I am From...

My Theory of Knowledge students look at what knowledge is, how we acquire it and, essentially, how we know what we know? The basics of epistemology. In light of studying where we get the ideas we think we're certain of, I assigned a piece of poetry for them to write to help them get to the bottom of all of this. My own is below...

I am From

I.
I am from western wheat fields
stretching to the horizon,
golden rippling water
reaching to touch the sun.

I am from red maples
dropping leaves so dazzling
the ground stains
with their bleeding;
from willows so yellow
they ignite the forest
in flameless fire;
from white pines so green
and unaffected by the
vivid display
that you swear ice runs
where sap should be.

I am from deer drives,
eye deep in morning dew-
even in the car I’m
too short to see over the reeds-
“Blue heron! Three deer!
Sand Hill Cranes!” and
“Keep your eyes peeled!”

I am from the smell of food
so aromatic you’re full before
you reach the table
and your appetite can turn
from food to faces
four deep and smiling.

I am from the crunch of Legos,
soggy graham crackers,
“Don’t choke your brother!
His neck is all red,” and
“Now look at each other and
say Ephesians 4:32. Did you
mean it? Say it again and
mean it.”

With eyes averted:
“Be kind to one another…”

I am from driveway grounders-
legendary moments in baseball;
hours of Dad encouraging
“Puckett back at the wall…
he makes a sensational catch!”

II.
I am from Acorn Academy,
three hour recess,
learning by living,
stretching limbs in
boyish backyard trees.

I am from nighttime family reading:
The Horse and His Boy,
C.L. Robertson Memoirs,
Little Women,
books with grand titles,
books with distant places,
books for entertainment,
books for posterity.

I am from the northern haunts
of The Farm,
wood smoke and bacon,
hay bale heaven,
half-mile mail walks,
venison talks,
pepper-jam Tuesdays,
popcorn cakes,
standing water and
“So ya think farmin’s more
important than football?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
GET OUTTA HERE!!”

I am from the wooded vales
of The Lake, early morning
coffee and Red River,
acres of cribbage with
“Fifteen two, fifteen four
And three are seven,” and
“I told you he’s the
weakest partner!”
from two mile mail walks and
voices lifted in
boisterous chorus,
“Yes, we have no bananas”
“You take the high road” and
“ROLL OUT THE BARREL!”
from lake water so clear and cold
it shakes the temperature right out of you;
from the old voice of experience,
“I’m gonna freeze my fanny off!”

III.
I am from Tessa’s letters of
wisdom: “Wherever your life
takes you, remember how good
our childhood was, how much
our parents loved us,”
from Evan’s big laugh and
the legend of Bruce Tanic.

I am from the sands of
Sand Hill Lake,
the life of the Spirit,
hands raised high and
voices higher,
from faith as big as God
and poignant as the dawn,
from “Read your Bible
pray every day,” and
“Amazing Grace
how sweet the sound.”

I am from a flash of red,
the afternoon igniting
forever,
from dangerous pursuit,
a heart on the loose,
unmasked and stammering,
from over analysis,
under estimation,
the Agony and the
Ecstasy.

IV.
I am from the bittersweet
goodbyes of growing,
“It’s time to move on,”
but not wanting to,
from farewell parties, and
graduating in name
not spirit.

I am from a University
tucked under the wing of the
glorious northeastern hills,
from mountains of snow,
coffee at The Grace,
Jay Cooke in Autumn,
Chi Alpha food for the Soul,
and cafeteria food for the body,
from trips to Storybook Lodge
and Margo’s cabin,
from “It smells like cigarettes
and lettuce in here,” and
“Pass the Crisco sandwiches
you tub-o-lard.”

V.
I am from Douglas Stories,
“Let’s say our prayers,”
being tucked in nightly
content in safety,
from my kid brother’s
somnambulism;
“Evan, what’s 2 plus 2?”
bolt upright, no answer…

I am from blizzards
that inspire awe,
Christmas trees at Ramses,
birthdays for Jesus,
pork chops so succulent
you’d think you were eating
ambrosia at Olympus,
scaling the summit with
Norgay and Hillary,
man to man football
come snow, sleet or darkness.

VI.
I am from long empty tracts
of prairie stretching out
under open skies,
lakes of crystalline water,
the nation’s bread basket,
“Remember the Red River Valley,”
square miles of crop
and space so devoid
of people that sometimes the wind
rains down a transcendent symphony
on an empty room.

I am from western wheat fields
stretching to the horizon
golden rippling water
reaching to touch the sun.

- October 4th, 2009

A Collection of Short Stories

The Lizard Incident

Christy and I took Lewis swimming a few weeks ago at the Shaab Sea Club on the Gulf. As we were preparing to leave, I picked up the backpack we had brought with. Unbeknownst to me, a gecko had made the backpack his temporary place of refreshment, and in the jostling he got frightened and jumped right onto the crotch of my pants. I saw him at this point but had no idea what creature this was because he scurried, lightning fast, up my midsection, across my face, over my head, and down half my backside before leaping off and ducking into a drain. Meantime I'm writhing around like a maniac trying to get this thing that may be a moth, a mouse, or something infinitely worse off of me, and screaming like a primary schoolgirl in the process. Despite the fact that a couple of burly, beard-laden Arab men were watching the scene, all I felt when he was gone was sweet relief. There is no such thing as shame when you think you're being attacked by a vicious, man-eating death amphibian. Who wouldn't disrobe in a heartbeat if they suddenly suspected there was a spider, or similar creature, nibbling an inopportune area of their nether regions? The only reason I know it was a gecko was that I saw it on the ground, and that was somewhat comforting. I'd rather be attacked by a malicious gecko than a lot of other creatures. Holy Hannah, talk about an adrenaline rush!

