Mount Hood

They say it’s visible from downtown Portland, but you couldn’t prove it by us. Even a drive to the high hills overlooking the airport failed to gain us a glimpse.  But Mt. Hood, named for a British aristocrat who never saw it either, is very much a feature of Oregon's landscape, as my wife and I discovered on vacation early this month.

Early in April we started planning our escape from the inferno that Texans charitably call summer. Finding Canadian Pacific Railway tours booked solid and other possibilities out of reach, we settled on the Pacific Northwest.  Neither of us had been to Oregon before; the coast and mountains offered the prospect of cool weather, and the price was right. So in the middle of June, just as Austin temperatures reached the century mark, off we flew to Portland.
 

Mt. Hood has long been accessible to the major population centers of central Oregon.  Railroads built to exploit the region's timber reached the base of the mountain late in the 19th century, and a paved road connected Portland with Mt. Hood in the 1920s.  In 1937   Franklin Roosevelt followed that route to inaugurate the Timberline Lodge, a WPA project that provided employment in a region hard hit by the Depression and has offered food and shelter to millions of visitors since.

We reached Mt. Hood after touring the Columbia River gorges, driving Oregon State Highway 35, that climbs nearly 6,000 feet in 57 miles.  The rapid ascent quickly disoriented my senses.  After a while, I could not always appreciate the road's gradient.  Were we climbing or descending?   And as one curve followed another, I began to wonder when, or if, the mountain would come into view.  But as we rounded a bend about 25 miles into the climb, an enormous, white mass spread across the windshield. On this sunny day Mt. Hood was luminous-- snow against the blue sky, convection currents rising from the snow, a brim-shaped cloud at the summit.  For the next 30 miles, variations
on that vision came in and out of sight. Peggy kept us from going over the cliff more than once, as the beauty of the mountain distracted my attention.

We had secured a reservation at the Timberline Lodge, a great stroke of luck we thought until we learned that rooms are often available during the week.  Our luck with the weather was prodigious, though, as the skies cleared for our arrival after a week of showers.  The lodge preserves much of the architecture and furnishings of its original construction, including the monumental timber superstructure and hand crafted ironwork that adorns interior spaces.  Some latter-day enhancements-- central heat, private bathrooms and a bar among them-- address modern expectations.

As we reached the lodge, Peggy noticed several RVs bearing parabolic antennas and decals of Fox News and NBC.  We would learn later that a hiker had gone missing two days before.  Rescue operations were in full swing, with helicopters launching from the parking lot and ski patrol teams coming and going, day and night. We read later in the trip that the hiker, a 59-year old dentist who
had climbed in the area for decades, died falling into a crevasse as he trained for a trip to Nepal.

Mt. Hood is one of the few locations in the United States to provide year-around skiing, though by late June only one of the lifts was operating. During our stay employees "groomed" the slopes early each morning, using tracked vehicles with front mounted, revolving blades.  After a short hiatus, the parking lot filled with the sound of skiers walking with a distinctive “clop, clop”, made the heel-toe gait of their rigid boots.  The rest of the costume is very gansta'.  Baggy pants or shorts, enormous, shapeless tee shirts, and balaclavas all are de rigueur.  We made an acquaintance with a small crew of filmers who had come to cover a snowboard competition that was to take place on the weekend.

We went on to see the mountain from the hiking trails, a reflecting pond and our room. As we drove down the mountain on our way to the Pacific coast it started to rain. We knew we had been very lucky.

Fear of Flying

Air travel in the twenty-first century has joined thumb screws and the rack as instruments of exquisite discomfort. Long lines, full body scans, luggage inspections, identity checks and a multitude of additional, minor indignities precede every departure. And full cabins, smaller seats, and travelers' increased use of carryon luggage-- to avoid baggage charges-- adds cramping and claustrophobia to the experience. I'll show you what I mean with an account of my trip to what shall be an unnamed island in the Caribbean.

