Editor’s Note: This article appeared in T-Boy two years ago, and also in three part series in the Tico Times, Costa Rica’s leading publication. It serves as a reminder that once the airways are clear again, it will be one of the first destinations I’ll revisit. It’s a nation of stunning land and seascapes, coffee plantations and jungles, national parks and biodiversity – but most of all my return will be to reconnect with the gentile and gracious people of Costa Rica.

Pura Vida in Costa Rica

I’ve been reveling in the warmth of my recent trip to Costa Rica, and not just because of the heat and humidity. This alluring Central American nation of five million Ticos (citizens), roughly the size of West Virginia, consists of just 0.03% of the earth’s landmass, but is home to 5% of its biodiversity. My checklist included hiking misty rain and cloud forests, strolling pristine beaches, witnessing an active volcano, touring a coffee plantation and experiencing unique plant and wildlife – which included my first encounters with a viper and boa constrictor. Yes, there were some bad dreams that night.

Because Costa Rica is located between 8 and 12 degrees north of the Equator, the climate is tropical year round. However, the country has many microclimates depending on elevation, rainfall, topography and by the geography of each particular region. Statistics tell us that Costa Rica has a bounty of 230 mammal species, 890 bird species, 220 reptile species, 35,000 insect species and 9,000 plant species. Virtually half the nation consists of national parks and nature and wildlife reserves. The best time to go to national parks is in the early morning. A guide is necessary to point out important sightings. Upon preparation for your Costa Rican journey, you will undoubtedly see numerous guide books with colorful photos of wildlife. You will be lucky if you manage to see a few. The rainforests and cloud forests are not a zoo, and the animals are on their own time table.

For example, the only time I actually spotted a toucan was outside my cabin in the midst of my own private tropical rain forest, right under the Arenal Volcano. The primary colors of the toucan’s feathers, along with its yellowish orange beak, were so mesmerizing that it almost looked like a painting by Paul Gauguin. As was the active 5,357-foot volcano, which was in view every time I looked out my window.  In 1968 the Arenal Volcano violently erupted, burying almost six sq. miles under rocks, lava and ash; eventually killing 87 people and destroying  three small villages. Smaller eruptions continued through 1998.  A specialist from the Costa Rica Volcanic and Seismic Observatory explained that the eruptions are nothing unusual for the volcano. As a normal precaution, authorities declare a red alert, close nearby roads and evacuate people (mostly tourists) from the immediate area. I made a point of giving the specialist my cell phone number. For the complete celestial experience you can relax in one of Arenal’s many natural hot springs, surrounding the volcano’s base. At night, it’s just you and the stars above.

But, above all, it was the gentle charm and hospitality of the Ticos themselves which affected me the most. They seem to have graciousness in their DNA. Costa Rica has literacy and life expectancy rates higher than the US, and with no standing army. The former military budget is dedicated to providing health care services and education. This has resulted in a nationwide cultural phenomenon where Ticos are uncomfortable with any form of personal aggression or confrontation. The motto, Pura Vida! (‘Pure Life’), is an expression used in various contexts, reflecting the Tico’s philosophy of a simple life, free of stress and a positive, relaxed feeling. It can be used as everything from “hello” or “awesome” to “all is well?” I vividly recall a woman running over to assist my photographer who was struggling with changing her shoes on the beach. Asking for directions always ended in a handshake, and wait staff employees at sodas (little cafés) were happy to share their personal narrative when ordering a meal.

Backstory

Pre-Columbian Costa Rica was populated by 400,000 Amerindians. The various tribal nations seemed to be a cultural mix, influenced by the Mesoamerican civilizations of north Central America and the Macro-Chibcha civilizations of northern South America. Columbus arrived on his fourth and final voyage in 1502; the result of repairs to his vessel, off the coast of Limón. Greeted by welcoming tribal chieftains, he noticed gold and silver worn by some. He made a wrong assumption that this was a place of plenty. He proclaimed this new land as “Costa Rica” (“Rich Coast”), which led to the arrival of full force Spanish conquistadores in search of bountiful treasures – but there was virtually nothing to be found. Plus, the remaining Tribal People – most had died due to warfare and the spread of European diseases – would not adhere to the usual barbarous Spanish practice of encomienda  (forced labor). Costa Rica was described as the poorest and most miserable Spanish colony in all of the Americas by the Spanish governor. Most of the Spanish left in search of wealthier lands, while the remaining settlers headed for Central Valleys, where they found rich volcanic soil, ideal for farming, with no choice but to work the land themselves.  This period of history created the foundation for Costa Rica’s development as a more egalitarian society than the rest of Central America, resulting in a rural democracy with no oppressed mestizo or Amerindian class. After the final Spanish defeat in the Mexican War of Independence (1810–21), Spain declared the independence of all of Central America. Called the Federal Republic of Central America, Costa Rica eventually broke away and established its own democratic nation in 1838.

Since the late 19th century Costa Rica has experienced two significant periods of violence. In 1948, a six week civil war broke out between liberal and conservative forces that left 2,000 Costa Ricans dead.  The liberals won the bitter war. A new constitution was enacted which abolished the army, desecrated the country, granted women and Afro-Costa Ricans the right to vote, thus creating a stable democracy, progressive social policies, free compulsory public education, high social well-being, and emphasis on treating all citizens equally. In 1987 President Oscar Arias Sanchez won the Nobel Peace Prize for brokering a peaceful agreement between the peasant-class Sandinistas and US supported Contras, a remnant of the brutal Nicaraguan regime of President Anastasio Somoza. A covert CIA airfield just across Costa Rica’s northern border was quickly abandoned, which led to a nation-wide celebration where children planted trees on the empty airfield.