The Filipina and the "Checkout Line"

A couple weeks ago Christy and I went to our grocery store, the Sultan Center. Shopping for food is, for us, a combination of enjoyment and annoyance. The thought of stocking up so our fridge can stop whimpering from lonliness is nice, but having a near toddler running through the aisles pulling every reachable item off and flinging it in glee is challenging. I must have been looking particularly fetching on this evening because at the till I began setting items on the conveyor belt and thought I heard the smiley Filipino cashier say something to me. When I turned and said 'What?" she said, without a hint of sheepishness, "I just told her," gesturing to her colleague in the next lane, "that you're very handsome, and she agreed." For once I was speechless and simply turned and continued unloading the cart, but Hello, People! talk about making your day! In the States we would simply say, "Oh, nothing." I mean, she was speaking Filipino for crying out loud, so there was no chance I would have understood. She had no reason to fess up, and yet she did so with no qualms. Now that's reckless.

Ah.... I walked out and told Christy that it was documented, she was married to a 'very handsome man,' so says the Filipino cashier. My wife flat out agreed, to the detriment of my humility. (The circumference of my head is now threatening to tip me over entirely)

Above: A few words with Bader about my current state in front of the firing squad.

Below: Mike and I looking dazed after a particularly rigorous onslaught.

Nawaf, a student I currently teach, proves that this is a pie smear, not a pie toss.

Tasty

Pie in the Eye

I made a rash decision this year. As one of my teaching goals I decided to get more involved in the school community by coming to more sporting events, plays, etc. About two weeks ago two seniors walked into my room and challenged me in this by asking the dreadful question: "Would you agree to have pie thrown at you for a good cause?" I paused momentarily, weighing how much I wanted to say 'no' with how much I want to increase my involvement at AIS. Of course I ended up saying yes only to be told that the 'good cause' was to get different furniture in the senior lounge. Talk about something I'm truly passionate about.

The pie throwing spanned a 25 minute lunch period and included four staff members: Mike "Loud Mouth" Cantelon from the P.E. Dept., Mario Tenisci from the Humanities Dept., Carrie (Vice Principal) Bennett, and me. The students paid about a dollar and a half per throw and genuinely enjoyed desecrating our hair, clothes and faces with cheap, rancid smelling spray whipped cream, and threw mostly without discrimination. Many students I don't even know hit me, for instance, including one kid who said loudly, "Where's Mr. Johnson?" and then, catching my eye, "Every time I'm trying to study in Ms. Lien's class (which is next to mine) all I can hear is your voice!" Apparently I'm too loud... or the walls are too thin.

The fortunate thing is that I continue to be involved at AIS; the unfortunate thing is that I forgot a change of clothes that day and actually had to leave during my last class of the day (a class of seven students) to shower and change. There's nothing quite like rancid smelling whipped cream up the nose smelling precisely of vomit. Unmistakable, acidic vomit. And the lesson about sacrifice I learned is this: that sometimes, to further a cause, have some fun, and raise the general morale, you have to smell puke up your nose for several hours.

This is what we do...

The daily yogurt feed


Lew with the flamingos of Kuwait. All natural flamingo migration at low tide. These are the only flamingos I've seen in their natural habitat.

Our friends Carrie and Heather with a bundle of kids and a nice backdrop

Flamingos in flight. Nice two-tone.

Lewis 'Pollock' Johnson using his belly to mix colors for his canvas

The boy artist and the master

The face of fame

The smirk of satisfaction

If life is a highway, Kuwait is a traffic circle. Most weeks here we go round and round, getting off on the same old avenues marked ‘Sultan Center, Coffee Shops, Church, Books, Hanging out with Friends, Airport.’ Of course the main thoroughfare is the well worn path between our door and the school. There are small variances in these weekly routines – ping pong matches, trips into Kuwait City, chalet visits, days at the water park – but the grind typically deviates little. Lately I’ve been compiling lists and statistics, as all good descendants of Harvey and Douglas Johnson do, and I’ve made some interesting discoveries. First, there’s the list of countries Christy and I have visited since October of ’07. This is the greatest perk we’re afforded as teachers of AIS, and is the main reason we came overseas. We wanted to see the corners of the earth, and these are the corners we’ve seen:

Oman - the rugged
India (me only) - the paradox
Italy - Heaven
Cyprus - the sun-drenched
England/Scotland - the homeland
France - the elegance
Jordan - the inspiring
South Africa - the diverse
Egypt - the glorious

Then there’s the rather embarrassing list of coffee houses I have frequented in my two-plus years here. This includes:

14 different Starbucks (that I can remember; most of them multiple times)
3 Caribous
2 Second Cups
2 Bean and Leafs (affectionately christened the 'Legal and Mild' by Tim)
3 Cinnabons
Numerous novelty coffee places with names like Columbus Café, Zip Zaps, Kuwait Oil Co., How Brewed!, Espress Yourself, Don’t Tell my Heart, Mocha Mary’s, Chai Chai Again, Brew Zoo, Joseph's Cuppa Joseph, Slip in and Sip, Coffee Break, Nonfat-Decafs Not Welcome, Granola Beard, A Spoonful of Sugar, I've been Mugged!, and Mudd is Thicker than Water.

