Casa Otra Banda
El Rancho, New Mexico
December 2001
Dear Friend,
This letter comes inside a different card. I decided it was time for me (and you) to take a break. For me, it was a lot of work, for you, same-old, same-old. Doug Johnson, whose painting is on this card, is a first-class New Mexico artist (we have several of his works) – he combines traditional portrayals with (in some works) very jarring contemporary elements. In this case, the scene conveys (to me at least) the isolated world of northern New Mexico religion and culture that is attenuating with the almost total loss of that isolation.
I looked over the start of my letter to you from one year ago, little dreaming, as I write now, how unimaginably prophetic it would seem, through no particular genius of my own. It began with this paragraph:
What a difference a year makes! As I looked over my letter of last year, it was filled with thoughts of the new millennium – who could help it, with all the overwrought discussions and writings going on? With all the forecasts of Y2K doom giving us all a frisson of being an exciting part of a major catastrophe, a kind of self-directed schadenfreude?
I’ve been thinking and thinking – how does one write a letter this year? What does one say that does not sound trite? Can one say anything to others that is more than a repetition of what countless others, by now have said? And yet, we all struggle to give meaning to the events in our lives. For those of us born more or less when I was or more recently, we seem to have entered into one of those times when we know that something truly has changed. The how and what may not be entirely clear, but obviously, we are in the midst of momentous developments.
Certainly, I must say, as others have observed, that I was brought back to a root sense of what it is to be an American, to be a citizen of this country. Being, most of the time, on the liberal side of the spectrum (and proud of it!) there always seemed a conflict with the common concept of patriotism. But even this died-in-the-wool liberal finds it okay to be patriotic, but in my own way. I have come to realize, at a greatly heightened level, several important things.
First, that I really am an American, as American as it gets, but I have the right to define what that means – and is not that, in itself, such an American trait? To criticize, to have high expectations for my country, to be disappointed in the ways it has fallen short of its ideals, and to be vocal in my criticism. This brought back to a very important awareness I gained when I lived in Brazil from 1979 to 1982. My Brazilian friends would tell me, at different times that I was so different from most of the other Americans they had gotten to (superficially) know, and they really liked the way I was – learning their language, not assuming superiority, exploring their country. And yet, at other times, they would tell me I was SO American. And ain’t that the truth!
That leads me to the second thought. The fact that even after September 11, we show our Americanness by arguing, by being diverse, by accepting others who are different to a degree that significantly exceeds just about any other country (it’s easy to be accepting in Sweden when 98% of your fellows were born and raised in Sweden!). We are tolerant, we have variety, and even in the most narrow-minded times in our history, this has been a great and diverse country. I am only a few generations away from family that grew up in a different world (Tsarist Russia), where such acceptance was totally absent. And most of us have such stories to tell – in different words, in different languages, in different experiences, and yet there are the common threads that bind us together here.
Third, I had too easily forgotten that because I am so disappointed in our political leaders and in our political system (in terms of how it seems to have strayed from what it could and should be) that is not the same thing as being disappointed in my country. I tend to confuse the government (particularly the present administration, which by and large I detest) with “the country.” But governments and politicians come and go. The country endures. And there are a lot of wonderful people who work hard to make this country live up to all it can and should be.
Fourth, I find myself continuing to be highly sensitized to many aspects of the loss. The particular moments or events that bring it on do not occur so often any more, but whenever I am reminded, through a news piece, about one of the people lost in the attack, or what life is like for those who knew one (or more) of those people well, I simply substitute, in my mind, that it David for one of those unlucky ones, and then the empathetic connection is quite immediate and terribly painful. Unlike them, I can leave that place in my mind – they cannot and never will be able to completely. When I see still or moving images of New York at the height of its glories – the lights of Times Square in a documentary from the 40’s, a dramatic shot of the New York skyline – I can only think of this incredible city – my native city – so terribly wounded and hope that with time, it will be as vibrant as ever, the wounds having healed over, the scars always there as a reminder. And perhaps I have no right to share in its reflected light, but I feel very proud to be a native New Yorker!
While I don’t have a flag yet – so far I can only find flimsy ones manufactured in a Chinese dictatorship – I have no problem, flying the flag, because, classically American, I reserve the right to define what it means to me, and I am not afraid that by doing so, others will come up with their own (wrong) definition of who I am. It simply means I am grateful to live in this country, to be a citizen of it, and I get to say what flying the flag means to me.
