Max at home: December

Last days of Mediterranean autumn.

Days and nights at home.

Little fir tree with some of the earth it grew up in.

Longer nights.

Some kind of core inertia, not fatigue exactly, but a deep sleepiness.

Elaborate dreams just before waking, and just off the shore of remembering.

A sense of shifting distances in time and place: last week has changed places with an evening years ago.

I would like a cocoon. A sleeping husk for winter. To sleep for a a few days, like Orlando. And wake up, having changed.

Oslo, September 15th

Hotel/Dream: Lisbon & Santiago de Chile

Max missed the beginning, but you always miss the beginning of dreams, don't you?

Hotel Das Letras, in Lisbon. Each room there is dedicated to a writer, and features a quotation over the bed. I stayed in the J.D. Salinger room on the 8th floor, with a good view of red tiles and enclosed courtyards. I slept under the last lines of The Catcher in the Rye.

Hotel Le Rêve, in Santiago. A small, lovely, French hotel on a quiet street. A sense of conspiratorial hospitality on the part of the staff. Lavender in the towels, a chocolate on the night table. On the last morning: the breakfast room full of winter sunlight, a book on birdwatching that I read until the airport taxi came, and seriously considered stealing.

This is not a hotel review, although if you get a chance to stay at Hotel Le Rêve, I really recommend it. What I want to communicate was the feeling of a dream that I had during my stays. The details had a pre-destined glow about them, as though I'd been asked ahead of time about my preferences (Ok, perhaps if that had been the case, I would have slept under lines from Borges or James Salter, but...). Everything felt familiar and new at the same time.

It's important to recall one other strange detail: there was a Buddhist restaurant across the street from both of these hotels. As these were my first true voyages in my new job, it made me wonder if this would always happen (it didn't happen again). Apart from a good taqueria, there's no other type of restaurant I'd rather see beckoning me with candles and lovingly prepared vegetarian dishes.

Those trips were the beginning of a long tour, one that continues this autumn. I went from summer in Portugal to winter in Chile. In the week between those trips, I saw my father for the last time.

After his last round of chemotherapy, it was as though the total weight of his illness and treatment was finally felt. I was angry, I was worried. He would have bursts of energy followed by complete exhaustion. We tried to work on the things he wanted to finish. Friends visited, the minister came to start talking about a memorial service.

You're waiting for a train. You know where you hope it will take you, but you can't know for sure.

On the last day I made minestrone. The minister was there, the physical therapist, the hospice nurse and also a close friend. It was the last whole day we would ever spend together, and it had the three-ring circus quality that a fatal illness can engender.

What I remember most was his effort to be present, to care for the others.

I write another sentence, I delete it, I try again.

I have nothing to say, but I want to say it anyway.

Max's small valise: Milano

Milan is paradoxical.

So gritty, so filled with Chinese and Indian places offering you pizza and aperitivo. Deserted metro. Man trying to sell me a children's book, clinging to my arm. At lunch one day a colleague explained that now Milan is the only Italian city with jobs. There used to be Torino, but now...

The weather was dark and rainy. Until one vibrant day, the kind of day you decide to change your life. With all the others at the Duomo, I was looking for the best way to spend the luminous evening, one of the last days of summer. These years are a kind of open sea, far enough from either shore. In some moments, there is real pleasure, the gift of experience.

The impressions were like a deck of cards being turned over slowly. A woman in a long burnt orange dress walking past La Scala. My fellow diner at Trussardi, the one from Nigeria. An icy cocktail laced with ginger. Pigeons and ice cream and almost everything still closed. Beautiful language, almost understandable.

On summer head colds

Max and I came back from Rio last Sunday. As far as I can tell, his health did not suffer from the trip. I, on the other hand, have the kind of raging head cold that really gives the sense of lively microbes at play in my sinuses, throat, chest, etc. Thanks, Rio!

The other day, a colleague said simply, "summer colds are the worst." Always one to start whining at the least provocation, I would have to agree, if only because all the warm and cosy winter cold comforts do not appeal when you're trying to rest in a pool of your own sweat. Nor does air conditioning seem that great, rough as it is on a sore throat. Chicken soup does not beckon.

So what is the answer? Tequila. With lime and salt. Plenty of spicy pork wrapped up in a tortilla. Guacamole with fresh scallions and cilantro. The ministrations of someone very patient. Tons and tons of kleenex. Gallons of water. Garlic and more garlic. A screening of The Godfather. A private poetry reading.

And the promise of vacation coming very soon...

At home

Night on Earth: Rio de Janeiro

Night on Earth is a great Jim Jarmusch film. It's composed of vignettes which are all taxi rides in different cities, including Los Angeles, Paris and Rome. I'll admit that I'm not crazy about the first section with Gena Rowlands and Winona Ryder, so fast forward through that one if you feel the same way.

I saw Night on Earth long before I had much experience with taxis or cities like Paris. Growing up in Huntington Beach, everyone drove; I don't even know if taxis existed there. Now taking taxis is an integral part of my travels, and one that's fraught with interesting questions and concerns. Is it safe? Will I be able to communicate? Will the driver try to cheat me?

A taxi ride can be many things. Elegiac, as when I'm leaving Barcelona, watching my beloved streets reel past. Anxiety producing, when the driver seems to be unable to get us there, or drives too fast, or is busy sending text messages or talking on the phone. Delightful, in the case of the driver in Oslo who pointed out the sights, talked about how the city was changing, who closed our short ride to the train station with "you're always welcome in Oslo." Daunting and outrageous: the guy who tried to quick change us in Budapest.

Taxi drivers are city ambassadors, for better and for worse. They are often the first and last people you deal with outside the airport. Here in Rio, they don't speak much English, which doesn't allow for conversation. They have music on, sometimes they ask questions I can't understand. I proffer my Post-It with the address and hope for the best.

Last night I went to a restaurant near the Botanical Garden. It seemed to take a very long time, in terrible traffic. We passed tables where people were selling fruit, buses going to Urca and Sugarloaf, and the sky was deeply dark, 8:00 on a winter night. We made it finally, after stopping once to ask and finding that we were almost there.

The restaurant was lovely, the air around us cool and clear. I could see the chef inside, drinking wine, and his assistant in a red toque. Our hostess ordered everything she likes and we had a great evening. At one point a guy came by and offered to paint for us on some tiles. He sat at our table and painted two tiles with scenes of Rio, souvenirs. We drank caipirinhas with ginger, passion fruit, lemongrass.

Our evening was finally over. I flagged a taxi and gave the driver my orange Post-It. We drove past the park, past the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, through Ipanema. I was seeing parts of the city I hadn't seen before. At one moment I wondered if we were taking a circuitous route, and decided that if I was having a tour, I would have a tour. Just then we came into a familiar intersection. In a few minutes I was in the hotel elevator and my taxi was disappearing into the night streets.