cultures. I stayed briefly, becoming part of the performance myself. As I left, I saw a young man performing handstands to impress his laughing lady love.
I continued around the small pond in front of the Palace. Without boats to discourage the wildlife, the pond teamed with ducks and swans, one Mallard so fat he wobbled along the edge of the pond. A large sunny rock protruding into the pond provided a comfortable roost for quite a few turtles. The Park, with its deep shade and ancient trees, truly does emit a wonderful peace and tranquility and is a well used space by a people who love their outdoor spaces.
As I walked down the hill toward the Btanical Gardens past attractive apartment blocks, I thought about what it must be like to live in such a city as Madrid. As densely populated as it is, its people have determined that outdoor spaces are important. Many of the apartments had lovingly tended balconies with potted greenery and flowers. I see the lure of the city such as Madrid. I'm sure Madrid has its ghettos and barrios but in this part of Madrid the attention to beauty is obvious. And lucky are the apartment dwellers whose tidy balconies overlook the Botanical Gardens!
The Garden is in transition right now-the roses have already flowered, the peonies on the wane. But the blossoms that remain are full of colour and beauty. This Garden not only displays florals also herbs and vegetables that might be found in the surrounding countryside. I didn't really expect this and was so pleased to be assaulted with the scent of not only roses but mint and dill and garlic. A sensuous feast for sure.
I wandered around the Garden, open in the summer in till 9 p.m., until a fit of coughing reminded me that the pollen count had to be very high in that verdant place. The wind had picked up and I could see a vague fog of dust and pollen in the remaining beams of the sun. Time for me to get back to my hotel for a bit of dinner and bed. As I left the Garden and approached the venerable Prado, my heart beat more quickly with the promise of tomorrow-an entire city block devoted to art. Beauty stirs my soul and my soul, having had a taste of beauty all afternoon, was yearning for more.
My plan was to nap just a wee bit, having slept fitfully on the flight over, then visit the Parque El Buen Retiro (literally Park of the Pleasant Retreat), which must be about 2 square miles, to walk off my jet lag. I remember setting the alarm for 1 hour but woke up at 3:30, past the hottest part of the day. Thank goodness Madrid is a city that stays up late. Everything I wanted to visit stays open until 9 or 10 p.m. so my over-sleeping was perfect.
From the air, Madrid seems to be on somewhat of a plain, you know, the one the rain stays on. But as I began walking, I realised that the park was UP from my hotel. As I approached the city's largest park, soulful R&B, mostly B, came blasting my way. At first I thought it might be coming from the various cars on the road but the music, loud and consistent in decibels appeared to come from the Park. Following the music I walked all the way up to the Monument of Alfonso XII, a rather large lake with a many-columned amphitheater on one side. Strong, good-looking young Spanish boys, splashing and laughing, rowed small blue boats all over the lake. A larger excursion boat deftly lumbered its way among them like a graceful dowager with a much younger court.
The music, coming from large speakers on the steps in front of the columns, suddenly ceased abruptly. I will probably never know exactly why the music called me there but I snapped my way around the lake, taking many pictures of the green oasis and its local ducks and swans. Several small cafes around the lake tempted but this was my first night in Madrid and I was determined to see as much of the Park as possible on this night. How a city treats its outside spaces tells me a lot about the people of the place and this Park was telling me that Madrelenos are comfortable with the outdoors. Madrelenos are careful with their Park, proud of its deep and inviting shade and ancient trees. I saw very little litter or graffiti for so many people about.
I enjoy a city that commandeers so much valuable land for its main city park. Madrelenos were everywhere on the spacious grass lawns, visiting the exhibits in the Palacio de Velaquez and its sister building the Palacio de Cristal. Lovers, young and old alike, were entwined with the familiarity of love, embracing each other with their eyes, their legs, their arms. A young father kept a tender eye on his toddler as he attempted to perform crunches on the lawn. Small packs of young students wandered with their elbows entwined or sat on the grass talking and laughing as happy young people do.
Alfonso's monument is only one of the several public buildings in this Park and has I rounded the lake, I saw the beautiful brick Palacio de Valequez, with very clean marble steps and very old tiled frescos painted at the entry and along the base of the building. The Palacio currently hosts a retrospective art exhibit for Carlos Andre, a minimalist artist who sought to explore the essence of an object 'by employing industrial materials and processes that allow serial reproduction, eliminating the subjective trace that most artwork would refer exclusively to itself' (brochure). His stark, almost industrial, pieces were precise and engaging at the same time. I took many more pictures.