So, of course I worry that we will too quickly give away those special attributes in the name of an effort, probably somewhat misguided, to deal with a new, terrible threat. And in fact, based on some directions we are going in, I think there is good cause for real worry. But we also have history on our side. We have, in the past given up some basic rights and privileges we never should have – if even temporarily. The sacrifice was, in retrospect, a poor one to make. It did not accomplish the greater goal, and we did some injustices. But we at least recognized we made mistakes, and righted them afterwards, and that is a better track record than you find in most countries.
I also am greatly concerned, and I think with good reason, that many other unwise choices, all under the umbrella of national security, will be made. We are already seeing that – one example being energy policy, another, civil rights. Given that I have, in domestic and most aspects of international policy little confidence and little agreement with the present Administration, and uncertainty over how much its popularity in conducting a war on terrorism will carry over into other area, I would have to say that I am not a particularly happy camper when I view the prospects before us. One thing I hope most Americans become more conscious of is how much we all depend on countless agencies and programs of the federal government to support our needs. Is knee-jerk government bashing in the closet for a while?
That about sums up where my thinking is these days. A sense of common plight, of getting back to basic notions and realizations, and easy as it becomes to lose that heightened sense that became so acute in the days after September 11, to try to hang on tight enough to not lose it entirely.
Oddly enough, in the days following “the event” the world out this way was more beautiful than I ever recalled. It seemed so perverse, and yet so reassuring. The fall was as magnificent as I have seen. It began, actually, just before the attack – on the drive home from a wonderful camping weekend (September 6-9) at Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. We took a slower, scenic route home, over Slumgullion Pass (11,000 feet plus) and the aspens at the higher elevations were already ablaze. A retreat two weekends later at the Taos Ski Basin, was, by common opinion of all there, the most glorious anyone could remember. While David’s Sangre de Cristo Chorale practiced, I went on a hike that was the most memorable hike for Western color I had ever taken. The next weekend, I did a gorgeous day hike in the mountains near Santa Fe – the Aspen Vista Trail lived up to its name many times over. Over Columbus Day weekend, David and I took a 5-day trip to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, and hit the colors on the rim at their peak. And since then, as the mountains faded, the landscape around our house took on richness and vibrancy such as I have never seen. Being out here, away from collapsing buildings and anthrax spores, it has been hard to merge the news I hear with the tranquil beauty all around us.
I wish I could say that my work has been satisfying, but this year, I am afraid, my frustration and sense of being at a dead end peaked. Initial efforts to get the word out and change jobs ultimately fizzled. There is one significant development – an exciting series of new positions which I believe would tap into my various skills, and I have applied. While I think I am a very credible candidate for one of these positions, who knows? Like so much else, the rhyme and reason of how these things work largely escapes me. If it does not come through, my plans for retirement may accelerate a bit – I’ve considered as soon as late next year. If the position comes through and is exciting and challenging, well, I could wait a bit longer. David and I have some real work ahead of us, anyway, figuring out how two retired people will make things work in a very changed social environment.
As they say on Prairie Home Companion, it’s been a quiet year in El Rancho, from David’s perspective. His double CD, Songs My Grandmother Taught Me, has proven quite popular (with those who discover it), and he is now considering a book on American Popular Song from 1950 forward (Alex Wilder did the classic volume, but it only covered 1925-1950. David was quite active in the Sangre de Cristo Chorale – serving as the chorale’s music librarian and on the selection committee for a new director, singing at one of the top restaurants with a small number of colleagues for a fund-raiser. Separate from the Chorale itself, he was invited to join the Central European tour of the New Amsterdam Singers of New York, a fine group he sang with when he lived in New York in the 60’s and 70’s.
David and I have been talking about post-retirement living arrangements in rather general ways. In this regard, we have taken a moderately serious look at Santa Fe’s one lifetime care facility. It is very professionally operated, and perhaps, for us, its most attractive feature is that it is located right in the center of town – walking access to much of the excitement. Most such communities are far out from city centers and if you are not particularly mobile (e.g., have and able to operate a vehicle), you can feel quite cut off from the flow of life. Neither of us feels “ready” for this kind of thing, and we have not worked out how long we want to stay out in the country. I, being five years younger than David, am even less ready to give up the pleasures (mixed with a lot of hard work and responsibilities) of living where we do. In short, lots of discussion right now, but no firm decisions.
