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.

The post Pilgrimages: Sacred Destinations appeared first on Traveling Archive.

There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone, and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends, I still can recall
Some are dead, and some are living
In my life, I’ve loved them all

— John Lennon, excerpt from In My Life

The Little Drummer Boy — Costa Rica

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, 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 invaders. 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 with Walker’s men retreating 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.

John and Yoko — Montréal

Located in the famous Fairmont Queen Elizabeth Hotel, this one-bedroom suite was the site of the legendary 1969 Bed-in for Peace in Montréal, where John and Yoko recorded the song Give Peace a Chance.  Guests singing along included Timothy Leary, Petula Clark, Tommy Smothers and whoever happened to be present in the room. The living room and bedroom feature memorabilia composed of press articles, framed gold records and pictures of the famous couple. The suite is available for lodging and can also be rented for parties.  Sometimes I will only make a pilgrimage to the room’s exterior, just to see the plaque on the door.

The Old Hanging Oak — Houston

From the top of the double-decker tour bus we passed blocks of Houston’s commanding, almost futuristic-looking office towers that dwarfed the remaining older buildings in the surprisingly modest downtown center.  As the tour continued, an oak tree situated behind a gate caught my attention. The guide informed me that it was the Old Hanging Oak, a 400-year-old tree, the oldest in Houston. The official word was that it had been used to hang over eleven criminals between 1836 and 1845. Unofficially, I learned it was the source of an untold number of lynchings, generally of African-Americans, during the Jim Crow racial segregation laws at the end of the 19th century. In particular, when African-American troops in WW1 , treated as heroes in France, returned home to the states, they had a greater sense of self-esteem, but were pushed down and faced virulent hostility by white Americans. Perhaps only the Old Hanging Oak could tell the real story of all the atrocities in which it has played a part. It’s not unusual to bury unsavory parts of history. There was barely a mention of the now defunct Enron, whose branding was once proudly displayed throughout the city. The Old Hanging Oak made me think how much Houston had progressed, where it is now one of the nation’s most ethnically diverse cities, with one in four Houstonians foreign born. The Old Hanging Oak Tree of Houston is a symbol of hatred and racism, but now represents a reconciliation of the past and a better tomorrow.

The Doolough Tragedy — Ireland

My wife and drove through the sweeping hills of the Connemara in County Galway, a landscape once described by Oscar Wilde as a place of ‘terrible beauty.’ We pulled off the road to study a Famine Trail. Known as the Doolough Tragedy of 1849, where scores of destitute and starving people staggered through horrendous weather for 15 miles to a manor’s house in the hope of food, only to be turned away. Apparently, the grand man of the manor did not want to interrupt his lunch and never met them. Later, corpses were found  by the side of the path with grass in their mouths. Too weak to walk or speak, many were crawling to churches so that they could be laid to rest on consecrated ground. Once a year a Famine Walk  takes place on the trail to commemorate the victims.

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Padre Pro’s last request was to be allowed to kneel and pray. When the firing squad’s shots failed to kill him, a soldier shot him at point-blank range. Pro had been falsely accused in the bombing attempt of former Mexican President Álvaro Obregón, and had become a wanted man. Betrayed to the authorities, he was sentenced to death without the benefit of any legal process. On the day of his execution, Pro forgave his executioners and refused a blindfold. He died proclaiming, Viva Cristo Rey! (Long live Christ the King!) On a recent trip to Mexico City, I was exploring the Roma Norte Neighborhood, courtesy of Visit Mexico City.  Located on the edge of the city’s bustling downtown and historical sites, my photographer, Deb Roskamp, and I were just about to take a break in one of Roma Norte’s idyllic tree-lined pocket parks, when a small building, adjacent to a parish church, caught our  attention.  Its sign read: Museo Padre Pro. The name sounded curiously familiar, so we went inside.

The museum was small, but felt spacious, allowing emotional space to reflect on this man Pro and his remarkable life story. At the entrance to the museum, books, posters and postcards were sold. All the information was in Spanish, but fortunately my photographer was Spanish-speaking wife, who translated Pro’s history to me. His story was of a  Catholic priest who defied the fiercely anti-clerical and anti-Catholic provisions of the 1917 Constitution, which were now vigorously enforced in 1926. This enforcement resulted in severe penalties for priests, including death, who criticized the government or wore clerical garb outside their churches. The articles also mandated secular education in schools, prohibiting the Church from participating in primary and secondary education, forbade public worship outside of church buildings and restricted religious organizations to own property. The final article revoked basic civil rights of clergy members, denying priests and religious workers the right to vote.