San José: Your journey will probably begin with a flight to the capital city of San José, due to its direct access from many US cities. Located in the center of the nation, peopled by 1.035 million citizens, San José’s densely packed urban center almost felt like a third-world city. Wealthy expiates generally live in self-contained guarded communities in the hills, complete with barbed wire as protection. Many visitors use it as an one-night stop-over, and then head for their destinations of choice. I had been warned: as a new capital city it is a bit charmless, with only a few examples of colonial architecture, museums, historic government buildings and grand boulevards. I took a midnight stroll on Saturday and another one the next morning. Contrary to popular opinion, it was a great experience. I felt safe and enjoyed the colorful Main Market and sense of life on the streets of Costa Rica’s largest city. My hotel, located a block away from the city center, was buttoned up like a fortress, with steel shutters blocking the parking area. It was almost midnight and I must have driven four times around long blocks to find the unassuming locked entrance with barely a small sign. But, once inside, I was greeted by the manager who was helpful and hospitable, serving almost like an ambassador. This was my first indication of the kindness of the Ticos.

Don Juan Coffee Tour: What nation leads the world in coffee consumption? Did you know the lighter the bean, the more caffeine?  Or, that vanilla needs to be added to the cacao bean in order to transform it into chocolate? All this and more is what I learned at the two-hour Don Juan Coffee Tour. Located in the rich coffee country hills of Monteverde, you’ll receive a real taste of coffee education from touring the plantation’s sprawling coffee fields to the processing of the beans. The tour also includes turning Don Juan’s cacao beans, whose birthplace is pre-Columbian Central America, into chocolate. Aztec Emperor Montezuma II reportedly drank 50 flagons per day of the liquid chocolate (ocōlātl), mixed with water, honey and dried chili pepper.  Visitors are welcome to participate in the process from grinding coffee beans to pounding the cacao into a paste. As an extra treat, you’ll receive coffee, chocolate and limeade tastings, made from the plantation’s sugar canes. BTW, Finland leads the world in coffee consumption per capita. This was my favorite tour in Costa Rica.

Tamarindo Beach: For ocean pleasures, the surfing Mecca of Tamarindo Beach on the northwest Pacific Coast, is a prime spot for surfing schools and sport fishing charters, diving and sunning. This is a location where the locals can be a little relentless selling souvenirs, such as wooden oxcarts (a national symbol), constructed with recycled wood. To the north, Playa Grande beach is a major nesting site for huge leatherback turtles, and forms part of Las Baulas National Marine Park. The mangrove-lined estuary of Tamarindo Wildlife Refuge protects animals such as Howler Monkeys and crocodiles.

Conchita Tours: On the last day, I was able to book a two-hour jungle boat tour with Conchita Tours. Floating through mangrove swamps in the safety of the boat, the highlight was finally spotting a family of Howler Monkeys sleeping in a forest canopy. Their unique howls had served as a soundtrack for my every night. The little critters, though, were hard to capture on film. There were a number of crocodiles lazing on the shore, which explains why the monkeys prefer the safety of the trees.

Did You Know?

The Little Drummer Boy and US Tyrant, William Walker: In 1856, American William Walker and his ragtag army of mercenaries attacked Honduras, Nicaragua and later Costa Rica with the intention of creating a slave-holding empire with himself as its president. With the blessing of US President Franklin Pierce, Walker was successful in Honduras and Nicaragua for a period, then turned his sights on Costa Rica. President Juan Rafael Mora Porras called upon the general population to take up arms and head north to fight against the foreign invader. After routing a contingent of Walker’s soldiers at Santa Rosa, Costa Rican troops continued marching north, following Walker’s army to the city of Rivas. The Battle of Rivas was brutal and fierce. Walker’s men retreated into a hostel near the town center where they commanded an advantageous firing position. Juan Santamaría, a poor laborer and son of a single mother, had joined the army as a drummer boy. A general suggested that a soldier should advance towards the hostel with a torch and set it on fire. Juan Santamaría volunteered for the suicide charge, but with the condition that someone would look after his mother if he died. He then advanced and succeeded in setting fire to the hostel, and was mortally wounded by the enemy. His heroics were the defining factor in the Costa Rican victory at Rivas. Walker escaped, and eventually returned to Honduras in an attempt to reestablish his control of the region, but was captured and executed by a firing squad in 1860. Juan Santamaría, the Little Drummer Boy, is Costa Rica’s national hero. You will see monuments, statues and parks named after him throughout the nation. Juan Santamaría Day, a national holiday, is held every April 11 to commemorate his courageous death.

Coffee is King: By the mid-1850s the main market for high-quality coffee was Britain. The locals drank a watered-down version which continues today, saving the best for export. Most of the coffee was grown in the Central Plateau and then transported by oxcart to a port city. It was a slow and brutal endeavor, compounded by traveling through rugged hills and valleys, thick jungles and torrential rains. It soon became a high priority to develop an effective transportation route from the Central Plateau to the Atlantic Ocean. The Costa Rican government contracted US businessman Minor C. Keith to build a railroad from San José to the Caribbean port of Limón. The railroad  proved extraordinarily challenging due to inadequate financing, tropical diseases, lack of food and poisonous reptiles along the tracks. As many as four thousand people, including Keith’s three brothers, died during the construction of the first 25 miles of the track. Having subsequent trouble recruiting Costa Rican laborers, Keith eventually brought in US convicts and indentured Chinese servants, and finally turned to freed slaves from Jamaica.

Keith had a brainstorm by growing banana fields along the railway’s tracks, which provided a source of food for the workers. The railroad was completed in 1890, but Keith was still badly in debt. With the excess bananas, Keith experimented by running a steamboat to New Orleans. The gamble paid off which resulted in an extremely lucrative banana trade. He soon established the Tropical Trading and Transport Company to increase banana shipments to foreign destinations. Bananas eventually replaced coffee as the king of exports.

Still short of money, Keith eventually partnered with the foreign-owned corporation, the United Fruit Company, which became a symbol of an exploitative export economy. This resulted in a major labor dispute between the peasants and the United Fruit Company, which eventually led to the formation of effective trade unions in Costa Rica

What to Eat

Costa Rican cuisine is primarily a blend of Amerindian, Spanish and African recipes. Dishes such as the tamale and others made of corn are the most representative of its first inhabitants. Spaniards brought many new ingredients to the country, especially spices and domestic animals. In the 19th century, Afro-Caribbeans added a little heat to the flavors, and like the US, each new arriving ethnicity brought their own ancestral recipes along with them.