Conscious of the time, I sought out the Crystal Palace, a glass structure reminiscent of an enormous and beautiful greenhouse. As I approached, I was awarded with quite a surprise as a giant Berber tent had been set up inside the pavilion, brightly dyed cotton sheets moving in the light breeze. Inside the tent were Madrelenos, old and young, lounging on the comfortable cubes and rugs set up inside the enormous tent. Some were listening to an explanation of the exhibit on a TV screen; others were lounging, or talking animatedly with their little ones playing in this delightful space. The exhibit, called 'Tuiza', refers to an act of gathering, participating and constructing something with everyone's collaboration. In a very real sense, all visitors to Tuiza are 'performing', becoming part of the exhibit on how space can be designed to encourage hospitality and conversation among cultures. I stayed briefly, becoming part of the performance myself. As I left, I saw a young man performing handstands to impress his laughing lady love.
I continued around the small pond in front of the Palace. Without boats to discourage the wildlife, the pond teamed with ducks and swans, one Mallard so fat he wobbled along the edge of the pond. A large sunny rock protruding into the pond provided a comfortable roost for quite a few turtles. The Park, with its deep shade and ancient trees, truly does emit a wonderful peace and tranquility and is a well used space by a people who love their outdoor spaces.
As I walked down the hill toward the Btanical Gardens past attractive apartment blocks, I thought about what it must be like to live in such a city as Madrid. As densely populated as it is, its people have determined that outdoor spaces are important. Many of the apartments had lovingly tended balconies with potted greenery and flowers. I see the lure of the city such as Madrid. I'm sure Madrid has its ghettos and barrios but in this part of Madrid the attention to beauty is obvious. And lucky are the apartment dwellers whose tidy balconies overlook the Botanical Gardens!
The Garden is in transition right now-the roses have already flowered, the peonies on the wane. But the blossoms that remain are full of colour and beauty. This Garden not only displays florals also herbs and vegetables that might be found in the surrounding countryside. I didn't really expect this and was so pleased to be assaulted with the scent of not only roses but mint and dill and garlic. A sensuous feast for sure.
I wandered around the Garden, open in the summer in till 9 p.m., until a fit of coughing reminded me that the pollen count had to be very high in that verdant place. The wind had picked up and I could see a vague fog of dust and pollen in the remaining beams of the sun. Time for me to get back to my hotel for a bit of dinner and bed. As I left the Garden and approached the venerable Prado, my heart beat more quickly with the promise of tomorrow-an entire city block devoted to art. Beauty stirs my soul and my soul, having had a taste of beauty all afternoon, was yearning for more.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
INTO THE LOOKING GLASS
“Carcasses of animals, their tails and feet and privates
intact hang from hooks above the wooden tables where we sit, and from these
unrecognizable animals, meat is carelessly hacked and placed on a brazier
fanned with cardboard.” That’s an attention grabber right there. I’d been reading
Barbara Grizzuti Harrison’s account of her 1991 visit through Morocco by car and was beginning
to understand quite clearly that I had less than 48 hours before I, like Alice,
would be jumping into the Looking Glass-at least a culinary one. Not that it
was a new sensation; I often backpack into strange places – remote, secret,
unfriendly to all but the most dedicated desert rat. But I’d never had my food
hacked off an animal carcass to be thrown on a brazier right before my eyes –
and nose.
Boumalne du Dades by Jerzy Strzeleck
Yeah, I watched Food, Inc. I pride myself on being careful
where I acquire my food. I don’t like to think of eating meat that has been
butchered from a cow that is so stuffed with high caloric ‘fatteners’ that it
can no longer stand on its own four legs. But in just a few days really I will
be fed from what we Westerners might think of as an inhumanely slaughtered animal. We Westerners are often far removed from the source of our food.
Oh well. At least it will be local – very.