Santa Fe continues to grow, and now feels like a place where the problems of urban sprawl have finally arrived. The Thursday evening we took off for the Grand Canyon, we had to go through Santa Fe – it was evening rush hour, and the south side of town felt like commuting in any other American city where the automobile has created traffic hell. It struck me, as never before, that Santa Fe is no longer this isolated, picturesque little dream of a forgotten place, but a real city with all the headaches of anywhere USA. Yes, the weather is fabulous, and the old parts of town unique, the mountain setting and the clear air are still largely with us, but for better or worse, we’re now fully a part of 21st century America. There is a lot of nostalgia indulgence here (a kind of two-bit San Francisco approach), but Santa Fe will never be that place where time forgot again.
On the other hand, the cultural life of the city gets better and better. We have some really exciting, first-class stuff going on – homegrown and visiting. The Santa Fe Opera is under a new general director and is making some innovative changes. We went to the 2nd Santa Fe Jazz Festival, and it was 3 weeks of major talent. We now have a Santa Fe Film Festival (as well as the superb, nearby Taos Talking Picture Festival). This past spring, our old grand downtown movie house reopened as the Lensic Center for the Performing Arts. It is in constant use, with a tremendously wide variety of events – folk music, classic films from past eras, the symphony, the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival, vocal recitals, literary events (like Edward Said and John Coatzee, to name just a few) – and amazingly enough, the more really good attractions there are, the more things are selling out. Santa Fe is becoming a very stimulating, edgy place to live. The kind of people who truly bring fermentation to a community are have been coming here for some time, and continue to come. This is not a place to retire, hang your hat, snooze in front of the TV. It’s a place where people begin a second life, like Eleanor Eisenmenger, who three years ago founded Twentieth Century Unlimited. Through her past knowledge and network, she has brought consistently exciting concerts – with major talent, doing new music (some premieres, some 20th century classics), all for $5.00 per ticket! But this is not an isolated story. For us, living outside Santa Fe, though we don’t run into town during the week (generally) just knowing all this is going on gives us a very real sense of stimulation. One reason for this is the “makers and shakers” are part of everyday life here, not remote figures you only read about in the newspaper.
And finally, on a clear, crisp, sunny day in December, I am captivated by the magical light, the southwestern colors, the melding of sky, snow, evergreen trees, and adobe (even if often fake), and totally stuck on how special this place continues to be.
I continue to work at making the property a really handsome retreat. Sometimes it is discouraging – I seem to hit a low in mid-summer, when I should be feeling at my best, but then late summer, fall, winter, and if the winds are not too horrendous, even spring, can be immensely rewarding. The beauty around me never ceases to amaze me. Things are growing up, there is a nice, comfortable, lived in feeling about the grounds. I may even give the vegetable garden a rest next year (and myself a rest in the bargain). Well, it won’t be a total rest – it never is – but I think I may cut back and let most of it go fallow. Meanwhile, I am always trying something new, so I am currently attempting a small winter garden – I want to see if I can grow a few things and harvest them all winter.
We did some nice trips this year, culminating in a grand circuit of central Europe. I’ve included some notes, as a kind of addendum to the main letter, if you care to read about the trip. If not, no worry. David, as previously mentioned, was invited to join the international singing tour of the New Amsterdam Singers, a group he had sung with when he lived in New York back in the 70’s. I met him, in Trieste, Italy, on the day the group returned to New York, and we then took off on our own wonderful three weeks of exploring.
There were hikes and camping in the spring, and a wonderful hike from Crested Butte to Aspen over 13,000 foot West Maroon Pass in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness of Colorado. We rested and ate fabulously in Aspen, and then next morning, hiked back, over the pass, to Crested Butte. A grand experience. Then over Labor Day, I backpacked with a friend into Chicago Basin in the Weiminuche Wilderness, north of Durango, Colorado – the basin is backdropped by three of Colorado’s “fourteeners.”. You get to the trailhead by being let off the Durango-Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad in the middle of nowhere – the train being an incredible trip in itself.
Thanksgiving was family reunion time in Florida, and my first flying since Europe in July. One does treasure family and friends even more intensely these days, so the idea of the reunion was even sweeter than usual.