Salsa: Food is the spice of life, and Ticos prefer their salsas mild and flavorful. The local favorite, Lizano Salsa is readily available at numerous stores.

Gallo Pinto is the national dish of Costa Rica, consisting of black beans cooked with rice, a few spices and petite pieces of carrots and other vegetables thrown in. It can be topped with a scrambled egg, generally served at breakfast. It’s filling, delicious and will vary in every kitchen.

Casada serves as a midday set-meal of rice and black beans, cabbage and tomato salad, fried platanos and your choice of either beef, chicken, pork or fish generally served in a soda, an unpretentious little café and a great place to meet Ticos. Casada means ‘married’ or ‘married man’s lunch’ for it was first prepared by the wives of workers.

Boca is a snack served in a bowl of rice, black beans, small salad, pico de gallo (a tomato based salsa), fried pork bellies, plantains, avocado with tortilla chips to scoop this delicious concoction up. Patacones are twice fried plantains, and a real treat.

Seafood is well represented due to Costa Rica having two coasts, just 75 miles apart. So there is a bounty of fresh sea bass, red snapper, dorado (mahi mahi), octopus, tilapia, bill fish, prepared any way you prefer. My personal favorite was sea bass, cooked in palm leaves.

Beef: Costa Rica is beef country. It’s inexpensive, cut thinly and full of flavor.

Frescos are usually fruit drinks made with milk or water. The fresh fruits are endless: mangoes, papayas, blackberries and pineapples. If you’re lucky, there’s also passion and star fruit. Horchata is made with water, rice flour, cinnamon and chan, a seed that is reputedly to be good for the digestive system.

Beer: Thanks to the early presence of German settlers, Costa Rica has a series of solid lagers, including my favorites, Bavaria and Pilsen. Keep an eye out for the craft beer, Maldita Vida, a deceptively smooth stout with 9.8% alcohol content. Many tourist are surprised to find themselves a bit tipsy after a downing a few.

In 2017, National Geographic magazine proclaimed Costa Rica as the happiest country in the world. Their article included these words: “Costa Ricans enjoy the pleasure of living daily life to the fullest in a place that mitigates stress and maximizes joy.” It  sounds like Pura Vida to me.

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Curated by Ed Boitano

Happy Holidays, dearest readers. The T-Boy Society of Film & Music’s final poll for 2020 is dedicated to PILGRIMAGES: Sacred Destinations. We felt this would be an appropriate theme as we slide into the holiday season. Though 2020 is a year we’d like to have in our rearview mirror, it’s been a great year for T-Boy because of you.

Visit our past polls

You’ll find members’ selections to be deeply personal, reflective and educational; experiences that helped shape their lives. I know I did. Here’s looking for a spectacular 2021.

Happy Holidays!

— EB

Richard Carroll — T-Boy Writer:

Oberammergau, Bavaria: The Black Plague

Tucked into a narrow mountain valley in the western foothills of the Bavarian Alps 42 miles southwest of Munich, the village of Oberammergau, circa 1150, opens its arms to thousands of visitors from throughout the world every ten years when the calendar falls on a decimal year. The village residents perform the historic Oberammergau Passion Play in gratitude for the demise of the Black Plague that in 1633 ravaged the village, and in the years before, a great extent of Asia and Europe as well. The most destructive and overwhelming pestilence in human history resulting in the deaths of an estimated 75 to 200 million people, the Plague is extremely contagious spreading in the air or by flea bite or through contact with someone stricken.

In 1633 the Plague mauled Oberammergau and, in desperation the village counselor pledge to perform a Passion Play immediately, and every ten years forever after, if there were no more victims. The pandemic passed and in 1634 Oberammergau honored their oath and performed the Passion Play for the first time in the cemetery on the still-fresh graves of the Plague victims with the oldest existing manuscript of the Passion Play text dating to 1662/1664.

More than half a million visitors from around the world enjoyed the play in 2010 and in 2020 was canceled due to the rampaging Coronavirus, this being an unusual and bizarre stroke of irony.  Incredibly, some 2,300 Oberammergau villagers from a population of 5,000 are involved in the play, all as volunteers. A local law maintains that all performers, the actors, chorus, 65-member orchestra, and ushers, must have either been born in Oberammergau or have lived there for 20 years. For the people born and raised here, this is the heart and soul of Bavaria.

Richard Frisbie — T-Boy Writer:

Pilgrimage Through Spain to St James’ Tomb

There are many routes to Santiago de Compostella and the Tomb of St James. From the north, coming in from all over Europe, the routes converge on the tiny village of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, on the French side of the Pyrenees. This is known as the French Route. It crosses the Pyrenees to Roncesvalles, famous for “The Song of Roland”, then comes down through the Basque region to Hemingway’s Pamplona, across the culinary Mecca of Castilla y Leon, and finally into Galicia, known as Green Spain, to St James Cathedral in the capital city, Santiago de Compostella.

Traditionally the entire 500+ miles is walked, or at the very least the last 100 or so. For my own Camino experiences, I walked only a few miles of it, bicycled more, and took a 10 day bus tour the entire length. On that tour, arrangements were made in advance for all the churches to be open when we got there, but many are rarely open, so a devout pilgrim on a less structured walk could easily get disappointed at missing so many religious sites.

While all the churches are significant, each in its own way, one stands out – the one with chickens in it. Yes, others had brilliant stained glass, incredible art, and amazing architecture, but the church with the white cock and hen was the best. They were descended from the original pair miraculously brought back to life on a corrupt magistrate’s dinner plate by St James to save a devout pilgrim’s life. Their presence reminds pilgrims of the power of prayer more than pretty windows ever will.

If you’re planning to make the pilgrimage, next year, 2021, is Xacobeo, a rare Holy Year when the Feast of St James, July 25th, falls on a Sunday. During Holy Year the east door of the Cathedral of St James is open and a record number of pilgrims are expected to travel the Camino and pass through it. Which means that now is a good time plan to be a part of history and a possible spiritual awakening. If nothing else, you’ll enjoy the beautiful Spanish countryside, meet warm and friendly people, and discover the culinary excellence of Spanish cuisine.