I am blessed by living near Houston which has come to rival Miami as a gateway to Latin America. The recent merger of United and Continental airlines, despite inevitable growing pains, has enhanced Houston's south bound service. Now many travelers from Los Angeles visit the Caribbean via Houston. But given the fear and loathing that Latin America currently inspires in the US security community, anyone traveling to the region will likely endure special scrutiny. On this trip I passed three separate identity checks, at the airline counter, the TSA desk, and the gate. There was also a final, surprise check, conducted by a uniformed customs agent and a contraband-sniffing dog, in the tight space between the gate and the jetway. While the agent asked me a series of questions about my travel, his canine companion sniffed a little too close to my back pocket. Did they think I was carrying controlled substances OUT of the country? Both my ends passed inspection, apparently.

The plane, a 737, was completely full, of course, and I had drawn the middle seat. A note on personal anatomy: I am 6'2," all in the femurs, which makes sitting in a coach seat a feat of contortion in the best of circumstances, and these were not the best. To my right sat Lucio, a Brazilian history graduate student at UCLA. To my left was a 70-something, retired nurse, returning to her island birth place for the first time in 17 years. Lucio had somehow managed to come aboard with two very large carryons, one of which he positioned between his legs like a saddle. That bag, a backpack, actually, held his computer and research notes for a paper he was giving (turns out Lucio and I were headed for the same conference). The notes, the backpack and the computer were in perpetual motion as their owner put some finishing touches on his text. After discovering our mutual destination, Lucio explained the importance of his research on information transfer and paused briefly to ask what I do. "I work on information transfer, too; I'm a librarian," I offered. "Oh," he said. Librarians get that a lot.

The retired nurse, I never caught her name, turned out to be quite a talker. She was naturally excited about seeing her relatives after such a long separation, and she persistently released long streams of words that described memories of her youth and her long residence in the Eagle Rock suburb of Los Angeles. Her carryon, only one, was filled with food. How had the dog missed this? I was offered fruit and baked goods before I learned something else about my aisle seat mate. She was incontinent, and the fear of a discharge mandated hourly trips to the lavatory. I took advantage of her second departure to cut off our conversation with ear buds-- those things really send a message. We reached our destination in five hours, twenty minutes, an almost manageable duration. Now I was on Caribbean soil, but not home free. Between me and sleep lay customs.

 A 737, even one filled to capacity, holds no more than 150 souls. There were eight officers reviewing documents, and yet it took nearly 90 minutes for the last passenger to clear. That's over 12 minutes each. My experience was typical. The officer carefully reviewed the manifest I handed her, perusing the 8-digit passport number, the flight information and my "on business" selection as the reason for my visit. "What kind of business?" she wanted to know. Then we moved on to an item not on the form, an assurance that I would be leaving the island. The agent wanted a ticket but settled for a copy of my itinerary and copied the departure time, airline and flight number onto the margin of my declaration. One last item remained, my in-country contact. "I'm staying in a hotel, the Hilton," I offered up with a smile. But the form asked for a personal contact, and the agent seemed determined to have one. We were at an impasse, two English-speaking people, silently staring at each other through a pane of safety glass. Finally, she blinked, and with a grumbled "I'll just fill in Hilton," she stamped my passport and signaled me through to baggage claim.

By the Sea

Lima's western suburbs peer over steep cliffs that mark the division between terra firme and the Pacific Ocean. Miraflores, the most populous of a string of coastal settlements, that also includes Barranco, Magdalena and San Miguel, styles itself the go-to place for upscale eateries and night life. The pioneering Peruvian chef, Gaston Acurio, opened his first restaurant here. Miraflores was once the preferred residence for English expatriates. That community has now largely disappeared, its existence documented only by a few street names and the interdenominational Church of the Good Shepard at the boundary of Miraflores and San Isidro.

In 1975 my wife and I got a taste of ex-pat life at Pension Miramar on the Malecon Cisneros. The place was British to the core-- a pub with Guinness on tap and a dart board on the wall, manicured gardens with a parrot or two, and a no nonsense land lady who wasn't above throwing back a drink or a dart or two with her guests. Many of the other pensioners were regulars. I remember a Lancaster merchant, there for the annual cotton harvest and a group of civilian contractors teaching the Peruvian Navy how to use the advanced weapons it had purchased. Forty years on, I went in search of Pension Miramar and learned that it fell to the wrecking ball sometime in the mid 1990s when a plague of condominiums swept the Malecon. A gentrification has its upside, though, and in this case it is a reclaiming of public property in the neighborhood.