In 1926, the Jesuits sent Padre Pro to Mexico City just three days after Plutarco Elías Calles banned all public worship. Since he was not known as a priest, Pro went about clandestinely — sometimes in disguise of a variety of professions — celebrating Mass, distributing communion, baptizing children, hearing confessions, anointing the sick, and even celebrating weddings. He would often dress as a beggar to collect money for the poor. The whole time, he was risking his life because public worship was explicitly outlawed and priests would be arrested immediately. Details of Pro’s ministry in the Underground Church come from his many letters displayed in the museum. Soon under surveillance by the Calles regime, a failed attempt to assassinate Álvaro Obregón, provided the state with a pretext for arresting Pro.  A man confessed his part in the plot, testifying that Pro was not involved, but this was ignored.

In prison, unsure of his fate, Pro spent his time praying for the others in confinement and for the salvation of humankind. On the morning of November 23, a guard appeared at the cell door and called for Padre Pro. He turned to the other prisoners and exclaimed, Good-bye, brothers, till we meet in Heaven!

Notre-Dame-de-Bonsecours Chapel – Leonard Cohen’s Montréal

Montréal is a city of cathedrals, and for my first trip to the city my plan was to walk from one church to the next, never knowing what experience awaited me around each corner. While wandering on the edge of Old Montréal’s cobbledstoned streets, I stumbled upon Notre-Dame-de-Bonsecours Chapel, known as The Sailor’s Church due to its proximity to the Old Port. I was quite moved by the statue of a woman atop its dome, who seemed to reach out to the St. Lawrence River. Upon closer inspection I realized that the statue was Our Lady of the Harbour, made famous by Leonard Cohen in his song, Suzanne. As a fan of Cohen, it was an important discovery in which I will never forget. The church also features an observation tower with remarkable views of Old Montréal and the St. Lawrence, and a museum, which includes artifacts pre-dating the arrival of the New France colonists in 1642. Admission to the chapel is free.

The Dying Lion Monument of Lucerne – Swiss Guard

The Dying Lion of Lucerne is a powerful memorial that pays homage to the selfless Swiss Guard who died defending the royal palace in Versailles during the French Revolution. When angry French masses stormed  the palace on August 10, 1792, the 1,000  Swiss Guardsmen stood up as the last defenders of the French monarchy — but in vain. (History has not been kind to Louis XVI, but we forget that he underwrote the Continental Army during the American Revolution). The Guard, renowned for their bravery and unconditional loyalty, never surrender, even at the point of death. A Swiss Guardsman had to be an unmarried Swiss Catholic male between 19 and 30 years of age who had completed basic training with the Swiss Armed Forces. The Dying Lion of Lucerne  monument was initiated by Karl Pfyffer von Altishofen, a junior lieutenant with the Swiss Guard, and was hewn out of stone after rallying Lucerne’s artistic community. It was described by Mark Twain as “The most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world.”

Today, the Swiss Guard’s esteemed stature remains as defenders of the Pope in the Vatican. Since the assassination attempt on John Paul II of 13 May 1981, a much stronger emphasis has been placed on the Guard’s non-ceremonial roles. The Swiss Guard has developed into a modern guard corps equipped with advanced small arms, and members in plain clothes now accompany the Pope on his travels abroad for his protection. I recall with frustration while standing in line at  Saint Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City where a group of American tourists were mocking a  Swiss Guard’s historic mode of dress. I tried to explain to them that they were among the world’s greatest defenders. I was met with further laughter: “In those little outfits!” I thought, yes; but far more appropriate than the American tourists’ baseball caps, sweat strewn tee shits with logos, and frayed baggy shorts.

The Magical Mystery Tour – The Beatles in Liverpool

The Magical Mystery Tour of Liverpool is the ultimate Beatle experience for the ultimate Beatle fanatic, and if you fit that description, it is well worth the journey. The tour introduces you to over thirty places directly associated with the Beatles and those people who were close to them.