Susan Breslow – T-Boy writer:

Macy’s Herald Square

Can you love a sacred destination without acknowledging a god? Moslems have Mecca. Christians have Santiago de Compostela. Jews have the Western Wall. Free of religion, I’ve always loved Macy’s flagship, which is far more than a department store. Standing since 1858, it’s not only woven into the fabric of New York City; it’s part of its foundation.

Any day of the week, many places might lift your spirits when you’re alone – a movie, a museum, Central Park. Something to believe in, Macy’s will restore your faith in serendipity. Bargain-worshipers flock to the store during its frequent sales; encounter an item you’ve coveted at 75% off, and you can practically hear the angels sing when you plunk down the plastic. Hungry after your retail devotions? Starbuck’s, McDonald’s, and Carvel offer secular communion here.

While no longer the world’s largest store (the Samsung family owns a bigger one in South Korea), Macy’s annual celebrations are worthy of reverence and gratitude. Springtime brings the Flower Show, perfuming the Main Floor with an abundance of live blooms, plants, and trees from around the world. In other seasons, bottled fragrances conjure the lavender fields of France, Bulgarian roses, Tahitian gardenias.

Every July, Independence Day fireworks explode over the East River to fill the heavens with color and light. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, with its larger-than-life balloons, elaborate floats, marching bands, and high-stepping Rockettes confirm the day. The only dud in the bunch is the puerile holiday windows. Like the treacly nonsense of Miracle on 34^th Street, they’re best appreciated by seven-year-olds.

Even if you don’t celebrate, it’s hard to avoid Christmas at Macy’s. So one year I took my reluctant niece to visit Santa Claus on the Seventh Floor. He was a Black amputee who greeted us with a broad smile and asked our inner children what we wanted for Christmas. I wanted legs for him. I think I walked out with a velvet comforter.

This cornucopia of commerce holds many more things of beauty that evoke awe, from sleek furniture to diamond watches to intricately beaded gowns. Should I ever be in a plane about to crash, I wouldn’t call out for some god. I’d just clutch my Macy’s gel-infused memory foam travel pillow and hope for the best.

Tom Weber — T-Boy writer:

Russia’s Trinity Lavra

The most important monastery in all of Russia and the spiritual center of the Russian Orthodox Church is the Trinity Lavra of Saint Sergius. Named after one of the Church’s most venerated saints, it’s located about 70km (42 mi) northeast of Moscow in Sergeyev Posad, one of a group of ancient “open-air museum” towns that form the Golden Ring.

Founded in 1337 with the building of a simple wooden church atop Makovets Hill to honor the Holy Trinity, one of the cornerstones in the religious teachings of Russian Orthodoxy, this monastic community is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, one of 26 areas so recognized around Mother Russia.

“In awarding World Heritage Site status,” comments the tour guide inside my earbuds, “UNESCO cited the Trinity Lavra as an outstanding and remarkably complete example of an active Orthodox monastery that was characteristic of the period of its growth and expansion between the 15th and the 18th centuries.”

This sacred destination, both spiritually and architecturally, is a unique ensemble of more than 50 buildings and constructions. An angelic park-like setting — absolutely spotless despite the foot traffic — Trinity Lavra is simply stunning with life-sized murals adorning many of the facades and a skyline filled with gilded onion-shaped domes and glistening bell towers.

Inside the nine churches and cathedrals of the monastery are scores of religious artifacts, paintings, ceilings filled with heavenly frescos and walls draped in iconostases.

The holiest spot of Trinity Lavra is inside Trinity Cathedral where the relics of St. Sergius, the monk from Radonezh who founded the monastery, may be seen, but not photographed.

Also noteworthy, the tomb of Boris Godunov, the tsar who ruled briefly between the Rurik and Romanov Dynasties, sits in the family mausoleum near the entrance to the monastery’s main church, the Cathedral of the Assumption.

Halina Kubalski — Destination Photographer

The Black Madonna of Czestochowa

Born and raised in Warsaw, I have  experienced the historic Czestochowa Pilgrimage three times, the first being when I was 11 years old.  Czestochowa, pronounced (Chen-sto-ho-vah)  is the spiritual heart of Poland and a national shrine, where some 4.5 million pilgrims from 80 countries journey to Czestochowa to honor The Black Madonna, also known as Our Lady of Czestochowa. Pilgrim groups walk an average distance of 217 miles in 11 days with water and food offered to them by the people in the villages along the way. A pilgrimage has left Warsaw every August 6th since 1711 for the nine-day, 140 mile trek, though during World War II it was at great risk of life if caught by the Germans.

The Jasna Gora Monastery, founded in 1382, and historic pilgrimage destination is the Sanctuary of the Black Madonna. The image on canvas was created most likely in the second half of the 13th century, others state it dates to 1430-1434.

My first visit with my mother was on a three-hour train ride, and upon entering the Sanctuary, I remember the pungent smell of candles, masses of people, all extremely quiet, and suddenly I hear the sound of music and ringing trumpets as a curtain slowly opens and everyone drops to their knees, and with help from my mother I could see the Black Madonna, then there was a standing Mass with everyone shoulder to shoulder. It was all so overwhelming with the beautiful gardens and a festive feeling in the large square. At that time it was only Polish visiting the shrine because we were under Russian occupation, but on the other visits it was a melody of languages and joy. After Mass, my feet were aching and it was a relief to have lunch in a nearby cafe. It seemed like a long walk to the train station but on the train ride home I felt truly uplifted. Working as a Destination Photographer, I’ve seen reproductions of the Black Madonna of Czestochowa in Barcelona, Mexico, Central America, Italy, Southern California, and other destinations throughout the world, all of which recall fond memories of my first visit to Czestochowa with my mother.

Stephen Brewer — T-Boy writer:

Dumbleton Hall, England

Owen, an octogenarian friend, was fading in and out of morphine-induced sleep in the musty bedroom of his London flat when, in a few final stretches of lucidity, he began talking about Dumbleton. I had no idea who or what Dumbleton was, though it was typical of Owen to be making his exit with a Monty Python-sounding twist like this.

I took a stab at what he might mean.

“Is Dumbleton someone who owes you money?”

No, he shook his head, and managed to say “place,” then “war,” then “Lavinia.”