The twenty meters of land between the Malecon and the cliffs, once an illegal but unsanctioned waste dump inhabited by squatters, has been transformed into a ribbon of parks and running trails. One of these oases, christened Parque de los Amantes, is accessorized by a colossal statue of two figures entwined in an impossible embrace and, nearby, a red windsock. The statue inspires the lovers; the windsock marks a hang glider runway. For 150 soles, $55.72 by today's exchange, anyone with a desire to float with the thermals can do so-- irresistible, I thought, until I looked down.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" my pilot asked. My reply, something along the lines of "too old to crash, too young to die," drew nervous laughs from everyone in earshot. But I had come too far for anything approaching a dignified retreat. So over the cliff it was.

Full disclosure here. My parasail was the equivalent of a bicycle with training wheels. All I had to do was sit in a nylon sling and occasionally adjust my weight in response to the pilot's commands. The route traced a series of figure-eights, sailing out to sea and tacking back toward the cliffs. Negligible turbulence, nothing like my years of riding twenty-seaters in and out of Ithaca, New York, and the profound silence of flying at low speed without an engine are my clearest memories of the ten minute descent to the beach.

Now where is that Grand Canyon, again?

Bolivian Tweets

Anyone who reads this blog, if such a person exists, will recognize Bolivia as one of its recurring themes. This post documents a recent trip in six vignettes, all written during October/November of 2011.

TIPNIS
The acronym of Territorio Indigena Parque Nacional Isiboro Secure has become something of a cause celebre in the struggle for indigenous rights. To fortify their demands that a proposed highway not cross what had been declared a protected zone ten years ago, an alliance of native organizations made a 700 kilometer march from the Amazonian rainforest to the high Andes to meet with President Evo Morales. Along the way the marchers were disparaged by many politicians and roughed up by police, but once in La Paz, they received a Presidential audience and an executive order deflecting the highway away from the park. TIPNIS proved to be a no-win proposition for Morales. Much of the President's credibility comes from his representation of Bolivia's native majority. The marchers exploited Morales' standing as an Indian President to force him to choose between indigenous rights and a development project with broad national and international support. TIPNIS is only one of a number of issues with similar implications, and the march suggests that groups with a sympathetic cause and the willingness to take dramatic action can exert tremendous pressure on the political system. The genie is out of the bottle.

La Paz, Wireless City
Bolivia is increasingly connected to the rest of the planet through the Internet. La Paz now provides a large slice of wireless access at hotels, restaurants and cafes. Most of the WiFi zones require passwords, available with purchase of services, but I never encountered a solicitation for fees from a service provider. And thus far, available bandwidth has kept up with demand, making connections fast and smooth. The World Wide Web forces aside the heavy curtain of isolation that has been so much a part of Bolivian life. I once found myself surfing for weather news at Alexander Coffee, a local chain providing passwordless access to anyone in range of its routers, when I noticed a woman dressed in the emblematic chola costume, wide skirts and bowler hat, scrolling through the New York Times. "Que bueno que lee ingles," I tried as a conversation starter. "Ay señor, no lo leo, solo veo las fotos." She's only looking now, but I bet she'll be reading before long.


Camera Obscura
Even as digital technology takes hold in Bolivia, vestiges of the past hide in plain sight. In Santa Cruz's Plaza 24 de Septiembre, where sloths climb deliberately across the forest canopy, a photographer practiced his trade using camera obscura. The whole process, sitting to delivery, took place in a wooden box fitted with a point-and-shoot lens. The photographer seated me on a park bench, aligned his instrument, and removed its lens cap. Exposure completed, he replaced the lens cap and went to work inside the box which was equipped with an elbow-length sleeve to provide light-proof access for one hand. A few minutes later he extracted a 2x3 inch piece of photographic paper and washed it in a small bucket of water that had up to that point served as a bird bath. This was the negative, printed on paper. For a finished product, the photographer placed the paper negative on a tablet positioned a foot or so in front of the lens and removed the cap for a second time. This exposure, the negative of a negative, produced a positive print. I cherish it as a relic.