Actually I made those up, except for the Columbus Café, which is nestled between about 8 other shops on Baghdad St. The point is, I have seen the inside of more coffee houses in Kuwait than I should admit. Generally I’m there with Christy, Lew and other couples with kids, but there are also the frequent and important ‘meetings of the minds’ when the Literary Triumvirate solves the world’s problems. A couple times a month my fellow writer friends, Tim Koehn and James Leck – who are also amateur philosophers, theologians, poets and two of the most hilarious guys in the Middle East – accompany me to any one of the above stated establishments (that actually exist) for a sip and a chat. There’s no greater atmosphere for some heavy thinking than a smoke filled upper lounge replete with the din of mobiles ringing, boisterous conversations and computer keys clacking. Add to this near perfect environment a chai latte and a choco chip cookie, and you have 90% of the offerings of Paradise. In these late-night gatherings Tim, Jamie and I have discussed everything from the existence of God, to marriage and kids, to our travels, to present and future writing endeavors, to the taste of our drinks. We have coined such brilliant terms as “The Onus is the Bonus,” and my personal favorite, “The Isthmus of Christmas.” These evenings are food for the soul, and these gentlemen are scholars of both wit and wisdom. Both, by the way, are published writers. Tim writes articles for Kuwait’s Bazaar Magazine, and Jamie awaits the publication of his first novel back in Canada in 2010. They inspire me with their talents and give me hope that maybe I’ll get a novel or book of verse out there someday in 2040.

Then there are the nights in Kuwait when Christy and I sit home reading or watching television series. We are TV-less, which seems insane in this country, but we indulge in a fair amount of TV anyway, by buying and watching series. Nothing emasculates a man quite like willingly watching 5 seasons of Gilmore Girls, or makes one rock and cry with laughter quite like The Office. Christy and I have also probably seen 100+ movies in the last 2.2 years, and no I won’t list them. There are also nights when we just talk, man and wife, in an attempt to use all the free time we have in Kuwait to actually get to know each other better. Christy nestles with blanket and London Fog (the drink, not the paintings of Turner), and patiently listens as I tell her what an amazing teacher I am, or how smart and good looking I’ve become. And then I get to listen as she talks about things that actually matter, like how much she loves the new baby on the way or about how her Mom’s house selling is a very melancholy event because it’s really a friend she’s losing, and a confidant, and if those walls could talk, they’d tell eighteen years worth of stories of games and laughter, birthdays and Christmases, and they’d surely have the good sense to keep the arguments and disappointments to themselves.

Maybe the most telling thing about how we live is that I just did the math and discovered that I am currently reading my 39th and 40th books since coming to Kuwait (and no, I won’t list these either… unless you're mad enough to want the list, and that I can get you). I will only say that it’s a diverse list. Everything from Pride and Prejudice to Angela’s Ashes to 1776 to In Cold Blood. In the whole of my 22.5 years of life before Kuwait I had probably read just over that number of books. This is a place that affords you ample time to catch up on the reading and writing you always put off when you’re in the States and have ‘real’ things to do, so called. And isn’t it possible that those are the real things?

This is what we do. We coffee every Saturday with our fine Albertan friends, Derek and Rhonda (though she's really a Saskatchewaner... a Saskatchewanian... a Saskatooner... she's from Saskatchewan), as Jackie and Louie drive cars loudly up and down the hallway; we walk the half block to Nova Scotian friends Jamie and Heather’s place for afternoon tea and conversation; we plan and pull off trips with South African friends Matthew and Elana, the first of droves of South Africans that we’ve met in Kuwait (which, strangely, is a huge South African enclave); we enjoy spontaneous drop-ins from Christel (Stellie), another dear South African friend, and from my good friend and Colorado native, Tim K (TK, Tea Cake, T-Money, Money, Tom, Tom Sawyer, Catfish, Alcatraz); we build relationships and play with our son and eat too much and read Harry Potter to each other and go see the flamingos that migrate to the Kuwaiti waterfront and dream about our next round of globetrotting and learn to smell the roses that are so often overlooked in life because we’re too busy. There are few crimes against humanity greater than being chronically (and intentionally) too busy. We have time in Kuwait to realize that if we don’t stop now for the roses we probably never will, and since when was life about trivial destinations and meetings and clubs anyway and not about the roses along the way?

This is what we do. This is life in Kuwait. And life is good.

Days in the Sun

Mom with her grandsons outside the best eatery in Duluth: Chester Creek Cafe.