So, Dumbleton was a place. It wasn’t difficult to follow that lead. Dumbleton Hall is a manor house in the Cotswolds. Charles Dickens had been a visitor. So, too, I surmised, had Owen and a woman named Lavinia. These days Dumbleton Hall is a hotel, and a few weeks after Owen’s passing I drove out there to raise a toast to Owen and Lavinia, whoever she might have been.

As I followed a narrow road across impossibly green meadows I passed a sign admonishing drivers “For Fox Sake, Slow Down.” In a tiny village where I expected to see a Miss Marple peering out of every cottage window an elderly gent in a red hunting coat and emerald-green slacks emerged from a shop and tipped a deer stalker’s cap in my direction. Yes, I thought, this is definitely Owen territory.

Dumbleton Hall is a massive stone pile topped with more peaks than the Himalayas. I stepped into a Country Life-worthy Great Hall that made me want to go around clapping every one on the back saying “Cheerio” and settled into a cushy old chair next to a roaring fire. Missing was the army of starched servants you always see on Masterpiece Theater. Instead, a swarthy, harried-looking waiter in a white jacket way too large for him was darting across the Hall and in and out of an adjacent dining room and lounge. Did someone with a sense of humor hire this man as an homage to Manuel in Fawlty Towers? At his heels, snapping orders, was a blousy, plump woman who could have been Mrs. Patmore, promoted upstairs from the Downtown Abbey kitchens.  “That tea is not going to serve itself,” she admonished Manuel as they scurried past my perch. I expected her to tell me to get off my backside and go downstairs and get to work scrubbing the pots and pans.

The only other staff in evidence was a somberly dressed young woman who sat behind a desk near the front door. She sported one of those pleasant, straight-ahead, no-eye-contact gazes that flight attendants use when they have to walk down the aisle but don’t want passengers to bother them. Her job appeared to consist solely of answering the phone, and she unfailingly replied to whatever questions her callers might be asking with a terse “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

Manuel flew by, and I signaled him over and ordered a Scotch. He looked at me quizzically. “I mean a whisky,” I corrected myself. A tweedy-looking woman glanced over at me and sniffed, “American!”

Soon the drink and the warm fire were taking their effects. I imagined what fun Owen would have had with the fact that a baron named Cocks had settled Dumbleton back in the 1600s. “Lord Cocks at your service, m’am.” I started to giggle like a schoolboy. My neighbor looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

The Dumbleton Cocks were no longer around when the top floor of the manor became a barracks for the Woman’s Land Army during World War Two. My guess was that this was when Lavinia came into the picture. Maybe Owen had fallen for a Land Girl who lived here, a hearty young woman who pulled up beets and potatoes from these fertile fields.

That was not  Owen’s usual type. The women in his life who I knew tended to be urbane and for the most part pretty nondomestic. One charmingly vague girlfriend once offered to make a meal for the three of us then  sneaked off to Harrod’s to buy a roast lamb and all the trimmings. She stopped to see a film on the way home and arrived, empty handed, as Owen and I were having cocktails. She’d left our meal on the floor of a theater in South Kensington.

The forgetful cinephile was one of many women who came and went in fairly short order. Owen seemed not to be fazed by the brevity of these attachments. He always insisted that he didn’t know if he should say he had been married four times or five times. One marriage, according to him, was not consummated for reasons he never disclosed, “so the old girl can take her secret to the grave.”

Owen’s unions often ended with dramatic flourishes. The lover of one of his wives leapt out of a closet brandishing a knife at him, or a sword, depending on the telling, and at times it was a wardrobe, and at others a dark doorway. Owen told the man to put the weapon away before he hurt someone. The two of them sat down with a couple of bottles of wine and, as the evening wore on, Owen decided that this fellow and his wife probably deserved one another and gave them his blessing.

Another wife lost her job at a fashion magazine when she stumbled into the office late one afternoon, hat askew. Her editor, a prim little man with a pince-nez, confronted her in the hallway.

“Young woman, it appears to me that you have been drinking.”

“Not only have I been drinking,” she slobbered, “but I have been screwing all afternoon, too.”

I always had the impression that getting a good story out of these episodes outweighed any discomfort Owen might have felt at his wives’ infidelities.

Lavinia, by my reckoning, must have been among the first of Owen’s attractions. Had he trysted with her on moonlit nights in the gardens behind Dumbleton Hall? Climbed up a drainpipe to her tower bedroom? Had the union ended badly, tragically even? Did the psychological scars account for Owen’s apparent inability to make long-term commitments?

I emerged from my musings to hear Lady Tweeds asking a bespectacled man I assumed to be her husband if she darest have the turbot for dinner. As if on cue, that now familiar refrain floated across the room in answer to all these questions, “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

Ed Boitano — T-Boy editor:

Arena, Province of Genoa, Italy

Adelina Boitano was born in a simple home in the hills of Arena, Italy, the province of Genoa in 1902. She was the oldest daughter of a family of ten surviving children. She was also my grandmother (Italian, nonna).

Adelina’s mother Luisa Biggi was a domestic and cook for a wealthy Genoese family. Adelina commented that due to this profession, My mother knew how to speak with rich people. Yes, things were different then. Luisa was also a maestra in the kitchen, handing down delectable regional recipes to my grandmother who in turn handed them down to our Seattle family. To make extra money, our great grandmother sold roasted chestnuts to workers at the great Port of Genoa. Her favorite customer was a longshoreman named Bartolomeo Boitano, whose job was to load valuable stones of slate on vessels, quarried from the mines of Arena and throughout the Fontanabuona Valley. They married  and moved to his ancestral home in Arena, a converted barn, next to the house which eventually became their new residence. As the Boitano family grew he continued his job at the port, only coming home once a month with his salary; a day long journey by bus, train and foot.

During Bartolomeo’s absence, Adelina and family subsided on vegetables and corn for polenta grown in their terraced farm in the hills, with the occasional long walk to down to the larger village of Favale di Malvaro for sundries. Arena itself was basically a settlement of ten or so households and a diminutive chapel with barely room for an altar. After WWI, with virtually no economic opportunities in Italy, three of Adelina’s brothers emigrated to Chile, while the other siblings moved and raised families in Favale.