Tickets are purchased at the  Beatles Story Museum at the renovated Albert Dock, on the River Mersey. If you have the time, the museum offers a good Beatles primer before you get on the bus. Full of memorabilia, rare photographs and interactive exhibits, it covers the lads’ beginnings to their rise to stardom and eventual departure from Liverpool.

Participants board one of the company’s fleet of three yellow psychedelic Magical Mystery Tour coaches identical to the bus used in the 1967 BBC film “Magical Mystery Tour.” A team of professional tour guides who are all expert Beatle historians conduct the two and a half-hour journey. And each of them seems to have their own personal story and relationship with John, Paul, George and Ringo.

Selected Highlights:

The Jacaranda club where the lads would hang out during their student days

The Liverpool College of Art where John met Stuart Sutcliffe, later a temporary Beatle,  and Cynthia Powell, who became his first wife.

Penny Lane and Strawberry Field/s.

The childhood homes of John, Paul, George and Ringo.

St. Peter’s Church Hall, where Paul first met John while he was performing with his Quarry Men skiffle group.

And, of course, the reconstructed Cavern Club.

Yes, these are places that I will always remember.

The real story of ‘Yellow matter custard, Dripping from a dead dog’s eye’ in “I am the Walrus.” John Lennon heard that a Liverpudlian school teacher was teaching  courses about the meaning in Beatle songs. The lyric is a Liverpudlian school boy taunt. Lennon though the kids would get a kick out of it, so he put it into the song.

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“Savoring the Camino de Santiago: It’s the Pilgrimage, Not the Hike” by Julie Gianelloni Connor, is the latest of the many books about the Spanish pilgrimage popularized for the American audience by the Martin Sheen movie “The Way.” With a history of 12 centuries of pilgrims making the arduous trek from all over the world to the Spanish city of Santiago de Compostella to see the tomb of St. James, the author learned that there is still plenty of history and tradition left to discover.

After retirement and other life changes created a now-or-never window of opportunity, this book is the culmination of the author’s 40 year desire to walk the Camino de Santiago finally realized. Years of planning, last minute cancellations, and a major change of plans later, she plants her feet on the Way, grabs her day pack and maps, and, with her son in tow, takes the reader on the journey of a lifetime.

There are many routes to Santiago de Compostella. 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, and is the one the author writes about. 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, with its capital Santiago de Compostella.

Writings about the Camino are legion. In this iteration, the author makes the point that it is a journey, not a hike. Originally pilgrims went by foot, taking six months and more to complete the Way in order to receive indulgences from the Catholic Church and be assured entry into heaven. Modern purists still insist upon walking the entire route, but today there are all manner of transportation choices to complete the trip in a matter of weeks, not months. The author used local buses and taxis to supplement the extensive walking she did, with a luggage service to move heavier bags ahead to each evening’s accommodations. In my own Camino experiences, I walked only a few miles of it, bicycled more, and took a 10 day bus tour the entire length.

While walking (or driving) a marathon is not the same as running it, I have still done the Camino from start to finish, and seen more churches along the way than most people have. The author rightly complained that due to budget constraints, too many of the smaller rural churches were closed when she was there. For my tour, arrangements were made in advance for all the churches to be open when we got there. I endorse her recommendation to visit as many as you find open, and join her in encouraging the others to open more frequently. The artwork, architecture and history of each are well worth the time spent.

The first part of the book is a collection of occasional blog posts about the journey the author made along the way, combined with others she wrote after her return. The second part is her day-to-day journal entries with photos and charming little drawings. Then there is the resource guide and an index. The author has an engaging writing style, and – to her credit – I found not one typo in its 265+ pages. However, an editor’s job is more than just catching typos. I found this one too indulgent of the repetitive nature of many of the blog posts. Perhaps that would not have been so annoyingly apparent if I read them the way they were written instead of all in one sitting. But, don’t let it bother you too much. Some of the information bears repeating.

Furthermore, as an informed reader, it was so nice reliving my memories of the route as she carefully described it. Place names, historical tidbits, and apocryphal tales I’d nearly forgotten came alive again. And because the author was much more involved in the day-to-day hike, she was able to share experiences I never had, such as interactions with interesting people like the Almond Man, who handed out almonds and treats to the pilgrims, and the hospitable locals she met who offered food and drink and company.