The end of summer came with abrupt finality, this time worse than the others. It was in a contemplative state that I boarded the plane for Kuwait. It wasn’t just the trade of flora for sand or of cool climes for heat rivaling the foyer of Hell, but the incessant goodbyes that were difficult. When you leave for ten months at a time you feel – or at least I feel – that your goodbyes have to have substance, have to be profound moments. It’s hard to say goodbye for long periods of time to so many dear people, no matter how fast those months swim by. People over here like to console themselves with the thought that they actually see their families more in the grand scheme of things when they go home for concentrated bursts, but there’s something about knowing that you can go see someone if you want that is comforting. It’s hard to pick up and fly 22 hours one way for a long weekend.
In Minnesota it was a dreamy summer for me: cool and rainy, which is exactly what I need when coming from the inferno. I am not now, nor have I ever been a person infatuated with the sun. Besides his day job of keeping us from freezing to death in the cosmic darkness, the two of us have little to talk about. I can say with near certainty that moving to Seattle, or the Lakes District, where rain falls 250+ days a year, would be a smooth if soggy transition for me. I don’t know how Christy would feel about a move like that, but I’m sure that the eternal dampness would eventually (or quickly!) dampen her mood as well. She, after all, does such heretical things as lie in the sun on purpose.

Above: Lew dolled up on our first day back. We awoke to 45 degrees. Below: Lewis and Skye about to take a dip on one of the five days that reached 85.

Above: Lew is 'a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past' on the pontoon at Bad Medicine.

Below: A Johnson family tradition continues: Gram accompanies as Dad and I sing at the cabin at Bad Medicine.

Lew's first golf outing with his Pop

Family

Due to crisscrossing Minnesota to the tune of 4000+ miles and an above-average number of important family weddings (two), Christy and I were able to see a good chunk of our collective families. The distinction that these were blood relatives should be made here because most people have a group of people that they think of as ‘family’ even if the only blood relation that can be traced is somewhere back in Eden. We were actually fortunate enough to see a good deal of both over the summer. On Christy’s side we saw Grandma Betty and most of Judy’s siblings, and on my side we saw all four of my grandparents at least once, and every aunt or uncle I have (ten) except my Mom’s brother Wade. This Uncle and Aunting is no small feat, considering some of them live as far a-field as Washington State, Texas and Idaho.

Despite the fun we had with extended family (Besides weddings, an evening with Clay and Roxie, lunch with the Johnsons and Wagners, and coffee with Pat and Bill all stand out) naturally the bulk of our summer was spent with parents and siblings catching up on their lives, their new houses or apartments and apartment fires*, the escapades of our niece and nephews, or the children our siblings expect or hope for in the near future (excluding Evan, Cati and Anna). Our days were happily squandered on screened porches and tee boxes, pontoons and docks, around fire pits and kitchen tables. The conversations were often important and meaningful and the company was interesting and affable.

*Evan has more details if you’re interested.

Highlights: A trip to The Farm and Karlstad on a day that was too shy to even warm to 55 degrees; a couple of dips in Bad Medicine, which was also too shy to reach 55 degrees… at least that’s how it felt; rounds of golf with Grandpa Harv at Erskine, Bagley and Fertile; and the resurrection of a near-extinct family tradition that includes eating Middle Eastern cuisine and wearing Middle Eastern dress while sitting on the floor and listening to vinyls of Lamb.

There were highlights also in the “practically family” category. In June I had a lengthy visit from my good friend Matt Flaherty, whose presence, as always, was hearty and existentially-oriented. Part of the enjoyment was a two-man Frisbee Golf competition that spanned three days and 54 holes. Matt won by a nose. The other standout part of the visit was the nature and depth of the conversations we had late into the evenings over carafes of wine in the truly frigid Minnesota nights. What we Minnesotans called “summer” this year would have been laughed out of town by most regions of the earth.
Christy and I had the privilege to visit with J.C. Olson, who was gracious enough to accept a bag of Middle Eastern nuts in exchange for the very necessary audio technology he’s shared with us for many years. This is a man whose generosity to us has been astounding and our best answer is, “Cashews?”
There were also visits with Christy’s friends Ellie and Libby who were, as always, sweetness and vivacity personified. Those two made us realize again just how many people we miss when we’re so far away.

Above: With my parents before Judy and Alan's wedding.

Below: Judy gets smothered by her collective daughter-y.

Above: Christy with Jessica Kasper (aka 'Family').

Below: Goofy Lew.

Above: Keeping it real with NatO D.

Below: The Fam at the reception.

Above: Several cuties at the Lien's for Matt and Kayley's wedding shower.

Below: How we handle 50 degrees in mid-July at The Farm, Strathcona.

Above: Lew weathering the Minnesotan prairie and the gusty wind.

Below: Four generations of Stephens' blood.