A Scam Frustrated
Laboring up one of La Paz's many steep streets, I heard a "plop" at my feet and noticed a man hurry by to my right. Soon another man tapped my shoulder and displayed a tightly wrapped package, the source of the "plop," that revealed a roll of bills bills through its translucent, plastic covering. He claimed that he wanted to divide the windfall and invited me to accompany him into a nearby arcade. I would have none of it, insisting that Pachamama had smiled on him, alone, and he was under no obligation to share his good fortune with an anonymous gringo. I'm sure that was his point, that I was an anonymous gringo and probably an easy mark for a get-rich-quick opportunity. But this time he chanced upon an exception to the rule. [Full disclosure; I only figured this out after walking away from it.]

Public Works
Even if it leaves no other legacy to Bolivia, the Evo Morales administration will be remembered for its infrastructural improvements. La Paz's major food markets, Camacho and Lanza, now reside in well designed, covered, concrete complexes. Some of the city's worst traffic bottlenecks have been relieved by tunnels and overpasses. Several city streets have been resurfaced, and at least one, Calle Sagarnaga from its mouth beside the San Francisco church to Calle Linares, the famous "witch's market," is getting a new sewer and roadbed. These works are done as folk art, for the people by the people. The Sagarnaga construction site employs only one machine, a hand cranked cement mixer. The rest of the equipment is picks, shovels, and muscle power, a recipe for maximum employment in an economy where full-time jobs are scarce.

A Tale of Two Statues
In 1973 Bolivia installed its monument to the unknown soldier at the east end of La Paz's principal thoroughfare. A colossal bronze statue depicted the tragedy of the Chaco War with a shirtless combatant draped lifelessly across a length of barbed wire. Apparently, this fallen image was unacceptable to the military regimes that ruled the country for the next fifteen years, for as plaques on the site document, another statue, this one a fully equipped soldier charging, bayonet-first, toward some unknown adversary, was erected on the site in 1979. But while it disappeared from public view, the original statue remained intact, and in 2006, with democracy again established in Bolivia, it was reinstalled and the charging soldier carted away, one hopes, forever.

Haiti Cafe

In 2011 I hardly recognize the Lima I saw forty years ago when my parents took me here for a break halfway through my Peace Corps service in neighboring Bolivia. The colonial city, then vibrant with commerce and living, now exists as a relic of the past, visited but not enjoyed. Formidable urban traffic makes travel in the city tedious and uncertain. And as Lima's population continues to grow, it further splays itself across what is a coastal desert further challenging an infrastructure already stretched beyond capacity.

One constant on this changing landscape is Haiti Cafe. Founded in the 1950s as "Haiti Coffee" beside the Government Palace in the city center, the original locale doubled as literary salon and smoke-filled room, a gathering place for poets and political plotters alike. That location closed soon after a drive-by bombing in 1962. Following its clientele, which was then abandoning downtown, Haiti reestablished itself in the Miraflores suburb beside what would become Parque Kennedy, during the hemisphere-wide mourning for JFK after his assassination.

My wife and I lived in Miraflores in 1975 and frequented Haiti while I researched in the National Archives. In those days, as in these, the layout defined two, distinct spaces. A sidewalk cafe--largely inhabited by tourists-- looks out on the park. It takes only one experience to realize that sitting there is asking for relentless solicitation from itinerant vendors hawking souvenirs, knockoff sunglasses and the Miami Herald. In the past, I have feigned both indifference and illiteracy to ward off their overtures. But I learned that the unwelcome swarm ceases only with a retreat to the second space, indoors. Here the clientele, the whole ambience, changes abruptly. The noise level increases markedly; the language of discourse becomes exclusively Spanish, and conversations deal with the myriad themes of daily life. Today to my left a father bids goodbye to his daughter. On my right, men from two generations discuss what sounds like a business proposal. And while the patrons hardly represent a cross section in a country where 40 percent of the population lives in poverty, they reflect, accurately, Lima's middle class. Cell phone chatter hums in background as a well-dressed woman feeds her dog some pastry, and a man with a cane and a hearing aid works the daily crossword puzzle.

To date-stamp this post, I have just noticed that CNN is announcing Gadhafi's demise.

Haiti's menu offers typical Lima fare, arranged by meal time. At 10:30 I flipped to the breakfast section. Eggs predominate here, but in a nod to the tourists and the local sweet tooth, pancakes and waffles-- each served with manjar blanco-- appear as well. The lunch crowd is arriving as I write this, and the menu insert today reads "ENSALADAS HAITI, all the flavor made fresh and natural" (my translation). I hope that the phrasing reflects a transformation of middle class taste, but that's a stretch when so many local dishes are heavily buttered, creamed, and fried. Some things never change. I like that.

