Globe Corner Blogs

This is Ireland by M. Sasek

After many online searches looking for the best price to get to Croatia, I discovered that Aer Lingus was a relative bargain compared to other flights. I decided that I would stay in Dublin, however, for a 32-hour layover. I had never been to Ireland before and I wanted to see as much as I could possibly see in my jet-lagged state.

Because I had such a short amount of time, I started to research as much as possible. There was no shortage of information available, but a lot of the information recommended places that “were off the beaten path,” or places to be with the “locals” and the “new, more cosmopolitan” Dublin. As I was reading one article that suggested visiting a great wine bar and eating at a wonderful Mediterranean-inspired restaurant I realized that I didn’t want to be “off of the beaten path.”

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Off the Beaten Path Maine

I recently found myself in Rockland, Maine for the North Atlantic Blues Festival. An old friend who was vacationing there invited me up for the weekend, and I eagerly jumped on the opportunity. She and I had grown up together in Los Angeles. For many Los Angelenos, even natives, a common effect of the urban sprawl is a feeling of disconnectedness to the city they call home. Places with names like Playa del Rey and Whittier technically qualify as “Los Angeles Country,” but they exist in my mind as mercurial suburban wastelands with no actual geographic location.

Mainers, on the other hand, seem to root their sense of self in their towns, lighthouses, and occupations.  This phenomenon was made evident to me on the plane ride up, when the man seated next to me – who wasn’t even from Maine and merely summered there – excitedly pointed out every coastal town and island, listing their attractions. There were even a few houses whose owners he could name starting three generations back. As he wildly gesticulated and bounced up and down in his seat, I drew a kind of vicarious pleasure in his understanding of himself through towns with names like Union and Friendship.

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36' Bavaria--photo by Creelea

May 24, 2009

Today we set sail from Anacortes–Dad, Mom, the Squirrel (my sister), and I. Our ship is a 36′ Bavaria named “Escape!”

I suppose we are escaping, as the yellow bluffs of Guemes slip back and flatten against the silhouette of Mount Baker. By 5:30 pm we are all adding layers of silk and smartwool against the wet chill that settles on limbs too long at rest. After fighting the spring tide for some hours, we’ve changed course and put in at Spencer’s Spit on Lopez Island. Mom and I served omelet, smoked salmon, and arugula for dinner. Dad poured a Champagne toast. Around us boats at anchor plash gently, drifting closer then farther.

At dusk, the shoreline is etched white in parched timber. After dark, camper’s tents glow like festive lanterns under bristling black pines.

Storm in Spain--photo by Adam

…at 5 o’clock. Two days ago, 4:30 pm: lightning crashes, my mom freaks out, and we still have 20 kilometers left to bike before we reach home.  Ambulance sirens pierce the air as they speed past us.  Yesterday, 5:30 pm: even the closed window can’t stop the deluge of water from finding its way into the house.  The floor shakes with each peal of thunder.  Today, 5 pm: black clouds gather in the distance and forked lightning illuminates the darkening sky.

Today is the third evening of a four day biking trip in Spain, over the course of which we (my parents and I) have been traveling in and among the farm houses and fields in an area slightly north of Girona. It’s amazing here. The views around the countryside are absolutely spectacular, ranging from wide sweeping corn, wheat, and sunflower fields to steep wooded hills, all the while with huge jagged mountains forming an imposing background in the distance.

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Annunciation (detail), Simone Martini

A trip through the Uffizi in Florence is almost like a crash course in Renaissance Art. I didn’t quite know what I was in for heading into this gallery; it turned out to be one of the highlights of my recent trip to Italy. My boyfriend and I purchased a Friends of the Uffizi pass, as we knew that this is a  blockbuster of a museum. The pass allowed us unlimited entries into the museum, which we used over the course of a few days (pass details here).

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The museum consists almost entirely of Florentine Renaissance paintings and sculptures. Arranged chronologically, viewers are able to link the progression of Renaissance art from the 13th to the 18th Century in their trip through the museum. The early Renaissance paintings, many of which are altar-like shaped canvases, are astounding in their straightforward approach to storytelling. The life of Christ is depicted in an almost storyboard manner on many of the various panels of the paintings. We loved the brutal simplicity of these works: angels floating on beams painted with gold leaf; halos so bright that they completely block out the background image; the hands of God peeking into picture planes.

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Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon

“I took to the open road in search of places where change did not mean ruin and where time and men and deeds connected.” And such is the reasoning behind Blue Highways, a travelogue of a man and his van, traveling around the perimeter of the United States solely on backroads, no federal highways allowed. William Least Heat-Moon named his van Ghost Dancing, an homage to the resurrection rituals of Plains Indians–he left home in part for personal reasons. But he also went to see the parts of America few people ever see, except those living there. He wanted to travel from Simplicity, Virginia to Whynot, Mississippi and onward.

Perhaps what he accomplished could not be done today–the trip was taken in the late-70s–but it seems worth a shot. The people Least Heat-Moon met and talked to at length is the meat of the book; his actual travels merely the backbone. He has an uncanny ability to get to the heart of a town and has an insatiable curiosity that gets him deep into the relations of people to each other in the town, the relation of them to the rest of the country, the peoples’ personal philosophies, and often, the story behind the name of the place.

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