Events

Our summer included several monumental events, the first of which was Judy and Alan’s wedding in Duluth. It was a swell ceremony in which Christy performed Matronly duties of Honor, and I performed on the guitar. Two weeks later we hoofed it to Osceola, WI for my kid bro’s wedding. He married MaLeah Mortenson under a beautiful evening sun at Palona Valley Gardens and started the next chapter in his life (to borrow a stale cliché). Thinking about, helping with, and taking part in these weddings consumed much of July, but it was a happy consumption. In August, my brother-in-law, Matt, came through in the clutch with tickets to the PGA Championship at Hazeltine Golf Club in Chaska, MN. Matt doesn’t follow golf, but his boss does… lucky for me. On Saturday of the PGA Matt, Ev, Dad and I went to see the action. My cousin, Nick, joined us too since he could get in free with any adult ticket holder. Magic. Seeing Tiger, Vijay, Furyk, Vallegas, Harrington, Els and Y.E. Yang (Who? Oh, the winner) in the flesh was about as surreal as any golf fanatic could imagine. The air was electric, the crowds were dense as ants, so that it was nearly impossible to see the last few groups close up, the food was mediocre and outrageously priced, and the experience was delicious.

Above: Lew at Ev and MaLeah's Rehearsal Dinner.

Below: With Bro Tanic at his reception.

Above: Christy with her wonderful friend, Ellie.

Below: Grandma Y shows me some moves on the dance floor at E & M's reception.

Above: Squeezin' the bubkes out of big Sis.

Below: Four generations of Vacura blood.

Above: At Judy and Alan's new place near Esko.

Below: Lew getting in touch with his Japanese heritage in McIntosh.

Above: Lew in distasha ready for some Middle Eastern cuisine.

Below: The feast that passeth understanding.

Above: Scholars and gentlemen solving the world's problems (with Grandpa Harv at the Mideast Feast).

Below: Christy, Lew and me at the Headwaters of the Mississippi, Lake Itasca.

Above: Fording the Ole Miss.

Below: A respite during a day of leisurely bike riding.

Above: With Sister-in-Law, Steph, at the Walker Sculpture Gardens in Minneapolis.

Below: With several well-sculpted gentlemen at yet another 'sculpture garden,' namely the Lien-Johnson (no relation) wedding.

So the days of summer wane and here I am, thinking of the past, that meddlesome fellow. As the memory of summer, this year like every year, ebbs like firelight, we do our best to retain the heat and life of it through the deathly snows of winter. For a long time – maybe forever – I’ve been enamored with anything or anyone that reminds me of past joys. Wood smoke mixed with the smell of bacon permanently ingrained in rugs, for instance, reminds me of The Farm (you’re saying, “Where else would you smell that?” but you’d be surprised); songs by bands like The Counting Crows and Delirious take me to the late 90s and the people that filled my life at that time; Brady Langemo, my best friend from childhood, brings back a flood of memories that he embodies every time I see him, including sub par fort construction and amateur homerun derbies with ‘fungo’ bats; the smell of certain cleaning product combinations mixed with aging fabric remind me of the innards of the Winnebago that used to sit in Earl and Shirley’s yard, which Tessa and I loved to sleep in when we went for visits; a certain musty hay smell reminds me of the barns, granaries and silos that Evan and I rollicked through in our carefree boyhood; the smell of the damp leaves of Autumn and their scratchy feel against my forearms is a reminder of the coming hibernation of the world; the dank smell of tile and lurking books reminds me of summers at Bad Medicine. These are the copious intangibles that Kuwait has no answer for, the invisible draws that make it hard to labor here, despite the obvious benefits. And still the waves of time roll on with an air of distain at our reluctance to see it wash our lives away.

Thanks to everyone who made our summer a blinding success. One of these years we’ll wake in late September to a bite in the air and leaves gently coloring and dying on the trees and realize we’re back in God’s country at its loveliest. For now we remember the glories of being with people we love in places saturated with memories, and look forward to being here with people we love in a place we endure with a wistful smile.

‘So we beat on, boats against the current (or soles (souls?) against the sand), born back ceaselessly into the past.’

- F Scott Fitzgerald

For more pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2758768&id=13951407&l=62c24209c3

Egypt - The Glorious

Cati with a sleeping Lewis on the way to Valley of the Kings.

April brought us visitors this year, in the form of Judy, her fiancé, Alan, and Cati and Anna. This was the second time for most of them, and we knew we couldn’t dally in Kuwait the entire time again, so we cooked up a feast for the traveler’s palate: an excursion to Egypt. After several days of nonstop mirth in Kuwait, which included firm handshakes and hugs, an evening of Iranian music, a visit to the Kuwait Towers, an evening of Japanese food shared with a lovely Kuwaiti couple, and the average amount of shenanigans, tomfoolery and hours of dominance by Seth Johnson in Dutch Blitz, we were ready to be awestruck by History. Thankfully, Kuwait had the good sense to be plopped in the middle of one of the most interesting and historically rich regions on earth. From here a plane ride of 2.5 hours or less will take you to Jordan, Israel, Egypt, UAE, Lebanon or Cyprus. A slightly longer ride will bring you to Oman, Yemen, India, Turkey, Greece or Italy. It is a hub for the hubbub and history of eons, host to generations of wanderers (nothing’s changed, as the staff of AIS proves), and one of the cradles of human life. I like to fancy that Father Abraham, before he set out on a dusty, difficult journey to Canaan, could have turned his eyes southward from his tent window in Ur and waved to a figure standing where my apartment now stands, between his (eventually) progenatorail eyes and the sea.