Plans for the Laboratory’s Christmas closure are more uncertain than ever. Some kind of road trip perhaps, a foray into Mexico, very likely, but who knows? For now, the big mid-winter trips of the past few years – India, then Brazil, and this past year, Laos, are in respite.
We did take a high flyer this year and somehow, persuaded ourselves to buy into a new concept in time-sharing. It remains to be seen if it was a good idea after all. Your time share real estate is actually so many “points” you elect to buy, which can then be applied to stays at locations literally all over the world. The property you nominally buy into you may never ever stay at. Points are charged depending on length of stay and time of year – some weeks cost more points than others. It’s a bit complicated, but especially post-retirement, offers some attractive approaches to traveling. It’s too early to tell if we made a smart move.
Other than that, life continues. If ever there was a year of not knowing what the near future, much less the more distant one holds for us, this is it. The one thing I am certain of is cherishing family, friends, companions, and love as never before.
So, I hope this finds you, despite all that has happened, in good spirits. At least I sense a kind of togetherness, a “we’re all in this together, for better or worse” and that is some comfort, for me at least.
With much love,
SPECIAL ADDENDUM: Central Europe, July 2001
David and I made a high season trip to Europe this past summer. It all happened a bit accidentally, in that David was invited, by the group he used to sing with in New York over 25 years ago, namely, The New Amsterdam Singers, on their tour of Europe this year. The group left in late June for Trieste, Italy and gave a couple of performances in Trieste and Udine, a provincial capitol, and then several more on the Istrian peninsula of Croatia, not too far over the border.
The morning the group was flying home from Trieste, I was arriving, to meet him. I had to spend a morning and afternoon in New York between my connection from Albuquerque and the flight to Milan, but it turned out to be a cool, sunny day and I treated myself to a monster pastrami sandwich at the Carnegie Deli. The most interesting thing I did was a detailed walk around all of Rockefeller Center, using an excellent guide brochure available at the (former) RCA building. Despite growing up in New York, I had no idea just how extensive was the design program and how many of the major artists of the 20th century were commissioned to do work on the project. This was truly a complex where one can say, without exaggeration, “They don’t build them like that anymore!”
Although on planes for two consecutive nights, I arrived pretty awake in Trieste and was greatly relieved to find David waiting for me – he was equally relieved because at that point we had lost all confidence in Alitalia Airlines, who had messed up almost every part of his trip (including the return to come!).
We decided to rent a car on the spot for the entire trip (our original plan was to wait until we got to Slovenia) and took off for a magnificent small town a short ways beyond the airport, Aquileia, once the 4th largest city of the ancient Roman empire, but now a small provincial village, though with astonishing riches – most notably, a 4th century A.D. basilica whose entire (large) floor of intricate mosaic designs and portrayals of daily life is preserved.
We explored Trieste itself one day – certainly one of the most interesting cross-roads cities in European history – one of those places like Sarajevo, Istanbul, or Alexandria, Shang’hai, or before it broke down in chaos, Beirut, which have had all kinds of ethnic mixings and exuded a cosmopolitan way of life. Trieste was the main port of the Hapsburg Empire and in the 20th century alone, belonged to Austria-Hungary, then Italy, then Yugoslavia, and finally Italy, where it remains, politically, if not culturally. It is at the meeting place of the three main language groups of Europe: Romance, Slavic, and Germanic. A poignant experience was visiting the great synagogue of Trieste – it is only open for 90 minutes late each Monday afternoon, and by sheer coincidence, that’s when we tried to see it. For years it was in bad shape, but has been modestly restored. It is one of the two great (in size and exuberance of decoration) synagogues left in Central Europe, the other being in Budapest (and which we went into also). The thriving Jewish community of Trieste, sadly, is gone, as in virtually all of central Europe, but we did speak to a member of the congregation and learned something about the synagogue’s recent past.
We explored some other towns in the region, and had a wonderful lunch in Cormones, a place that rivals Parma for the quality of its prosciutto (which we sampled, of course). We also tried wild boar. The wines of the Friuli region, particularly the whites, are excellent, usually made from the Tokai grape, also found extensively in Hungary. Further, Trieste is famous for its coffee as it was the port through which the beans came for use in the great cafes of mittel-europa. We tried several of the grand old cafes of Trieste, and they were a time-warp from a lost world.