You don’t have to be a Camino veteran to enjoy this book as much as I did. In fact, it has many useful bits of knowledge that would help the neophyte. The author lists guide books, histories, and personal recollections to read as you prepare for your Camino. To them I would only add my favorite, Andrew McCarthy’s award-winning travel book: “The Longest Way Home.”

The author, Julie Gianelloni Connor, often refers to American Pilgrims on the Camino, an organization that offers advice and guidance to all would-be pilgrims. She recommends finding a local chapter to join. Then there are practical tips about technology, hygiene, and first-aid that she had to learn the hard way. You can learn them simply by buying and reading the book.

In an age when we can only travel vicariously, “Savoring the Camino de Santiago: It’s the Pilgrimage, Not the Hike” by Julie Gianelloni Connor, is a comfy armchair of a journey. So leave behind the blisters, injuries, aches & pains, and inclement weather, to revel in the author’s descriptions of the people and the places she encounters, and the comfort she finds along the Way. Buen Camino!

Savoring the Camino de Santiago: It’s the Pilgrimage, Not the Hike
Bayou City Press ISBN 978-1-951331-01-6 Paperback 276 pages $17.99

So, now you’ve read the book and want to trek the Camino. 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.

Get some general travel information about Spain

Then talk to my friend Alex Chang about a Camino Tour

And contact American Pilgrims on the Camino

The post Savoring the Camino de Santiago – Book Review by Richard Frisbie appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Henry VIII and Hampton Court Palace

When one invokes images of English King Henry VIII they’re generally of an obese and egoistical king, who was no stranger to the royal casting couch, despite his marrying six of his conquests. But this is not the Henry of early years; an avid hunter and sportsman, a helpless romantic, sublime dancer, and highly educated man who actually composed his own songs and played numerous musical instruments. Henry was in born in 1491, the second son of King Henry VII. He was once a tall and slender man, considered physically attractive and charismatic by many. But a tragic jousting accident led to a life-long, unhealed wound on his leg, ending his physical days of sport, dancing, and hunting. Plus, he was confronted with daily excruciating pain that added greatly to his to his discomfort in walking and gruff demeanor. No English King, though, was more responsible for laying the groundwork for making the British Empire the world’s greatest power, lasting for two-hundred years, with flags flying over 40% of the globe.

With the death of his Henry’s elder brother, he became heir to the English throne, but was considered unfit to rule at the age of 10. Cardinal Thomas Wolsey was awarded the title of Lord Chancellor, and stepped in to rule the nation and amassed a considerable fortune. Sparing no expense, Wolsey built the original Tudor palace, Hampton Court Palace, along the Thames, then on the outskirts of London. It was considered the finest palace in England. Henry was soon anointed king, and, in the Tudor tradition, married the widow of his brother, Katharine of Aragon from Spain.

When Katharine, now in her 40s, was unable to produce a male heir, he turned his eyes on one of Katharine’s ladies-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn. He instructed Wolsey to ask Pope Leo X to annul his first marriage, but when Wolsey failed to succeed in this impossible task, Henry broke with the church and married the now pregnant Anne Boleyn. Henry was excommunicated from the church, and the English reformation began where he appointed himself as head of the Church of England.

Hampton Court attracted Henry’s attention, and Woolsey, who had fallen out of favour, wisely gifted him the palace. Henry was a lavish spender, always in need of income, so he ordered that 800 well-funded monasteries be disbanded and their lands and treasures taken for the crown. No expense was too much for Henry as he began to enlarge Hampton Court. He already owned over sixty houses and palaces, yet few were large enough to hold or feed his assembled court of 1,000 subjects. A vast kitchen was built, quadrupling the original size. The renovation of the palace followed the design by Wolsey’s Gothic Tudor and Baroque architectural-style, adorned with Renaissance ornaments.

A visit to Hampton Court today is a step back into history. I was overwhelmed by its scope and size, and could easily have spent countless hours there. At its gatehouse there’s the astronomical clock, made for Henry VIII, and 30 or so suites used for the grandest visitors, with the opulence depending on the status of the occupant.