It is delicious to be able to revel in the intrigue of the Arab world, and to willingly submit to a beating by the girthy stick of history that this region swings. Christy and I live and work amongst many Egyptians, and have many friends who have traveled there, and the consensus always seemed to match: most Egyptians would rather swindle you than look at you, so be on your guard, and barter for everything, even a stick of gum. Because of the somewhat negative connotation spread over the people, we boarded the plane with a bit of trepidation, lest we find out that some Egyptians had boarded early, unhinged our seats, and were busy selling them to some sap on the black market. We needn’t have worried: Egypt blew our minds from beginning to end. It was so much better than we anticipated that we came back and could have boarded the next plane to Egypt. It was a lesson in learning to tame a gaping mouth and in not listening to everything you hear. We even managed to find a host of Egyptians that we thoroughly enjoyed, including Fathe and Amar, our fantastic drivers in Luxor and Cairo.

Above: Map at the entrance to the Valley. Below: At THE tomb.

Luxor:

We landed in Luxor and made our way to the foot of Luxor Temple where we found our hotel. The rooms may have been a bit shabby, but the back balcony looking out over a bird and flower-filled park certainly wasn’t. Not to mention that you could open your window and nearly spit on Luxor Temple. Early the next morning, after vittles and coffee, we headed for Valley of the Kings, on Luxor’s West Bank. It was as rich in lore and death as we expected, and the chiseled tombs of long dead pharaohs were chock full of hieroglyphs and impressive looking sarcophagi. We were only allowed into three tombs with our ticket, and the most interesting, by far, was that of Tuthmosis IV, which bored straight down into the earth and contained a red granite sarcophagus that looked very old and very important indeed, as if it housed the Ark of the Covenant, or the first mummified pb&j sandwich. The only thing marring our time at VoK was the notorious “camera incident,” which was very arduous and involved a camera being confiscated and fines being paid to rather nefarious ‘Antiquities Officials’ for pictures taken in a No Photography zone. Those people take those signs seriously! Other than that, brilliant.

Above: Anna and 'Egypt' at the mouth of the tomb of Tuthmosis IV. Below: An aerial shot of the Valley.

Our next stop, the Temple of Hatshepsut, was impressive and well preserved, with hieroglyph-covered columns sprouting like so many extraneous garden weeds. Amongst statues of pharaohs, heads on pedestals, and colonnades waltzed representatives of the far flung nations of the world, craning their necks to see high-rogue-cliffs, and shielding their eyes from the brilliantly bright sky.

Above: The walkup to Hatshepsut. Below: Pillared glory.

Shenanigans

In the evening, after visits to the Valley and Hatshepsut, a walk along the blithe Nile at dusk capped a serene first day.

Luxor Temple in its night clothes.

The next morning Christy, Lew, the girls and I tackled Karnak, which is possibly the greatest temple ever built by humans, apes or any other life form. Its dizzying size was simultaneously gorgeous and demeaning. I stood in the pillared Hypostyle Hall, looking up into the stratosphere at the 134 papyrus shaped columns that still stand defiantly after thousands of years, feeling like an insignificant peon. Those columns belittled me in every sense of the word. I think I would have wept if we hadn’t moved on. It was a ridiculous display of man’s (in the most collective sense of the word since much of the building of Karnak was overseen by a woman) skill and determination, and rivals Los Pyramides themselves in its ability to inspire awe.

The rest of the day passed lazily away, with an evening trip to the fascinating and informative Mummification Museum to end our time in Luxor. Seeing a stuffed, mummified cross section of skull will start you on the slippery slope of contemplation of your own longevity and significance all over again. I would say that if you are struggling with your self-worth in general, don’t go to Egypt at all because it can only make you feel less important.

Above: The entrance to Karnak Temple. Below: Some of the rams-headed sphinxes lining the walkway to the entrance.

Above and Below: Inside the world famous Hypostyle Hall of Karnak.

The Sacred Lake of Amun.

One of the four original Aswan-quarried obelisks lounging at Karnak like pencil totem poles (pencilisks?).

The sisters at Karnak (and Lew).

Above: The decrepit mosque just outside Swiss Inn, Luxor. Below: Lew looking good at Snack Time, a fast food joint around the corner from Swiss Inn.

The ride on the night train that we took to Cairo was an interesting experience. The train itself was dirty, the food was slightly worse than edible particle board, the cabins were petite and smelled of urine, and it’s entirely possible that this particular train’s earliest years were spent hauling prisoners to the Gulag Archipelago. However, the beds were much more comfortable than expected, the idea was novel, the clack-clack of train over tracks was quite soothing, the Egyptian farmland whizzing by was delightful, and the experience in general had a strange but acute charm. I would travel the same way again, and every time I had to travel up and down the Nile.

Cairo:

Cairo holds onto a fairly wild distinction in my mind. It is simultaneously one of the worst and best cities on earth. It is a tangle of people, has by far the worst traffic I have ever seen (except when Henry Bartz drove main street McIntosh) and is horrendously polluted and filthy. It was a shock after the easy going serenity and cleanliness of Luxor. Yet, Cairo is home to some of the greatest sights, artifacts and structures anywhere. I think I loved Cairo… in a younger-brother-who-slightly-annoys-you kinda way.