Within a few minutes of finishing lunch in Cormones, we were in Slovenia, and had made a radical, face-slapping transition to a language which for me looked quite strange, with its piling up of consonants one would never see together in English and I had no idea how to pronounce them. The drive through alpine foothills and lush meadows crowded with wildflowers was a gorgeous sight, and the roads were uncrowded. In a few hours we were in the capital, Ljubljana, a small but very well-preserved and these days, stylish city. As almost everywhere in this part of Europe, the town is built on a river and crowned by hill upon which sits an old castle. Some of these old castles are decrepit, some are history museums, and still others are restored and recycled for present day use (and in some cases you can find a combination of these uses!). The Ljubljana Music Festival was also on, and though we just had missed two programs I would dearly have loved to have heard (“Boris Godunov” and the Verdi “Requiem,” the latter conducted by Pendereki) we did hear the Kaunas Choir (of Lithuania) in a very nice choral performance in a grand old church.
We continued on to an old, not heavily visited town in eastern Slovenia, Ptuj (pronounced, believe it or not, Pe-Tooey – that’s those consonants for you). One floor of its castle on the hill (all these towns have them without exception) was devoted to the costumes, masks, and odd traditions of a local mid-winter festival that David and I decided would be delightful to be there for.
From Ptuj we had to cross the northeast corner of Croatia and then into Hungary, where we headed for Lake Balaton. This is an extraordinarily popular vacation destination, especially for Germans. It was the one place on our trip I did not much care for – except for a beautiful palace in one town – loads of vacationers, a lake whose charms completely escaped me (hazy, no mountain scenery, shallow and muddy). All the same this is the one time we used a service to book us into a private home, and being up in the hills above the lake, surrounded by family-owned vineyards, and next to the best restaurant in the area (where we had a very good dinner on a terrace overlooking the hills and the lake), it turned out okay. Something I always enjoy on a European trip is that in good weather, without fail, one can dine, lunch, snack, have a beer at a brewery or a coffee at a coffee house in some kind of garden, on a terrace with an urban or rural view, in an old courtyard, on the main square, or in a tiny corner of a narrow alley. You never have to be indoors.
After breakfast, we were off for Budapest, not too far away. Lake Balaton and Budapest were the only period of our trip when we had really hot, muggy weather, but we did only have one rainy day, so overall, we cannot complain, given Europe’s general reputation for poor weather. Downtown hotels in Budapest were full, but one hotel told us to follow a taxi, who would take us to a nice hotel not too far outside the center. We followed him, at breakneck speed, and were convinced we were going to another country, it seemed so far. In the end, it turned out absolutely lovely, was up in the hills above the city where it was considerably cooler at night (none of the modest places we stayed on our trip had air conditioning, much less a fan!) and the public transportation was so good we got into the center of town in a short time, and were delighted to leave the car behind.
I was very impressed with how well public transportation worked in Budapest, and we saw similarities in Bratislava, later in the trip. First, and most remarkable, you buy your bus and subway tickets from machines, and simply get on the bus or the subway – the system relies on the honor system, with random checks of passengers to verify they actually do have a valid ticket. (These checks only happened to us on the subway, never on the bus). Let me compare this with buses in New York, which probably has the most automated municipal bus system in the U.S. with its wonderful Metrocard. Here’s the difference – in Europe the bus driver does only one thing – drives! In New York (and likewise elsewhere in the U.S.), even with the Metrocard, the driver waits for each person to get on, put the Metrocard in the reader (sometimes messing up), and if 10 people get on, the driver waits until they all successfully do it, answers questions, etc. You are stationary far longer than you are ever moving. In Budapest, everyone gets on in a few seconds, usually through the back door, and off you go. Furthermore, in Budapest, the buses have inside digital read-outs that display the upcoming street where the bus will stop, and using the kind of symbols common throughout Europe, clearly indicate, by number, the bus or streetcar (yes, they still have those wonderful old streecars) you can transfer to. Even in a country like Hungary with an impossible language, public transportation was efficient and easy to master for a foreigner. Who can say the same in the U.S.?
When I see public transportation in Europe, I always wonder why, if America is the practical, technology-crazy, pragmatic place we all think of it as, we do it so clumsily and Europe so intelligently. One hypothesis of mine is that we invest in what rich people care about and in the U.S. that is cars and airplanes. Europe, post-World War II at least, seems far more focused on the general welfare, and it spends its money on the public sphere. Also, since everyone uses public transportation, it is a source of pride rather than of a certain shame – in the U.S., except for the very biggest Eastern and Mid-western cities, buses are for poor people, so those better-off resent wasting their taxes on them.