I have that feeling one gets when one knows the world will
suddenly be very, very different. Fortunately, my transition to Morocco begins in
cosmopolitan Madrid. I will visit the Prado, one of the most extensive and best
art museums in Europe. I intend to find a few jazz clubs to introduce me to
jazz with Spanish influences. I want to visit Madrid’s Chrystal Palace in Parque del Retiro and
see what beautiful flowers grow there. I hope to visit the Mercado San Miguel, where
the food is said to be ‘unlimited and top-notch.’ I will spend three lovely
days in a luxury hotel in the right across from the Prado. It will be much like
other cosmopolitan centers, expensive and rich in culture. The trick for enjoying these very civilized
cities is to discover the unique richness that it offers. This takes quite a
bit of listening and observing but I have no doubt I will find it.
Then, too few short hours after that visual, gastronomic and
musical feast, I climb on a smallish airplane on the airline most popular with European
college students, RyanAir, that only has room in the luggage racks for 20”
suitcases, a privilege for which you have to pay. In just a couple of hours, my
plane will land in Marrakesh Morocco, one of the four Imperial cities of the
long line of Sultans, who have ruled Morocco for centuries. It is predicted to
be blisteringly hot, hotter than even this desert rat is used to. And my hosts
have no air conditioning.
Boumalne du Dades by Jerzy Strzeleck
Marrakesh is on the southern edge of the ‘civilized’ part of
Morocco. Its famous souk (an impossible maze of shops with ‘streets’ that are
often so narrow as to accommodate only two people abreast) will be full of
mysterious offerings – snake charmers with their cobras, potion sellers, rug
merchants, jewelers and thieves. After a few short days there, I will continue
my journey up into the Atlas Mountains, a range that slashes Morocco in half
from the north to south, to Boumalne, a small town in the verdant Dades Valley.
I am hopeful from there I will get to visit Ouarzazate, the oasis gateway to the Sahara,
and then maybe the fabled Saraha desert itself with its tall and turbaned Berbers and
striking scenery.
I think a looking glass is a wonderful metaphor for the kind
of travel I may be undertaking. Having visited Mexico and Southern China, I
know that it is possible for everything to look at least similar but feel very,
very different. That is exactly what travel is about – turning your notion of
reality on its ear.
After all my reading, I am certain I will love beautiful
Madrid with its gorgeous buildings, its international flare and its verdant
parks. But Morocco? I admit I am apprehensive about the heat, the smells and
other-worldliness I might find. I am perhaps even more apprehensive I will fall
in love with the Sahara desert, Morocco’s colorful souks and mysterious
medinas, its stalwart and faithful people, its exotic sensuousness. I may find
myself feeling like a calorie-counter at a delectable smorgasbord – delighted
by its succulent sweets but so very disappointed at having to sample so little
and leave so much untouched. I am afraid mysterious Morocco will have me firmly in its
grip and will lure me back to finish my sampling.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
A HOT SPOT IN THE MOJAVE
The rare Black Supermoon, just a tiny sliver in the sky of bazillions of tiny diamonds, was only an accessory – a promise of light rather than light itself. As the miles spun below us, we began wondering if we took the right road to Tecopa Hot Springs Resort, our destination for the night before driving north to Death Valley.
We passed a sign next to the road announcing a “Mission” but could see nothing but the sign itself surrounded by giant clumps of desert grasses. Another less tidy and hand-lettered sign announced the Desert Resort for Naturalism which we figured meant ‘nudist colony’. Makes sense. This patch of empty desert is the perfect place for the au natural set. Nobody would care if they saw a naked person; they’d just be glad to see another human being at all.
Finally we came to Tecopa, California, an intersection among a few older houses and slightly newer corrugated buildings – perhaps temporary at one time but now fixtures in this Desert road junction. We spied what appeared to be an active fire department and the remains of boarded up businesses. At least there were signs of settlement. Absolutely no one was about and no door had the welcome mat out.
Our nav system directed us to turn north and in just a few minutes our high beams illuminated a sign announcing “Tecopa Hot Springs Resort.” We were at our destination, a thermal area with bubbling hot springs in the middle of the inhospitable Mojave. I had emailed the proprietors and Amy had emailed back letting me know to just come on in and find a spot – we could settle up in the morning. We found the small building which serves as the Office with a hand-drawn map of the place showing the general layout of the RV and tent sites posted next to its door. But the hand-drawn map couldn’t convey that this rather casual grid went increasingly UP.
I’m really not the judgey kind so I guess ‘resort’ could describe the property before us. The collection of modest RVs and truck trailers surrounding a few ancient ‘cabins’ and slightly more modern buildings certainly had that casualness that defines resorts.