At Her Feet

When asked to name a product they associate with Colombia, most North Americans would respond with coffee, or emeralds or with “the fine Colombian,” celebrated by Steeley Dan in Hey Nineteen. While not so appreciated as the big three, Colombian leather goods are among the world’s best, and a bespoke shoe fitting on a recent trip to Bogota brought a brief glimpse of how fine craftsmanship survives there.

My friend Paula needed a new pair of little heels for those dressy occasions in her life. She remembered from a previous trip to Bogota that one of her friends had recommended a store on Carrera 11 that makes shoes from the sole up on short order. But where was it? Without a name we were reduced to window shopping or using a generic description, “una tienda que fabrica zapatos de ocasión.” These words brought blank stares, assurances that no such store existed, or, on one occasion, directions so unlikely that we ignored them. It turned out that our problem was having turned east on the 11, when we should have turned west. There it was, Calzado Corrado, number 82-00.

This is not your granddaughter’s shoe store, nary a flip-flop or canvas top in sight. Instead, behind a locked, glass door (“only to keep the drunks out,” we were assured) a small showroom arrayed several shelves of elegant pumps and bags. Despite their conservative stock, the Corrado maintains a loyal clientele. While Paula and I were addressed anonymously as “señora” and “señor,” the other patrons were greeted by name and, often, with hugs and kisses. The store's prosperity is also the result of its cobblers' skills. "They can fit anything here," a male client told us in perfect English.

Paula quickly located a model she liked and asked to try it on. Nothing in stock fit perfectly, but by trial, error and measurement, the saleswoman determined that an 8.5 length with a size seven heel was what Paula’s foot required. “And we don’t have one,” she assured us in a way that sounded like a dismissal. When Paula explained that she wanted made-to-measure, the saleswoman seemed dubious that a week would be sufficient to make the shoes properly. I began to suspect that the fix was in and that an offer of rush service for a fat fee would be the next thing out of her mouth. But no, the next thing out was a call up a stairway off the right side of the showroom and the descent of a man authorized to speak for the production side of the business. He looked at the shoe, at us, at the saleswoman and said “sí podemos.” Then another man from upstairs, wearing cornrows and black Puma athletic shoes, measured Paula’s foot and suggested that we return for a fitting in two days.

I had completely missed the significance of the upstairs/downstairs architecture of Corrado until we returned for the fitting, and I situated myself on a bench next to the stairway. From that vantage, a rapping and tapping—like Poe’s Raven—was unmistakable. The workroom was upstairs in a large sunlit space filled with leather, shoe blanks and cobbler's benches. Subsequently we had a series of consultations with a Geppetto look alike who explained, in terminology beyond my vocabulary in either English or Spanish, what they would do to make the shoes fit just right. So it was a segregated shop, with the women downstairs and the men upstairs. But the results are great; right, Paula?

Mexico, City of Museums

Mexico City is a great museum town. As the seat of the Spanish Viceregency and, briefly, a Francophone Empire, Mexico City has a long tradition of royal patronage that assembled treasures from its rich, multicultural heritage. The Museo Nacional de AntropologÍa, inaugurated in 1964, began what is now a half-century of cultural enterprise sponsored by public and private means. The latest addition to this assemblage opened the last week in March. Museo Soumaya, built, furnished and endowed by Mexico’s premiere entrepreneur, Carlos Slim, is marvelous in its architecture and its collections, and, as Slim has repeatedly insisted, Mexican from design to execution.

I’m staying in the historic center, a ten-minute walk from some of the city’s marvels: the Palacio Cultural Banamex, which opened in 2002 and exhibits colonial painting; the Museo del Estanquillo, home to the Mexican writer, Carlos Monsivais’, whimsical collection of objects; and my favorite, the Museo Franz Mayer, which houses the decorative arts assembled by the German-Mexican financier in the 20th century. With so much at arm’s length, why bother to visit a museum beyond Polanco and far from the nearest Metro? I can only say that it’s well worth the effort.