We thoroughly enjoyed Budapest. High on the list was visiting the gorgeous Doheni synagogue and next to it, the Jewish museum – but also a sad affair to see vestiges of a once thriving community. In Budapest I would say we had our very best meals. One was in an elegant café in the heart of Pest, the other on the outskirts of Buda – we decided to use the car and by some miracle, not only found the place in the day time (night comes late in a European summer) but made it back to our hotel in the dark. We felt like very successful travelers that evening – the drive was rather madcap, with David trying to read a map in the dark, and me making sharp, sudden changes in direction.
From Budapest, we continued on to the region called the Danube Bend, where some wonderful old towns (Visegrad, Estregom) on a scenic part of the Danube are found. Estregom is where the kings of Hungary were crowned for hundreds of years and where Cardinal Mindszenty, famous for his defiance of the Communist regime, is buried. We also went to a rather less visited area near the Slovakian border where the countryside was remarkably beautiful – nothing spectacular, but very reminiscent of pictures I’ve seen of Europe between the wars. Particularly remarkably were occasional large fields of sown sunflowers, in late July, at their full height, with thousands of large cheerful yellow faces all turned the same way towards the sun. In this region we visited a remarkable old town, Hollokö, on the UNESCO World Heritage list, settled by a small sub-group of Magyars.
And then it was across to Slovakia, where we headed to Bratislava, the capital, and the only place we visited in the country. Of all the countries we visited, Slovakia seemed to have lagged the most in emerging from the Communist era. The outskirts of Bratislava have an infamous housing development – endless rows of ugly apartment blocks as far as the eye can see – something all the Communist regimes were famous for. But Bratislava also has a magnificent old center city with lots to see. Unfortunately, in an act of remarkable vandalism, the Communist regime smashed an expressway through the old town, within feet of the cathedral where the Hapsburgs (including Maria Theresa) were crowned. To build it, they wiped out most of the little still left, after the war, of the Jewish ghetto – what wasn’t already decimated by the Nazis, but a small Jewish museum manages to survive, and with a bit of effort we found it and visited it.
From there we crossed the northeast corner of Austria into Moravia, one of the provinces of the Czech Republic. As soon as we entered, we were in Mikulov, a gorgeous small town that had been, for a long time, the seat of the Chief Rabbinate of Moravia. In what was becoming a pattern, we discovered that all that is left of the rich Jewish life of this place was a “Jewish Trail” – very nicely done, with brass plaques in three languages (Czech, German, English) through what had been the Jewish part of town. The buildings were there (the synagogues were now secular structures), but the Jews were not, and who knew what awareness (and attitudes) existed on the part of the present occupants? I was, at one and the same time, glad that there was some recognition of the lost world of Jewish life, but felt a sense of ineffable sadness that all that remained was a Jewish Trail and some brass signs. I realize that in selected places, Jewish life and culture is returning to Europe, but by and large, the Germans were successful – Europe is Judenrein in terms of a sustainable culture and continuous tradition.
Our destination in Moravia was Telc, another UNESCO World Heritage town that David had been to on a singing tour four years earlier. He had known nothing of it before arriving there, but was so overwhelmed by the beauty and historic integrity of the town that he had said upon returning home that if he ever had a chance, he would have to take me there. Little did we dream it would require only four years. We arrived on a dark, overcast, chilly and intermittently rainy afternoon – not terribly promising, but the weather improved over the two days we were there, and indeed, as the Michelin Guide states for a 3-star location, it was “worth a special journey.”
This town has probably the most spectacularly perfect central square – not square shaped at all, not even rectangular, but of utter Renaissance perfection – every single building of the period, many with the most elaborate sgraffito decoration on the exterior. It is not one of those tourists destinations with tours buses filling up the beautiful urban spaces, idling their diesel engines for hours on end. At one end is the palace of the family that essentially ruled the town for centuries. Not elaborate like Versailles (or some local ones we visited in other Central European towns) but for sheer beauty of understated execution, amongst the most memorable I can recall.