Once inside, I was confronted with the lavish use of half-timber, rectangular and bay windows, carved wood paneled walls, lavish moldings and design. Two staircases lead to the 106 ft. long and 40 ft. wide Great Hall banquet room where Henry would ‘play’ the role of a Renaissance monarch. The hall features a spectacularly decorated hammer-beam, and walls covered by Henry’s most treasured tapestries. I was pleasantly surprised to find everything so accessible, making it easy to become part of the experience. I felt like a monarch by literally sitting at Henry’s place at the grand table, or laying down in a large sleeping room, which I assumed was for less distinguished guests, for there was only straw on the floor as bedding.

Henry used Hampton Court to demonstrate magnificence and power through lavish banquets, extravagant court life and expensive art. By the 1530s, Hampton Court became a palace, a hotel, a theatre and a vast leisure complex. It was Henry’s favorite royal residence, and only two of his surviving ones.

Mozart – Geburtshaus & Museum – 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 create 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).

This is the house 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 – portraits, family letters, and furniture and objects of daily use, 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 Centre (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).

Edvard Grieg – Troldhaugen & Grieg Museum – Bergen, Norway

Despite his diminutive 5 ft frame, Norwegian composer Edvard Hagerup Grieg was a towering rock star long before the expression existed. Born into a successful Bergen merchant family in 1843, his life dramatically changed when violin virtuoso Ole Bull recognized his talent and also introduced him to the treasures of Norwegian folk music. Grieg studied the masters abroad, but dreamed of reprieves to his beloved Norwegian countryside – a pattern which continued after he became a world-renowned composer. Grieg and his wife built a home on Lake Nordås on the edge of Bergen, which he called his best opus so far. Christened Troldhaugen, the Victorian villa featured a tower, flag pole and rooftop vegetable garden. It soon became a center piece for Bergen’s artistic community and visiting dignitaries. Grieg loved the attention, but needed quiet to work, and built a composer’s hut by the lake. Grieg died in 1907 of chronic exhaustion. But today his legacy lives on at Troldhaugen – a living museum consisting of the Edvard Grieg Museum, the Villa, the Composer’s Hut, Concert Hall and Edvard Grieg´s tomb.

For me the highpoint of a visit to Troldhaugen was a recital at the concert hall, which is discreetly built right into the grounds, complete with sod roof. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind the stage overlooks the composer’s hut where Grieg would work, superstitiously sitting on a stack of sheet music by Beethoven so that he could reach the piano. At the end of each day, he would leave a note: “If anyone should break in here, please leave the musical scores, since they have no value to anyone except Edvard Grieg.”

It is essential that you spend at least two days in Bergen, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Bergen boasts endless tourist attractions, and the Bergen Tourist Card is an important component to your tour of this historic harbor town. The price allows you free or reduced- price admittance to the Bergen Art Museum, Fantoft Stave Church (a medieval wooden cathedral), harbor boat tour, Bergen Castle, and St Mary’s Church. Wander through the harbor fish market and down the wooden streets of the historic warehouse district. A fish buffet should be on everyone’s list for a sampling of Bergen’s world-famous fish soup, gravlaks (cured Atlantic salmon), fish cakes and hearty breads, all washed down with the city’s own Hansa beer.

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Vincent van Gogh’s 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 finally caught up with up with  van Gogh in 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-month of his life; a period of intense prolificacy, creating over eighty, almost violent paintings, and 64 sketches.   Many are considered masterpieces, such as Crows over Wheatfield, Portrait of Dr. Gachet and Church at Auvers. I had journeyed there to walk the self-guided Vincent van Gogh Trail.  You simply follow the path where many of his works were painted, and then stop at posted landmarks, which feature a reproduction of one of his paintings, overlooking 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 you 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 died from a self-afflicted 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 sacred stairs. As we quietly assembled in the little room, I felt that I already knew this Spartan-like dwelling from Vincent’s paintings; which along with his quarters in Arles, is one of the most famous rooms in art history. But to see it, smell it and feel it in person 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.