Adelina Boitano at the age nineteen boarded a vessel byway of Ellis Island to Seattle for an arranged marriage to a man she had never meet. Life in Seattle was both happy and sad: Her husband was a philandering brute who regularly beat her; the birth of her first son, my father Louis (Luigi); finally a divorce, a Roman Catholic sin in which she was too ashamed to inform her family in Italy; living in a shack with young Luigi, while working the fields in Fife and Puyallup, Washington; saved by marrying the kindly older gentleman, Johnny Bogny (in reality Giovanni Bogni, whose name was inaccurately recorded by an Ellis Island official) with whom they soon had a son, Aldo.

My Pilgrimage: Sacred Destination officially commenced when our parents, Louis and Carol, treated our Seattle family to a life-changing trip to the province of Genoa to meet our Italian family. It was a monumental occasion,  particularly for my father upon meeting uncles, aunts and cousins, with whom he had only heard stories about from Adelina throughout his childhood.  It’s almost a cliché to say Italians are warm and passionate, with a strong sense of family, but were unprepared for the heartfelt greetings we received. My cousin Daniela openly wept upon our first meeting. Her sister, cousin Antonella took English language lessons in preparation for our arrival. Cousin Paolo would arrive at our accommodations at dawn with freshly baked rolls, bread and focaccia. Evenings were spent at their homes dining on special five-course meals of Genoese specialties.  Cousins Cesare, Filippo and their mother, Daniela, escorted us to attractions throughout the province, dedicating every waking moment to our whims. The big day arrived when our relatives orchestrated a trek up to Arena. The once former village is now a ghost town, lined with dying buildings. The landscape, though, is remarkably well maintained with Paolo making regular visits to the village, monitoring its existence. Now too dangerous to enter various rooms in the once family home, Paolo pointed out the window that led to the bedroom that Adelina shared with her sister, Linda. Paolo’s father, Nando, was also born in the residence. We took photographs, stood in awe of Arena’s stunning location in the hills and tried to imagine what a hard life it was for them. Some of us collected pocket-sized pieces of slate to take home to the US. Today the slate mined in the area is used to make the finest of billiard tables in the world.

We then walked down to our fleet of cars to transport us to a festive family celebration in the nearby town of Lorsica,  where all family names originated from Boitano. We were greeted with applause and smiling faces, complete with gifts, balloons, Italian and American flags – also decorated on plates, napkins and a mouthwatering cake – as well as  Genoese family dishes, with the centerpiece a plate of ravioli made by our cousins, the sisters Alma and Andreina. We all commented that it tasted just like our Grandmother Adelina’s recipe. Indeed, food lineages keep familial traditions alive. My father later said that it was the first time in his life where he felt a profound sense of belonging.

POST SCRIPT: Adelina’s Christmas Remembrance

On the Day of Christmas Eve, our family would walk down to Favale to have dinner in a restaurant and attend Midnight Mass. In the darkness of night, we would head back up to Arena, laughing and singing songs. On Christmas Day we would prepare our meal of celebration: ravioli as a first course, a secondi of roasted pork and buttery potatoes, string beans and salad. Wine and aqua-vino for the children. Everything good! In mid-afternoon we would snack on freshly backed focaccia to hold us over for dessert: cakes, biscotti and torrone; rarely eaten during the year.

This very menu was served on our Nonna’s Christmas Day table in Seattle. My brother James and I would arrive at her house to assist her on December 24. Since Adelina’s passing at age 94, my father Louis and mother Carol; sister Barb; brother James; later my wife, Deb, niece Brianna and nephew Nigel would recreate this menu. We might have missed a few things, but what we may have missed was made up with love.

Deb Roskamp — T-Boy writer:

Vincent van Gogh: Final Days in Auvers-sur-Oise

Ask the general populace to name a famous painter, and they’d probably say Dutch painter, Vincent van Gogh. Today his paintings command staggering purchase prices, with his Portrait of Dr. Gachet, painted the last year of his life in Auvers-sur-Oise, selling for 152 million dollars in today’s currency.

I had for a long time wanted to visit the charming French village of Auvers-sur-Oise, just 16.9 miles by train and a world away from the riveting pulse of Paris. This is where Van Gogh spent the final two months of his life; a period of intense prolificacy, creating over 80 paintings and 64 sketches.   Many are considered masterpieces, such as Crows over Wheatfield, Portrait of Dr. Gachet and Church at Auvers. I finally journeyed there and walked the self-guided Vincent van Gogh Trail.  One simply follows the path along which many of his works were painted. Posted landmarks, which feature a reproduction of one of his paintings, overlook the exact place where he painted it. It’s mesmerizing; you actually see what he saw when painting one of his many landscapes or village streets. I was surprised that not one of Van Gogh’s original paintings was on display in Auvers-sur-Oise, but one can clearly feel his spiritual presence. You’ll see the modest village houses, the town hall and the church, Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption, pretty much unchanged since van Gogh painted them.

The pilgrimage continued with the much anticipated tour of van Gogh’s modest attic room in Auberge Ravoux where he reportedly died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Often called The House of Van Gogh, the room has remained vacant since his death; not because it was where van Gogh took his last breath, but due to the French superstition of never renting a room where someone has died. There was a sense of hushed reverence as our small group followed our guide up the stairs. As we quietly assembled in the little room, I felt that I already knew this Spartan-like dwelling from Vincent’s paintings.  Along with his quarters in Arles, it is one of the most famous rooms in art history. But to see it, stand in it and feel it moved me to the depths of my soul. Our guide gave a heartfelt account of Vincent’s last two days in the room – so heartfelt, that she actually wept.

A final walk up a little hill leads to the cemetery where the unassuming graves of Vincent and his art dealer brother Theo, who had supported him most of his life, are buried side by side.