We happily spied a few heads through the windows of the transient structures laid out in a grid. Some of the resort guests clearly had made the Resort their home, decorating their ‘pads’ with Casper the Ghost and other unworldly statuettes. Giant flower pots lined the boundaries of the pads, providing some sense of tidiness but mostly acting as warnings of imminent danger of the drop-offs behind them.
We drove up and then up again, passing what we determined was the shower and hot tub block for the campground, all the way to the end of the graded, graveled road. The whole place was basically gravel and rock, bladed out of a rocky hill. I’m sure it crossed both our minds that most of our friends and certainly our families would have turned around by now. Instead, the general shabbiness of the place seemed perfect for our adventure into the Mojave Desert, a place of myth and mystery, a good start for our excursion into Death Valley in the morning.
Although seemingly impossible, the dark thickened, the tiny sliver of a moon having sauntered beyond the horizon. Having readied our tent shelters for the long, cold night, we dragged our weary bodies down to the clean and welcoming tubs where we soaked until our bodies felt warm in the chill night. Returning to our camp, we unfolded our camp chairs to eat supper and wait in the darkness, a small ‘campfire’ of electric votive candles for company. We wrapped ourselves in our warmest clothes and blankets and waited, trying to keep warm as the temperatures dropped even more. Deserts like cold, crisp nights.
We had left a badly penciled map on the door of the Office for our friends Deanna and John and hoped they would be able to find us on our lonely aerie above the other inhabitants of the Resort. Once the silence was punctuated by a lone vehicle lumbering down the vacant road but the sound continued down the empty road below. The blackness seemed impenetrable.
Finally, late in the night, we heard the sounds of a pickup hesitantly making its way up to our rocky perch. Although it was too dark to see even the outline of a truck, I jumped up and waved at the occupants of the vehicle, assuming it just HAD to be our friends. Deanna and John were equally happy to see us as we exchanged our delight that we had all actually found each other in the vastness of the Mojave. Melissa and I then quickly disappeared into our tents to sleep the sleep of cold and weary travelers.
I always awake with the dawn. I like to greet the morning and watch Brother Sun frugally lend his light to the day. I crawled out of my warm sleeping bag wondering what else I would see of this tiny settlement - a small gathering of RVs, mobile homes and older structures of every type seemingly thrown on the desert floor as if tossed like jacks. Clearly, no zoning laws impede the progress of development in this place.
Tecopa Hot Springs would make a great set for Twilight Zone. Old cars, RVs, broken down buildings – a place the ‘future’ has left behind. I’m guessing its few permanent residents like it this way. Perfect for the desert; a reminder that there are still wild places people can get lost on purpose in the American West. The tableau that seemed haphazardly laid out before me down the hill along the road was nothing I had really ever seen before except in my imagination when reading John Steinbeck or Hunter Thompson or in pictures of the days of the Dust Bowl. The hillbilly in my blood helped me fit right in.
I wandered down to the hot springs,
the main attraction of this scrubby salt pan of a valley. A ‘regular’, a
semi-retired gent who weekends at Tecopa, explained all the sites and must sees –
well THE must see – of Tecopa, a large mud pond just outside of town which purportedly has healing powers. He chatted about the more modern resort of
the four that offered hot springs in this tiny berg – it was called Delights.
Apparently an enterprising proprietor had somehow managed to strike up a
bustling trade with Korean tour companies which added a little worldliness to
the place. Globalization in the Mojave. He told us ‘our’ resort was the ‘coolest’,
attracting more artists and hippy types. I like being part of the cool crowd,
especially if cool means weird and unusual to the max.
He told us of the great anomaly of
the place. One of the owners, the guy, is a highly renowned chef who brings people
from all over the valley to his gourmet dinners every Friday, Saturday and
Sunday nights. Artists and prospectors and hippies and survivalists as well as
guests at the four hot springs resorts converge at the Tecopa Hot Springs Resort’s
extremely small and mostly closed restaurant in order to eat like kings and
queens in the middle of the Mojave. I like that. Gourmet food in the desert
without having to get dressed up. Heck, without having to even wash up.
Honestly, if your gold standard is no less than a Holiday Inn Express, you might just want to skip the drive down the long, lonely road to Tecopa. But if you crave something REALLY different and you are a big fan of hot springs, give it a try. Just make sure to stop by on the weekend when you can get a hot gourmet meal for $20 served by a chef who chooses to run an unlovely but funky ‘resort’ in the middle of the most inhospitable desert in America.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
MOTHER'S WINTER CLOAK
I love sunsets. I love mountains. I love snow. Sometimes, if
I am really lucky, I can have more than one of these at the same time.