PISA – Leaning Bell Tower of Pisa

Yes, it really does lean. In fact, it started to lean during construction in 1178, before builders had even reached its third story. Over the next 800 years, it became clear that the 180 ft. white-marble cylinder wasn’t just learning, but was actually falling at a rate of 3 ft. per year. This was due to an unstable foundation of shifting soft soil, fine sand and shells – an engineering debacle flawed from the beginning – which could not properly support the structure’s weight. To compensate for the tilt, the next eight-stories were built slightly taller on the short side in an attempt to compensate for the lean. However, the weight of the extra floors caused the Romanesque-style tower to sink further and lean more. Because of this, the tower is curved. Numerous efforts throughout time have been made to restore the bell tower to a vertical symmetry. In 1964, the Italian government insisted on retaining the current tilt, due to the money-making role that the Tower played in promoting tourism to Pisa.  Today, only groups of 30 are allowed inside at once, and are welcome to scale the 251 steps from the bottom to the top of the Pisa Tower. The Tower’s bells have long been silenced as their movements could worsen the lean of the bell tower further.

Throughout the years, we’ve all seen endless photos of the Leaning Tower, but to witness it in person was a monumental occasions. I was unaware that the Tower stands on a pristine green-expanse inside the medieval walls of the Square of Miracles. The piazza is also shared by the white marbled Cathedral of Pisa, the Baptistery – famous for its acoustics, demonstrated by singers daily – and Capuano Monumental Cemetery, made with 53 shiploads of earth brought back from the Hill of Calvary in Jerusalem.

Princess Grace in Monaco

In 1956, Monaco’s Prince Rainier III married Hollywood Royalty in the name of 26-year-old Grace Patricia Kelly.   Her acting career and striking refined beauty had already made the daughter of a wealthy Philadelphia socialite family an international household name. She had appeared in John Ford’s Mogambo;  The Country Girl, for which her deglamorized performance earned her an Academy Award for Best Actress in the otherwise dismal film;  High Noon;  and three Alfred Hitchcock masterpieces, Dial M for Murder, Rear Window and To Catch a Thief. Prince Rainier, always desperate for money, met with billionaire shipping tycoon, Aristotle Onassis,  who suggested the prince find a Hollywood beauty to marry. Aristotle believed the added media publicity would attract more investment opportunities and make the principality a greater alluring destination for tourists. Rainier jumped at the idea. His first choice was Marilyn Monroe, who  laughed at the thought, but did jokingly say, “Give me two-days alone with him and of course he’ll want to marry me.” A meeting was arranged with Kelly while she was in the Riviera filming the last stages of To Catch a Thief. It wasn’t love at first sight for Kelly, but the prince was relentless, initiating a long correspondence by mail, which eventually led to their marriage. Rainier received a two-million dowry  from Kelly’s family for the union to proceed, insisted that Kelly take a fertility test, give up acting and banned the screening of all her movies in Monaco. The marriage was described as the wedding of the century. Following a long honeymoon cruise, Her Serene Highness Princess Grace devoted her life to raising three-children, and then founded the World Association of Friends of Children, based on her vision that every child, whatever their social, religious or cultural origins are, would have the capacity to live in dignity and security;  and the Princess Grace Foundation, to support local artists and craftsmen. In 1982, tragedy struck when Princess Grace was driving her Range Rover down a steep road and suffered a minor stroke. She lost control of the vehicle which violently plunged 120 feet off a cliff.

Princess Grace passed away the next night. Her death was a shock to the entire world, and her funeral, like that of Princess Diana, was watched by millions of people around the globe. With the death of Rainier in 2005, Prince Albert II assured the succession of the over 700-year-old House of Grimaldi.

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There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone, and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends, I still can recall
Some are dead, and some are living
In my life, I’ve loved them all
– John Lennon & Paul McCartney

A pilgrimage is defined by Oxford Dictionary as (1) A journey to a holy place for religious reasons, or (2) Journey to a place that is connected with someone or something that you admire or respect. I fear I fit into category two, but with a slight twist:  pilgrimages to new places that have opened my eyes and colored my thoughts as I traversed across the globe. Indeed, the following are places I will always remember in my life.