We timed our visit to be there for one of the performances of the Telc summer music festival – a performance we thought would be wonderful, and indeed it was – the Pergolesi Stabat Mater, followed by the Mozart Requiem, performed by a fine orchestra from Brno and a well-honed choral group from Prague, in a glorious small church. Both the setting and the performance combined to make the experience overwhelming. The applause went on forever, and unlike what has now become in a cliché in the U.S., there was no standing ovation.
My most moving experience of all relating to the vanished Jewish life of Europe was at this church. To enter the church, one must pass through a covered, gothic portal. Just at the entry into the church, there is a large stone tablet on the wall, listing the names of all those Telc residents who died in the Holocaust. Each person was listed, and if it was known, the concentration camp and the year of his or her murder. To remember these victims, to pass their names by, every time one went to church – victims of another religion – that, somehow, was as powerful an experience for a town to subject itself to as one could imagine. To pass that tablet as the last thing before experiencing the Mozart Requiem – that’s a lot of emotional punch.
We explored some nearby towns, similar in sense of place to Telc, but not in quite the same league. Then, we spent one entire day driving across Austria, due south all the way to the Julian Alps of Slovenia (named after Julius Caesar), just beyond the southern Austrian border. I had not wanted to linger in Austria, because I feel that unlike Germany, it has not confronted its terrible Nazi past. We did make one exception – a two-hour stop at the great Benedictine monastery of Melk on the Danube, which we had to pass anyway. David had wanted very much to see it, especially after a wonderful trip he made in March of this year to the region where Switzerland, Germany, and France come together – he had seen some fabulous monasteries on that trip (like St. Gallen) and now wanted to see Melk. I had seen Melk last in 1961 when I worked for a summer in Vienna, not too far away. As a measure of Austria’s recovery from World War II and the Soviet occupation, one could do worse than compare how Melk looked now with how it looked when I saw it in 1961. Even I had to admit it was a magnificent experience, including the gardens, which David could have skipped, but no way I would.
The Slovenian Alps were a fitting wind-up to to the trip. The most beautiful areas are all within Trglav National Park, which occupies most of the northwest corner of the country. We spent just over two days there, doing stunning drives, and quite a number of half-day hikes. We even stayed, one night, at the Bellevue Hotel on Lake Bohinj, where Agatha Christie immured herself to write, uninterrupted, Murder on the Orient Express. The scenery was every bit the equal of what one would see in Switzerland, but the Slovenians were more gemutlich.
We actually had a very fine last, last experience – the day before we were to fly back to the U.S. from Trieste, we left Slovenia and returned to Italy. We discovered that an unheralded town with a reputation for a lot of fine art was less than an hour from the airport, so we decided to spend our last night there. The town is Cividale del Friuli (I loved the abrupt transition from Slavic names back to the Romance world) and it is an unheralded jewel. We only had one afternoon (but an intense one) to explore, but were amazed at the wealth of historic buildings, art works, and rich history we found there. We also discovered there yet another terrific summer festival for all the arts, Mittelfest, celebrating 10 years of a post-Communist central Europe. While the night we were there, the performances were all spoken (and obviously not in English, so we did not attend) we were astounded, upon consulting the festival program, at the quality of performing companies at a festival we had never heard of. One could develop a fascinating itinerary around small, untrumpeted summer festivals big on quality but low on hype.
We flew back to New York without any glitches, at the end of July, and spent three wonderful days there. Unseasonably cool, brilliantly blue, clean air – New York was as perfect to be in on these summer days as I can ever recall. We had no particular program, but did some great walks, visited the Metropolitan Museum numerous times, explored lower Manhattan (and were in both the World Trade Center and the adjoining Marriott Hotel, now all gone), before finally calling it a game and returning to New Mexico for the 2nd half of summer. I wonder now if we saw New York during a period of shimmering glory that will take many years to restore.
I found the part of Europe I was in fascinating. Considering it was summer, nowhere we visited was overrun with tourists, especially outside the biggest cities, but even they were very manageable. I mostly saw places that just 10 years ago had been faintly off-limits to many. However, whether it was the exposure to an extinct Jewish world, so wistfully alluded to in this report, or seeing the occasional swastika graffiti on walls, I felt (rather than thought this consciously) that I was glad to just visit – it could never feel like home. However, charming and historic, there would always be ghosts hovering over it to unsettle me.
But now the terrors of the Old World have arrived in the New. It’s been quite a year!