Skip Kaltenheuser — T-Boy writer:

The Garden of Eden, which if you didn’t know is in Lucas, Kansas

You’re no doubt familiar with at least some of the sacred pilgrimages awaiting those heading into the Wild West of Kansas. Going southwest from Lawrence – ground zero for Bleeding Kansas, there is Greensburg, famed for the world’s largest hand dug well. That’s a bit of hyperbole, as is the world’s largest pallasite meteorite, also on display at the Big Well, no word on if it’s from Krypton. But things are relative. After Greensburg was completely leveled by an EF5 tornado in 2007, the town was rebuilt as a model  “green town” and may have legitimate claim to being the greenest town in America. Smaller now, but green. From there it’s a short hop to pay one’s respects at Boot Hill in Dodge City. Backtrack some and head north, past Russell, where Bob Dole got a beachhead on the world and in politics, to Cawker City, where the world’s largest ball of twine awaits your awe. Head west and there’s Nicodemus, the only remaining western community established by (African Americans fleeing oppression after the Civil War. Imagine the history. Some of its first settlers arriving in the harsh setting in the 1870’s owed their survival to benevolent Osage Indians. But before the double whammy of the Depression and the Dust Bowl left most of it to blow away, Nicodemus thrived, reaching over 500 residents.

Within these powerful karmic trajectories, within this Kansas zigzag take on the Bermuda Triangle, is Lucas, home to the Garden of Eden.

My eyes first feasted upon the Garden in the early seventies, traveling the winter bleak of Kanas with frequent travel sidekick Mick, then of Mick’s Bikeshop in Lawrence, now the shop and online Lawrence mogul of Footprints Birkenstock and various accompaniments and observations of historical oddities. We were en route to the ski paradises of the Rockies when Mick suddenly ordered a detour from our hundred mile an hour dash across Kansas 70, up 232 past the Wilson Lake, the clearest lake in Kansas, on a scenic byway to the intersection of 18, there lies Lucas. Why not?

And once you really focus in on the Garden of Eden, it will reward you with proper and reverent frame of mind. Shamans are where you find them. All over the midwest are remnants of visionaries with often isolated surroundings who cobbled out the time to express themselves, perhaps at times to stave off madness, other times to embrace a bit of it.

To capsulize the history of Samuel Perry Dinsmoor is to open a puzzle box for which solutions are mostly imaginary. Briefly: after serving as a nurse in the Civil War experiencing the horrors of 18 major battles including Gettysburg and the capture of Robert E. Lee, and somehow wrangling two civl war pensions, S.P, absorbed the free-thought and scientific theories propounded in lectures in common in Masonic halls and in a number of secret societies, farmed some, taught school some, married an Illinois widow with two kids and had five more, moved to Lucas in 1888, did some impulsive moving about and then returned. After his wife’s death in 1917 he hired a Czechoslovakian housekeeper, quite a looker, whom he eventually married when she was twenty and he was eighty-one, and had two more children. Legend is that several years after his eyesight failed he determined to lay down and move to the next realm at the age of 89.

So, the Garden. After retirement in 1907, 64-year old Dinsmoor started constructing a twelve room log home. When one gets close, one sees the logs are actually cut slabs of Post Rock limestone, some are 21 feet long. Inside is inlaid work with oak, redwood and walnut, no patterns repeating. He then molded 113 tons of cement around steel and chickenwire to build 40-foot tall trees and the sculptures they supported, signaling his his world view of spirituality, interpretations of the Bible, civilization and populism, including perils posed by those who drag down the common man. He lightened the heavy themes of his creation by infusing it with humor. He ceased adding to his 200 sculptures in 1928 when his eyesight failed.

There was a bit of PT Barnum in Dinsmoor, evident when he was first married on horseback. Among his creations is a mausoleum where his first wife, Frances A. Barlow Journey,  rests. But the money shot is Dinsmoor’s mummified remains, on view in a concrete coffin behind a glass wall. His joke while building it was he’d see if you paid a buck admission and give you a wink. I think his beard kept growing, it was pretty long when I saw him. Not all the locals were on board, some of those who couldn’t take a joke tried to run him out of town, but it is the Garden that keeps Lucas on the map.

The tenets of free-thought and deism, popular among some of America’s founding fathers, held that any issue in life should be dealt with in a rational manner without resorting to emotional responses or to the dictates of tradition or religion. Dinsmoor’s creation ought to be Mecca for adherents to the true populist movement spawned in Kansas in the latter 19th century, in part by Civil War veterans still troubled by what they’d witnessed and also looking for ways to address the economic injustices all about them. It’s evident in sculptures such as the crucifixion of Labor. Said Dinsmoor, “Labor has been crucified between a thousand grafters ever since Labor begun, but I could not put them all up, so I have put the leaders – Lawyer, Doctor, Preacher and Banker. I do not say they are all grafters, but I do say they are the leaders of all who eat cake by the sweat of the other fellow’s face.” I’ll be getting into the weeds of such populist themes in a forthcoming review of Thomas Frank’s intriguing new book, The People, NO. Catch a self-guided tour of the Garden and some of S.P.’s words.

I knew immediately that if I ever started a religion, I’d call it Dinsmoorism. Some disciples may already be laying the groundwork. The Garden of Eden has been a magnet for creativity, and Lucas is now known as the grassroots art center of Kansas, collecting many creations by self-taught artists, usually prolific in their later years, often driven by a vision and using whatever recycled items are on hand to create what their visions demand.

The next time you’re barreling across Kansas, check in with S.P. Dinsmoor.

Ringo Boitano — T-Boy writer:

Mozart – Salzburg, Austria

Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could read and compose music, plus play the violin and piano, when he was five years old. Born into a musical family in Salzburg, Austria (then the Holy Roman Empire), he had a unique ability for imitating music, which first became evident when he recited a musical piece by simply observing his father conducting a lesson to his older sister. This led to a childhood on the road, where the young prodigy performed before many of the royal courts of Europe. At 17, no longer a child prodigy, he returned to Salzburg and accepted a post as a court musician, but was frustrated with the poor salary and lack of opportunities. His early travels and uncanny memory, though, had provided him with a plethora of musical styles and experiences, from which he used to build his own compositional language. He eventually settled in Vienna where he achieved fame, and is now considered one of the most influential and prolific composers of the Classical era. Mozart was never happy with his career in Salzburg as he experienced little fame; however, the city today is a Mecca for all things Amadeus. An essential stop is a visit to Mozart’s Geburtshaus (birthplace).