Dylan Thomas – Laugharne, Wales

“I was born in a large Welsh industrial town at the beginning of the Great War:
an ugly, lovely town (or so it was, and is, to me).”
– Dylan Thomas

No artist commands a deeper place in a Walesian’s heart than poet and writer, Dylan Thomas. Born in a middleclass home in Swansea, Wales in 1914, Thomas moved often in his young life, with his work conveying a unique bond with the people and places on the South West Coast of Wales. A converted boathouse in Laugharne is where he spent the last four years of his life with his wife, Caitlin, and their three children. In an adjacent cliff side Writing Shed he wrote his famous play for voices, ‘Under Milk Wood,’ along with many of his major works: ‘And Death shall have No Dominion,’ ‘Fern Hill,’ ‘The Hunchback in the Park’ and ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog.’ A short walk away is the Brown’s Hotel, where Dylan would stop for a daily pint after visiting his dying father at a nearby hospital, which led to ‘Do not go Gentle into that Good Night.’

The Dylan Thomas Trail

Spread across Southwest Wales, the Dylan Thomas Trail showcases quaint small towns, and remarkable land and seascapes which inspired Thomas. The Gower Peninsula features the fishing village of Mumbles and the stunning beach of Rhossili, where Dylan would camp and often walk the Gower cliffs. Two of his best loved short stories, ‘Extraordinary Little Cough’ and ‘Who Do You Wish Was With Us?’ are set in ethereal Rhossili. If you’d like to hike further, the 870 mile long Wales Coast Path spans the entire length of the Welsh coastline

Dylan collapsed outside the White Horse Tavern in New York after having given a reading across the street. He had drunk 18 glasses of whiskey, and died shortly after. His death was mourned by the world’s literary community. His final resting place is signified by a simple white cross in Laugharne’s cemetery. Years later when fellow Walesian actor Richard Burton died, he was buried with a copy of Dylan’s Collected Poems on his chest.

Antoni Gaudí – Barcelona, Catalonia

Those who look for the laws of Nature as a support for their new works
collaborate with the creator.
– Antoni Gaudi

Spending 16 hours was far too little time to explore the enthralling  metropolis of Barcelona, the capital of Spanish Catalonia. Peopled by 1.6 million stylish and sophisticated Barcelonés, I was greeted with grand boulevards and welcoming pedestrian malls which wandered to the waterfront. I was particularly enchanted by the cityscape that reflects the lifelong work of Barcelona architect, Antoni Gaudí (1852 1826), considered the greatest exponent of Catalan Modernism. As a proud Catalander, he refused to speak Castilian and seldom left his beloved Catalonia. Gaudí’s architecture illustrates his profound passion for nature and devotion to religion. Still ahead of his time, he integrated used ceramic pieces, stained glass and wrought ironwork into his architectural style. Seven of his works have been declared UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and include the still-incomplete Sagrada Família, the most-visited monument in Spain. A visiting bishop once asked him, “Why do you trouble yourself so much about the tops of the towers? After all, no one will ever see them.” “Your Grace,” replied Gaudí. “The angels will see them.” His faith in the Roman Catholic Church intensified towards the end of his life, with his living in a squalid room at Sagrada Família, frantically attempting to finish his astonishingly masterpiece. Still dressed in his work clothes, he would venture out for walks in nature. In 1926 he was tragically run down by a streetcar. Gaudí desperately waved for assistance from passing vehicles, but was dismissed as a ragged beggar, and died shortly after. Today he is often times referred to by his nickname, “God’s Architect.”

Frida Kahlo and Leon Trotsky – Coyoacán, Mexico

I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive as long as I can paint.
– Frida Kahlo