Last week it rained a lot down in the Tucson Valley. Right
around the start of the storm, I realized this just might be my best chance to
have a little snow fun in my own state. Although Arizona ALWAYS is blessed with
at last SOME snow, the past few years have been particularly barren. For a
cross-country skier like me, that makes me seek trails in other states. But
where there is rain in the valleys, there’s a fair bet there will be snow in
the mountains.
I quickly talked a friend into carpooling (he’s a downhiller
but likes Sunrise Ski Resort and is willing to split the ride) and off we
rolled to the White Mountains. Sunrise has been around for ages and has three
mountains for apparently all levels of skiing. The mountains are lovely,
rolling things but it’s the area under the base on the way up the ‘ski road’
that invites me – a charming, sun-dappled forest where the trees grow tall and
straight.
During the summer this area is a campground for Apache
Sunrise. During the winter, the relatively maintained campground roads and high
elevation provide a wide, open often snowy lane for Nordic skiing and
snowshoeing. Or your best winter boots. Probably enough snow, too, if the skis
were mine. Outfitters can be peculiar about their gear.
Being in a snowy forest is a treat too few people
get to experience. Particularly alone. But cross-country skiers and winter
hikers often crave solitude (that’s why we like to hang out in the forest and
desert). An open forest, where the sun has the opportunity to cause the
crystals of snow to sparkle, is particularly agreeable. Even though there IS a
marked trail, if you don’t have to worry too much about running into something
under the snow, taking a sans-trail walkabout in the deep, crusted stuff is
very relaxing. It is hard to get lost since you have left your own breadcrumbs
(ski or snowshoe track or postholes) to follow back to the car.
If you are lucky, the snow lies unbroken in sparkling mini-meadows.
You walk through a beautiful, glistening carpet of white stuff. Birds whisper about
you; tell-tale prints through the pines remind that other animals are watching.
An open, snow-covered forest is toward the top of my list of places to enjoy in
which one can safely get lost alone. You can always follow those breadcrumbs back
from where you came.
When I am clearly the only person left on a particular patch
of the planet, I like to find a place to sit on a sunny stump or convenient
rock and breathe. In. Out. When I breathe in, in my head I send the oxygen
directly to whichever body part sends signals it need a lot of help. Usually my
neck. When I breathe out, my body feels like it can release into just a bit
more space, giving my bones and joints just a little more room.
Ouija breathing gets me started on merging my full breath with
the rhythm of the universe – local or otherwise. I hear the air whistle past my
tongue with a sound like an ocean wave. Ebb. Flow. Out. In. Pretty soon my ears
tune in to the din of the forest. Every forest has a din - peculiar sounds made
up of noises like water trickling, birds chirping, wind blowing, leaves and
needles quaking, bugs crawling and twigs snapping.
Breathing deeply, my hearing becomes acute. I might breathe
silently or I might find the rhythm of the forest and breathe with that. Today,
I found the perfect perch and deposited my daypack on the stump next to mine.
The snow had generously accumulated on the long dark pine branches the day before
sufficiently melting to freeze into small hanging icicles at their tips. Plenty
of snow still hung all along the pine branches and cones but the crystals were
becoming water, providing a slide for larger clumps of snow. In my meditating,
I heard a large snow clump loudly plop on the fabric of my daypack.
I listened to the forest changing around me, the snow
becoming part of the life-sustaining watershed feeding the rivers that feed the
rivers that feed the rivers flowing to the Sea of Cortez and on to the Pacific
Ocean. It sounded like rain taking its time in the falling. I heard the sound
of the trickle of water under the snow’s crust. I swear I heard the pines
drinking in the moisture. I may have heard the fish flip their fins in joy at
the replenishment of their rivers.
This is what brings me to the Whites – or San Francisco
Peaks – or the Bitterroots – or the Ozarks – or the….. Although I’d rather
visit snow than live in it (as I have on occasion), I love Mother Nature’s
Winter, to feel its icy kiss on my cheeks. Especially when there is snow to ski
or hike or snowshoe, laying before me Mother Nature’s most beautiful cloak.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
RIDING THE RAILS
Agatha Christie wrote about a murder on a famous one of
these. They have fanciful names which evoke romance and history. They have been
the subject of songs and poetry. They carry goods to market and family and
friends to their loved ones. They delivered thousands of soldiers to the front.