Above: First view of the Great Pyramid of Khufu. Below: The Pyramids of Khufu and Khafre.

The Pyramids/Shinx: Holy mother of three-dimensional triangles, the Pyramids of Giza are every bit as astounding as you would imagine. They’re almost incomprehensible when seen up close. Their massive scale can hardly be captured mentally or photographically, unless you back up far enough and squint like you would at a Christmas tree in December (and that goes for mentally as well). Our visit there was long enough to rock us pretty hard (metaphorically speaking), but short enough that we didn’t implode. The winding ascent to the plateau is as filthy a drive as Cairo has to offer, but once you emerge from the garbage laden streets and canals the Giza Plateau seems pristine. For me, The Pyramids afforded more than the average number of opportunities to say and think the phrase, “Well, there they are, by George.” You’re just not quite sure what you’re supposed to think. Here you are, face-to-face with the last surviving ancient wonder of the world and you find yourself mentally sputtering like you would verbally if placed in a confining room with an uncle or aunt that you rarely see and only marginally like. When confronted with greatness of that magnitude you feel obligated to think large and important thoughts, or to enter a trance and block out the din of tourists and vendors and ‘have a moment’ of profound depth. Most likely, your brain thinks something as profound as, “DUDE!...”

Above: The facade of Khufu. Below: A camel rests below the Pyramid of Khafre.

A walk around the Great Pyramid of Khufu and the slightly smaller Pyramid of Khafre was the first order of business, and the second was contemplation in the shade of a small rock outcropping (I felt like Jonah above Nineveh). The third was to wander slowly downhill to the area where the Sphinx (‘Abu El-Hol’ in Arabic) is located and dodge the crowds while shooting footage of the Great Noseless One. While peering through camera lenses at sights too famous for understanding, it started to rain. The rain, cold and refreshing, was accompanied by a blustery wind, and the Giza Plateau went from toasty to tasty in roughly 30 seconds. On our way out we allowed a guide to coax us into a side pyramid of tiny stature. The small, cramped descent was easy at only 10 or 11 meters, but it gave us a healthy dose of admiration for those who brave the several hundred meter descent into the Great Pyramid, which is apparently a sweltering, claustrophobic, hunched over, rancid experience. After viewing the burial chamber of a minor queen, we wandered back up into the sunlight, passed the now damp stones of the Great One, and ambled off the plateau in our 13-seat van.

Hopefully Lew will find it cool to have been to the Pyramids at 16 months, and not loathe us for taking him long before he could ever remember or appreciate the experience.

With the catman.

Inside the burial chamber of a smallish pyramid.

Below: Minaret in a square outside of Khan Al-Khalili market.

The evening brought us to Cairo’s most famous and chaotic market, Khan Al-Khalili where we searched for trifling souvenirs amongst good natured shopkeepers shouting things at us like, “How can I take your money?” The place is a maze of shops sprawling in every direction which, combined, probably stretch for miles. It would be easy to part with your money and your sanity here amidst the madness of wares and people that densely pack the alleys, but it’s a beautiful, exciting place.

Above: One of the crowded veins at Khan Al-Khalili. Below: A doll of an African gal who was quite taken with Lewis.

A gorgeous array of lamps in a sunken alley doorway.

Our second day in Cairo was Easter Sunday, and early that morning Christy, Lew, the girls and I found ourselves in Coptic Cairo, the old Christian part of the city. Christianity in Egypt dates to the first century, and the churches and synagogues in this part of Cairo are some of the oldest anywhere. We wandered the depths of the alleyways that make up Coptic Cairo, ducking into a church that allegedly housed Joseph, Mary and Jesus when they fled the wrath of Herod, and a synagogue next to where Moses was supposed to have been plucked out of the Nile by the daughter of Pharaoh. Services were going on everywhere, incense was burned so liberally that we nearly perished of frankincensual asphyxiation, and we got more than one look of contempt that you can’t help but garner eventually as an obvious tourist that says very succinctly, “You disgust me.”

Above: The Hanging Church of Coptic Cairo. Below: Ben Ezra Synagogue, the oldest in Egypt and the site of Moses' plucking from the Nile.

Lewis and Grandma bargain over how many teeth pills Lew can have.

The afternoon was spent at the Egyptian Museum, which is bursting at the seams with priceless treasures. We loped like giddy children through the endless aisles of statues and other paraphernalia on the ground floor before heading upstairs to the legendary wing devoted to the treasure uncovered in the Tomb of King Tut. The kingpin at this museum is the room housing the Death Mask and two of the three Sarcophagi of Tutankhamen. The death mask is made of roughly 24 pounds of solid gold and is one of those relics that you have to see to appreciate. It is the Mona Lisa of the Egyptian Museum. The inner sarcophagus, shaped from solid gold sheets weighs some 240 pounds. The whole wing, collectively known as the "Tutankhamen Galleries" is littered with paraphernalia taken from the tomb, which was apparently a sort of dumping ground for treasures.