The house is where his parents lived for 26 years and young Mozart was educated. Now a three-story museum, it is filled with original instruments – Mozart’s childhood violin, concert violin, clavichord and pianoforte – as well as portraits, family letters, and furniture, including Mozart’s very cradle. I strongly recommend a private tour, where guides are walking encyclopedias about his life. I asked why were Mozart’s famous eyes so bulging? He didn’t eat his vegetables!

Another Mozart must is a dinner concert at the famous Stiftskeller St. Peter, considered the “oldest restaurant in Europe.” The concert is performed by candlelight between food courses, prepared with traditional recipes from Mozart’s era. Period-costumed musicians, including two opera singers, perform arias from “Don Giovanni”, “Le Nozzi di Figaro” and “The Magic Flute.” Dining under magnificent chandeliers and surrounded by 18th century décor, not to mention the stirring music, is like being transported back to the magical times of Mozart.

The setting in Salzburg, itself an enchanting fairytale of a city, only enhances the experience. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the city’s wealth was built on the mining of salt (‘salt’ translates to ‘salz’ in German, hence the city’s name). The west bank of the Salsas River borders the Alborg Historic Center (known to locals as the Altadt), and is where most of the attractions are located. The fortress Festung Hohensalzburg towers over stunning baroque architecture and narrow cobblestone streets where smartly dressed locals sit in elegant coffee houses, noshing on delicate pastries and Mozartkugln (Mozart chocolate balls).

Phil Marley — Poet:

Juan Santamaría — The Little Drummer Boy of Costa Rica

The American tyrant William Walker and his ragtag army of mercenaries attacked Honduras, Nicaragua and later Costa Rica, then part of Nicaragua in 1856. Walker’s intention was to create slave-holding empire with himself as its president. With the blessing of US President Franklin Pierce, Walker was successful in Honduras and then turned his sights on Nicaragua, making himself president.  This was followed by a march down to what is today’s Costa Rica. President Juan Rafael Mora Porras called upon the general population to take up arms and head north to fight against the foreign invader. After routing a contingent of Walker’s soldiers at Santa Rosa, Costa Rican troops continued marching north, following Walker’s army to the city of Rivas. The Battle of Rivas was both fierce and brutal, and Walker’s men retreated into a hostel near the town center where they commanded an advantageous firing position. Juan Santamaría, a poor laborer and son of a single mother, had joined the army as a drummer boy. A general suggested that a soldier should advance towards the hostel with a torch and set it on fire. The barefooted Juan Santamaría volunteered for the suicide charge, but with the condition that someone would look after his mother if he died. He then advanced and succeeded in setting fire to the hostel, but was mortally wounded by the enemy. His heroics were the defining factor in the Costa Rican victory at Rivas. Walker escaped and headed back to the slaveholding US for protection. He eventually returned to Honduras in an attempt to reestablish his control of the region, but was captured and executed by a firing squad in 1860. Juan Santamaría, the Little Drummer Boy, is Costa Rica’s national hero. I paid witness to monuments, statues, parks and an airport named after him throughout the nation. Juan Santamaría Day, a national holiday is held every April 11 to commemorate his courageous death, celebrated throughout the land with marching bands, parades, concerts, and dances. This selection is not just to pay homage to Juan Santamaría for his self-sacrificing feat in battle, but also as a son who loved his mother.

Brent Campbell — Musician & composer:

Orcas Island, Washington State

When I was seven or eight years old, and for the next two summers, I went door to door selling toffee covered nuts for $1 per can (delicious!). Once I sold 20 I earned a one week trip to YMCA Camp Orkila on Orcas. After all these years I still cherish those three “independent “ trips to one of the most beautiful islands anywhere. I have been back a few times over the years and Orcas Island will always remain a sacred destination.

Tony Chisholm — The Canadian Connection:

Memories of the Camino

A few years ago, four intrepid explorers from Ontario Canada joined eleven others for a 500+ K cycle along the Camino de Santiago pilgrim trail in Northern Spain.

The rental mountain bikes are heavy and the climb days which we are just starting, range from 600- 1500 meters. It certainly is an excellent work-out. Tomorrow will be the longest climb of the trip. In the heat it is difficult to get enough water and fuel for these climbs. Fortunately, there are lots of medieval towns along the way with bars and hostels.

We passed so many thousands of Perrigrinos. Most walk alone. Some walk 20 K a day, others try to achieve 30 a day. Most talk of resultant leg injuries and foot problems. Some take months to walk hundreds of kilometers. Some do a portion of the route each year. Everyone walks for his or her own reasons. On they plod. We noticed many got up by dawn or earlier to get miles in before the heat of the day. There are lots of towns along the way with stores and bars to feed the Perrigrinos. Every village seems to offer them something. It is all condensed for us on bikes moving quickly, but for the walker, I’m sure the towns and restaurants don’t come often enough.

The Perrigrinos have developed traditions that are interesting. Such as the tradition of carrying a rock all along the route. As if the back packs weren’t heavy enough! This rock represents “their burden” that they carry with them wherever they go. Along the route, near the top of one of the passes is a large iron cross. At the base of this cross tradition says people can cast away their burden (rock). Now after many years, the hill of rocks under the cross has risen over a large area to a hill 20 feet or more in height. Many rocks are painted or written on. It seems to represent a million burdens. What a wonderful tradition.

Finally, on the last, “easy” day, we experience a few short but surprisingly tough hills and a wonderful trial ride through eucalyptus glades. At last!  Santiago and the cathedral – in time for the Perrigrino mass at noon.

Later that day there is definitely a feeling of disappointment that the trip is over and done. But imagine how the Perrigrinos must feel after walking for months. They must continue walking for many more months in their dreams!

Raoul Pascual — T-Boy illustrator, webmaster & co-owner:

Florence, Rome & Venice, Italy

I promised my wife that I would bring her to Rome, Venice and Florence one day. She’s been to Europe with her gal friends and she wanted to go to Italy, but she remembered my promise and is holding me to my word. I am still saving up so I could fulfill our dream.

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