They’ve been the venue of many movies. Some think they are dying relics of a
time gone by in a world searching Mapquest for ‘the fastest route’. We’re
talking trains here. And I’m on one this moment.
I am traveling to Kansas City from Tucson to visit family. I could have flown from Tucson-perhaps not directly but certainly within five hours or so. That's how long it took me just to drive to Flagstaff to get on Amtrak's Southwest Chief at the ungodly hour of 6am. So why choose a slow-moving train instead of fast-moving jet?
Once, on another visit to Kansas City, I was blessed to see a herd of antelope prancing alongside the train. Can’t see that from the air. On that same trip, somewhere in Kansas in the middle of the night, I awoke at a small town depot sparkling in the light of streetlamps from recent snow fall. Very picturesque. Can’t see that by air. When I arrived at Union Station in Kansas City, a beautifully decorated and massive hall greeted me with elegant Holiday decorations and music from a grand piano. Don’t see that much in airports.
In train dining cars, it is custom for the host or hostess to seat complete strangers with each other at the same table with instructions to 'get to know one another'. Yesterday I had a delightful breakfast with two other women, mother and daughter, traveling from LA to Albuquerque to visit a son and brother. They had nice egg, potato and muffin breakfasts and I had the tasty French toast with real butter and syrup. All served with real silverware, plates (albeit plastic) and lots of coffee refills. We chatted about our kids and jobs and retirement.
I don’t think I have EVER had such a nice breakfast on an airplane, even before they switched to the cold, tasteless, boxed meals you have the privilege of buying now. The closest thing to this kind of indulgence was on a on the late night maiden flight for British Airways from Osaka Japan to Hong Kong. The attendants treated my ex-husband and me, along with all the other passengers, to an open bar – all night. Good thing we sobered up a bit before we reached Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong.
You could say I am a fan of trains. Yes, they have their limitations. In addition to the 5-hour drive to Flagstaff and the several hours I napped wrapped in my sub-zero sleeping bag in order to snag one of the rare and free parking spots for Flagstaff’s Amtrak station, I had to commit an entire 24 hours to riding the rails to my destination. Maybe I’m odd. I see that as a plus.
I find I sleep better on trains than on jets. First, the seats on Amtrak are generous and comfortable. The liberal leg room allows nearly all 5’4” of me to spread out a little, even when slumped into the cushy seat in sleep. Most of the time when I travel Amtrak alone I have two seats all to myself. Each seat is equipped with a hideaway footrest which, when pulled up parallel to the floor, provides sufficient space for a sound, sound sleep. And then there is that lovely rumble that encourages slumber, the constant drone of metal on metal as the giant wheels roll down the track. The vibration reminds me why parents place their fussy babies on the dryer to be lulled to sleep. A vibration in a plane just makes me worry.
Every once in a while, another train will pass – quite close - and you can hear the ‘conversation’ of the engines as they signal their presence to each other. This rail route, which starts in LA and goes all the way to Chicago, carries a lot of consumer goods, fuel, food and other freight. A lot of trains pass by.
Right now, as we pull into Albuquerque, I can hear that very unique and lonely hoot of the train whistle, letting the tiny towns and villages on our way know that Amtrak is passing. I am watching high chaparral fly by on the north side of the train. To the south, a wide golden plain in its winter dress is bordered by mesas and mountain ranges.
Soon, we will pull into the historic but modernized Albuquerque train station which includes its version of fast train and is part of a greater transportation hub of the metropolitan area. Navajo and Pueblo craftsmen and women will undoubtedly have spread out blankets on which all kinds of jewelry and other items are laid out in tidy displays. Can’t EVER remember anything like that in an airport.
Let’s face it. The history of train travel in the United States is just plain sexy. Our country would not have been so easily developed if the railroad barons (and barons they were – refer to my blog post Of Pasties, Prostitutes and Politicians) hadn’t invested millions of dollars to build the rail system that would eventually carry miners to Montana, wheat from Kansas to the coasts, and legions of soldiers to the European and Pacific theaters.
Pullman cars, the first really comfortable ‘sleeping cars’, became popular after Pullman loaned one of his uber luxurious cars to the government in order to carry the body of Abraham Lincoln across a grieving nation to his final resting place.