The first challenge is getting there. I touched off a spat between the bell captain and the concierge at the hotel when I asked for routing. Turns out that there are two Soumaya museums which complicates matters, but even having the address —Plaza Carzo, Colonia Ampliaciones Granada—gave them little to go on. As the hotel staff parsed its maps, I went out on the street for some real expertise. Locating the nearest taxi stand and waving a newspaper account of the museum’s opening, I asked for volunteers. After a few blank stares, one driver offered that he’d never heard of the museum, but he knew how to find Plaza Carso—and he did. The museum is located on the west side of Delegación Hidalgo, on an appropriately neoliberal site between Saks Fifth Avenue and Costco.

The exterior is nothing short of stunning. Clad in a reticulated, shiny skin and situated on a sculpted hillock, the Soumaya stands at a dignified distance from its commercial surroundings. Its silhouette forms a crescent, from foundation to waist to roof—bearing an unfortunate resemblance to the Fukushima reactor. Taking in the full perimeter is currently impossible, as heavy equipment applies finishing touches to the landscape, but the juxtaposition of cranes with the building, one solidly straight, the other delicately curved, provided a striking consolation.

One rectangular door provides the only public entrance. Another rectangle, this a metal detector, stands just inside. Security yields to an enormous vestibule, currently decorated with couches, floor-standing metal sculpture and a multi-media exhibition done by Mexican school children. Looking (way) up reveals a curvilinear, dropped ceiling shaped like the hull of the Starship Enterprise—surely the resemblance occurred to the architect—and looking left reveals a ramp raked gently upward.

Yes, the Soumaya is a serpentine. It’s a museum, after all, and comparisons with Bilbao punctuate descriptions of the opening. The incline feels gentler than Wright’s Guggenheim – I haven’t been to Bilbao—and its surrounding spaces are bare, white, and lowly illuminated. Each of the five floor levels breaks out of the dim monotony in its own way.

The first floor begins with a tribute to gold and silver, and why not? Money built the place and assembled its collections. However, given the telecommunications source of the Carlos Slim fortune, silicon might have been displayed, as well. Precious metal transitions smoothly to their early extraction in the Indies, particularly Mexico and Peru, and to illustrate the South American mines, two floating partitions exhibit a set of paintings from Potosi, Sucre and the north of Argentina done by an anonymous artist in the 18th century. These paintings establish a tone that subsequent floors would maintain—an expansive range of tastes from sculpture and easel-painted high art to the objects of everyday (if elite, every day) life. They also demonstrate the capacity of modern capitalists to search the world for treasures. The Peruvian paintings are known to scholars as the “Crombie Collection,” after their former British owners. I do not know if the current owner will now attach his name to them; the Slim Collection doesn’t sound quite right.

Even with their striking chronological and geographical sweep (El Bosco to Botero; El Greco/ Van Gogh) collections of fine art are strikingly French -oriented. The fifth floor has what must be the largest collection of Rodin sculptures ever assembled. Major impressionist painters, Degas, Pisarro and Renoir (11 paintings and 3 bronzes from the last by my count), all have representatives of their ouvre on the third floor. The fourth floor is dedicated to Mexican artists of the 20th century, with a Diego Rivera painted head at the entrance and canvases by Orozco, Toledo, Tamayo, Dr. Atl and Soriano scattered about. An enormous mural, Siqueiros’ La Tierra como el agua y la industria nos pertencen, strikes a prescient tone. Along with these contemporary Mexican giants, curators have arranged three dozen cases of masterworks by anonymous precolombian ceramicists.

Curators have successfully toned down the glitterati with themes from the Mexican earth. Near the gold and silver tribute hang remarkable sets of Mexican family portraits, including a dozen from the Cumplido Rodriguez clan, completed in the 18th and 19th centuries. A large part of the third floor features travelers’ paintings of the Mexican landscape. An eighteenth-century depiction of the Iglesia de Itzacalco by Pedro Villegas gives way to more familiar scenes of the Valley of Mexico done by English and French visitors in the 1860s. Nearby is a collection of resplendent Guadalupe images done by Mexican artists in the 18thcentury. And would any Mexican art collection be complete without the set of casta paintings displayed on the first floor?

At closing time, the staff was gentle but firm, I noticed a small convoy of black Tahoes pulling up to a side entrance. Apparently, I just missed a private showing that Mr. Slim gave to the Colombian pop star, Shakira, who is in town for a concert. I hope she enjoyed the museum as much as I did.