Coyoacán, Mexico was once a serene  village on the outskirts of Mexico City. The urban sprawl  of Mexico City reached Coyoacán in the mid 20th century, but city fathers preserved the former village’s historic center, maintaining its colonial layout, plazas, narrow streets and structures built from the 16th to the early 20th centuries. This is where Coyoacán’s most popular destination rests: Museo Frida Kahlo. Born Magdalena Carmen Frieda Kahlo y Calderón on July 6, 1907, the museum is housed in her place of birth, which now celebrates her life and works of art. Painted in vibrant cobalt-blue colors (known as the Blue House locally)  the house is also was where she lived all of her life, and contains important paintings, including Viva la Vida, Frida and Caesarean and Portrait of my father Wilhelm Kahlo, along with canvases by husband and fellow communist, Diego Rivera. They were both heavily influenced by Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that had developed in the aftermath of the 1910 Mexican Revolution. The Mexicanidad movement’s mantra was to challenge the “mindset of cultural inferiority” created by colonialism, placing special importance on indigenous cultures. The museum also displays Kahlo’s workspace, Mexican folk art, pre-Hispanic artifacts, photographs and memorabilia. Frida has become the poster child for Mexico Tourism as much for her work as well as for spiritedly overcoming the adversarial conditions of her life; childhood polio, a tragic streetcar accident which left her in a hospital for years, acceptance as an artist due to her gender, and the two tumultuous marriages with womanizer, Rivera.  Long before the term ever existed, Frida Kahlo lived her life as an art form, even selecting her daily wear down to the smallest detail.

There are no absolute rules of conduct, either in peace or war.
Everything depends on circumstances.
– Leon Trotsky

The Leon Trotsky Museum is located just a few blocks away from the Museo Frida Kahlo. Trotsky was the second most important member of the original Russian Bolsheviks, and considered heir to Lenin. But was forced into exile,  and then hunted by the tyrannical Josef Stalin regime after he forced his way into power upon the death of Lenin. Trotsky was given political asylum, sponsored by Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. Along with his wife, he lived in the Kahlo house for a few years. A rumored affair, though, between Trotsky and Kahlo, led to the Trotskys  relocating to a new fortress-life home with watchtowers, as protection from any assassination attempts by Stalin’s agents, in which they knew would someday come.  As I entered the museum I was told that I was to have a private tour by the museum’s director. To my surprise, the museum director was none other than Trotsky’s grandson, Esteban Volkov. A remarkably spry and dashing man in his early 90s with impeccable manners, Mr. Volkov had lived with his grandparents at age thirteen, and was wounded himself as a result of an earlier Stalin operative’s failed machine gun assault. The bullet holes are still on the walls.  He walked me through the museum, patiently explaining in detail the history of photos from Trotsky’s lifetime, his participation in the Bolshevik Revolution, family tree, books and newspapers, and the backyard where he planted vegetables, tended to his rabbits and is buried. The centerpiece of the museums is Trotsky’s study where his iconic spectacles, papers and books are left in the exact position on the very desk where he sat when murdered with an ice axe, by a Stalin assassin who had posed as a friend of the family. Mr. Volkov ultimately raised his own family in the house, and then turned it into a museum on the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Trotsky.

The Barbary Apes – Gibraltar

“The establishment of the apes on Gibraltar should be twenty-four,
and every effort should be made to reach this number as soon as possible
and maintain it thereafter.”
– Winston Churchill

Churchill was obsessed with the continuance of the Barbary Apes, fearing that British rule over the Rock of Gibraltar during WW2 would end if they disappeared, a catastrophe that he would not tolerate. In the early days of the war, Winston Churchill had visited Gibraltar, and was disturbed that the population had dwindled down to only seven Barbary Apes. He immediately instructed that five new females be sent to the Rock. Churchill was well aware of the Gibraltar Ape’s symbolic importance to the British people, and feared that the disappearance of the animals would have a detrimental effect on morale – which the British Empire needed plenty of when they stood alone against the Fascists in 1941.

Currently 300 Apes in five troops occupy the Upper Rock area of the Gibraltar Nature Reserve. Due to being tailless species, they are often mistakenly referred to as Barbary Apes or Rock Apes, but, technically speaking, they are actually macaques (Macaca sylvanus). The cute little critters are inquisitive and have no fear of humans. Upon my arrival one jumped on the front of my car’s window shield, and curiously looked me straight in the eye. The biggest tourist casualty is there apprehension of cameras. Foraging for food, though, seems to be their main goal, and they are known to even traverse the capital city below. As a British Overseas Territory, the Rock features 32 miles of tunnels, initially designed as protection from Spanish and French forces in their attempt to take Gibraltar back from the British, when they were at their weakest during the American Revolution.  At the early stages of what was to be a surprise attack, the monkeys were disturbed in the night and let out howls, alerting the British garrison to the upcoming enemy assault. This led to the popular saying, “As long as the Apes remain on the Rock, so will the British.”

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