In 1869, Union Pacific and the Central Pacific railroads met at Promontory Summit Utah, forming the very first intercontinental rail route. It could be argued that this one historic event is one of the best analogies of the development of the US West. The story of this joining includes blood, sweat and tears of the workers working by hand to build it; lives and fortunes won and lost; the necessity of collaboration between two corporate and distrustful railroad giants; and literally several acts of Congress. In a very real way, the railroad was a cooperative effort that included every socio-economic segment of society. Its completion opened up markets and provided workers and material for the development of the West. The route I am riding was established by the Sante Fe Railroad and named the Super Chief, bringing stars and the possibilities of adventure in the Wild West to the city folk as far east as Chicago.
Back East, railroads built beautiful stations with grand architecture, including New York’s and my own hometown’s Union Stations. In the West, railroads got involved in the development of the National Parks as they built quality hotels to lure Easterners to visit the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone on their rail lines. Those beautiful hotels, like the El Tovar in the Grand Canyon, remain some of our most visited and popular historic hotels.
Railroad history intersects with the history of the labor movement as the railroad workers struck for not only better wages but higher safety standards in the early 20th Century. My father’s father, a switchman, was struck down in the huge Kansas City Kansas railway yards. The railroad called it a ‘stroke’ and my mother’s father, a co-worker, claimed it was an industrial accident. The railroad refused to accept any responsibility or pay out any survival benefits forcing my grandmother, since welfare programs were still far in the future, had to provide for her seven children through church and charity.
My father worked briefly for the railroad as did many of my uncles. And some of my fondest childhood memories include laying in the steamy hot and tiny guest bedroom at my grandparents’ house up from the rail yards where Grandpa worked, counting not sheep but the number of cars being bumped together to form a long snakey line that would wend its through the country bringing needed goods to both coasts. I could legitimately claim that my family history has been deeply shaped by the railroads.
As I watch the pueblos of Northern New Mexico fly by, I can’t help but feel nostalgic about the grand days of the railroads. Honestly, I’m really more of a journey than a destination person. Planes are ALL about the destination. Trains are about the journey – enjoying the changing scenery, chatting with your neighbor. So when I have time and I’m not taking my trusty truck YiHa along, I choose to ride the rails. Then from beginning to end I can honestly say my trip has been an adventure.
I am traveling to Kansas City from Tucson to visit family. I could have flown from Tucson-perhaps not directly but certainly within five hours or so. That's how long it took me just to drive to Flagstaff to get on Amtrak's Southwest Chief at the ungodly hour of 6am. So why choose a slow-moving train instead of fast-moving jet?
Once, on another visit to Kansas City, I was blessed to see a herd of antelope prancing alongside the train. Can’t see that from the air. On that same trip, somewhere in Kansas in the middle of the night, I awoke at a small town depot sparkling in the light of streetlamps from recent snow fall. Very picturesque. Can’t see that by air. When I arrived at Union Station in Kansas City, a beautifully decorated and massive hall greeted me with elegant Holiday decorations and music from a grand piano. Don’t see that much in airports.
In train dining cars, it is custom for the host or hostess to seat complete strangers with each other at the same table with instructions to 'get to know one another'. Yesterday I had a delightful breakfast with two other women, mother and daughter, traveling from LA to Albuquerque to visit a son and brother. They had nice egg, potato and muffin breakfasts and I had the tasty French toast with real butter and syrup. All served with real silverware, plates (albeit plastic) and lots of coffee refills. We chatted about our kids and jobs and retirement.
I don’t think I have EVER had such a nice breakfast on an airplane, even before they switched to the cold, tasteless, boxed meals you have the privilege of buying now. The closest thing to this kind of indulgence was on a on the late night maiden flight for British Airways from Osaka Japan to Hong Kong. The attendants treated my ex-husband and me, along with all the other passengers, to an open bar – all night. Good thing we sobered up a bit before we reached Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong.
You could say I am a fan of trains. Yes, they have their limitations. In addition to the 5-hour drive to Flagstaff and the several hours I napped wrapped in my sub-zero sleeping bag in order to snag one of the rare and free parking spots for Flagstaff’s Amtrak station, I had to commit an entire 24 hours to riding the rails to my destination. Maybe I’m odd. I see that as a plus.
I find I sleep better on trains than on jets. First, the seats on Amtrak are generous and comfortable. The liberal leg room allows nearly all 5’4” of me to spread out a little, even when slumped into the cushy seat in sleep. Most of the time when I travel Amtrak alone I have two seats all to myself. Each seat is equipped with a hideaway footrest which, when pulled up parallel to the floor, provides sufficient space for a sound, sound sleep. And then there is that lovely rumble that encourages slumber, the constant drone of metal on metal as the giant wheels roll down the track. The vibration reminds me why parents place their fussy babies on the dryer to be lulled to sleep. A vibration in a plane just makes me worry.
Every once in a while, another train will pass – quite close - and you can hear the ‘conversation’ of the engines as they signal their presence to each other. This rail route, which starts in LA and goes all the way to Chicago, carries a lot of consumer goods, fuel, food and other freight. A lot of trains pass by.
Right now, as we pull into Albuquerque, I can hear that very unique and lonely hoot of the train whistle, letting the tiny towns and villages on our way know that Amtrak is passing. I am watching high chaparral fly by on the north side of the train. To the south, a wide golden plain in its winter dress is bordered by mesas and mountain ranges.
Soon, we will pull into the historic but modernized Albuquerque train station which includes its version of fast train and is part of a greater transportation hub of the metropolitan area. Navajo and Pueblo craftsmen and women will undoubtedly have spread out blankets on which all kinds of jewelry and other items are laid out in tidy displays. Can’t EVER remember anything like that in an airport.
Let’s face it. The history of train travel in the United States is just plain sexy. Our country would not have been so easily developed if the railroad barons (and barons they were – refer to my blog post Of Pasties, Prostitutes and Politicians) hadn’t invested millions of dollars to build the rail system that would eventually carry miners to Montana, wheat from Kansas to the coasts, and legions of soldiers to the European and Pacific theaters.
Pullman cars, the first really comfortable ‘sleeping cars’, became popular after Pullman loaned one of his uber luxurious cars to the government in order to carry the body of Abraham Lincoln across a grieving nation to his final resting place.
In 1869, Union Pacific and the Central Pacific railroads met at Promontory Summit Utah, forming the very first intercontinental rail route. It could be argued that this one historic event is one of the best analogies of the development of the US West. The story of this joining includes blood, sweat and tears of the workers working by hand to build it; lives and fortunes won and lost; the necessity of collaboration between two corporate and distrustful railroad giants; and literally several acts of Congress. In a very real way, the railroad was a cooperative effort that included every socio-economic segment of society. Its completion opened up markets and provided workers and material for the development of the West. The route I am riding was established by the Sante Fe Railroad and named the Super Chief, bringing stars and the possibilities of adventure in the Wild West to the city folk as far east as Chicago.
Back East, railroads built beautiful stations with grand architecture, including New York’s and my own hometown’s Union Stations. In the West, railroads got involved in the development of the National Parks as they built quality hotels to lure Easterners to visit the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone on their rail lines. Those beautiful hotels, like the El Tovar in the Grand Canyon, remain some of our most visited and popular historic hotels.
Railroad history intersects with the history of the labor movement as the railroad workers struck for not only better wages but higher safety standards in the early 20th Century. My father’s father, a switchman, was struck down in the huge Kansas City Kansas railway yards. The railroad called it a ‘stroke’ and my mother’s father, a co-worker, claimed it was an industrial accident. The railroad refused to accept any responsibility or pay out any survival benefits forcing my grandmother, since welfare programs were still far in the future, had to provide for her seven children through church and charity.
My father worked briefly for the railroad as did many of my uncles. And some of my fondest childhood memories include laying in the steamy hot and tiny guest bedroom at my grandparents’ house up from the rail yards where Grandpa worked, counting not sheep but the number of cars being bumped together to form a long snakey line that would wend its through the country bringing needed goods to both coasts. I could legitimately claim that my family history has been deeply shaped by the railroads.
As I watch the pueblos of Northern New Mexico fly by, I can’t help but feel nostalgic about the grand days of the railroads. Honestly, I’m really more of a journey than a destination person. Planes are ALL about the destination. Trains are about the journey – enjoying the changing scenery, chatting with your neighbor. So when I have time and I’m not taking my trusty truck YiHa along, I choose to ride the rails. Then from beginning to end I can honestly say my trip has been an adventure.
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