The seven of us left Cairo on another night train, this one slightly nicer, and arrived in Luxor the next morning completely pleased with our time in Egypt. It certainly impressed me as a place that deserves its own separate list of wonders. It also appears that the dynasties that spanned several thousand years employed every talented artisan in the world around the clock. The results of such fervent obsession with craftsmanship and longevity are legendary, impressive and intense, and if you visited Egypt ten times, you could hardly wrap your mind around its magnificence.

South Africaman Wears the Cape of Good Hope

The Grapes of Wrath... or is that Mirth?

South Africa is called a “World in one country,” and in some respects it is easy to jump on that bandwagon. Its diversity of resources, climates and people certainly give one the impression that it could be indefinitely self-contained and not give a fiddler’s fart (as Frank McCourt would say) about the other 200-odd countries of the globe. And yet, those other 200-odd countries have never quite been able to leave South Africa alone. The fact that it is so rich in natural beauty, farm land, gold and diamonds would bring people in even if it wasn’t situated in an impeccable location at the horn of Africa. This combination of temptations meant that there was no way it was going to be left alone during the days of trade between the spice-laden East, and the sticky-fingered West. And yet, this constant hosting of people from all over the world from the 15th Century on crafted the South Africa that exists today. Had South Africa not been such a hub of worldwide trade there would be no Afrikaans spoken there, nor would there have been such divisive and ongoing racial struggles, which vaulted SA to the world stage from the 1960s through the 1990s. It was on this same stage that some of the great players in world politics acted out their parts, including Nelson Mandela, F.W. De Klerk and Desmond Tutu.

If you were to poll an average group of non-Africans about their knowledge of South Africa, you would likely hear a few common threads repeated. 1) “Didn't they have Apartheid?” 2) “Isn’t Charlize Theron South African?” 3) “…Something about Nelson Mandela…” 4) “They have an AIDS problem, I think.” 5) “It’s a pretty dangerous country, right?” 6) “They have a lot of diamonds and jewels…”
None of these things are wrong per-se (#2 is actually 100% right), but none of them accurately describe the country very well. I won’t try to discuss all of the things that I think South Africa IS after being there for only two weeks, but hopefully by reading about our short time there, you can accidentally learn something about the place.

Above: Our first morning in SA at "Africa Sky Guest House," Johannesburg. Below: Matthew and Lew in the Jo'burg Airport. Lew is wearing a new rugby jersey that he got from M & E.

Christy and I were blessed with a 30 day break for Christmas this year because of a combination of Christian and Muslim breaks that fell strangely together. That’s right, I said 30 days. We decided to join our South African friends, Matthew and Elana Hendriks, as they went home for the holidays. Both grew up a short distance from Cape Town, which sits in the Southwest, on the Cape of Good Hope. For the greater part of our 15 day stay we imposed on Elana’s parents, Des and Ingrid, who live in the beautiful city of Paarl (Pearl in Afrikaans), merely an hour’s drive from the heart of Cape Town. Paarl is smack in the middle of wine country, and since December is summer in the southern hemisphere, the grapes were nearing maturity, and the vineyards covering the slopes were framed perfectly by the purple jacaranda trees and blindingly green. As for Des and Ingrid, we could not have had better, more hospitable hosts. They gave up their space, made us meals, played with our son, washed our clothes, gave us rides, shared their children and generally bent over backwards for us, all with smiles on their faces.

Above: Paarl sunshine and haze hang over the endless vineyards (this is maybe 80 ft. from Des and Ingrid's front door). Below: Lew enjoying the coast in Gordon's Bay, just southeast of Cape Town.

High above the world-famous wine town of Franshoek.

The ever messy eater, a jacaranda drops its crumby leaves on an old relic.

A few things become apparent the minute you set foot in South Africa: A) There are more vineyards than people; B) Wine, beer and meat are not things you consume, they are things that consume you; C) A pickup is a Bakke (pronounced “bucky”); D) If you don’t drive a Bakke, you drive a VW Polo; E) The name ‘Mandela’ is as much a marketing ploy as it is a man; F) People will kill for God, country, and a good steak (possibly in reverse order), but they are much more likely to kill for rugby; G) Everything is “nice,” as in, “Would you like a cup of coffee?” “It would be nice!” Or, “How is the salad?” “It’s quite nice.”; and H) If you’re South African, there is really no other country in the world. The people we met in SA were staunchly patriotic in a way that most Americans haven’t been since shortly after 9-11. This patriotism comes from a deep-seated love of their country (is it redundant to say that?), their accomplishments, and their heritage, and in many ways they have a lot to be proud of.

Above: C & E at Karibu, a restaurant in Cape Town Harbor. Below: CT Harbor's V & A Waterfront.

During our first week in South Africa, Matthew and Elana acquainted us with Cape Town and the surrounding area. We went to the wine town of Franschoek, took a driving tour of college town Stellenbosch- which was drowning in the beautiful jacaranda trees that blanketed the slopes and lined the streets of South Africa- visited picture-perfect Cape Town Harbor, enjoyed one Braai (South African barbecue) in the farmland of Filippi just south of Cape Town, and another at the house of Elana’s brother, Wynand, went swimming in the Atlantic (at least Lewis and I did), viewed Table Mountain and Robben Island from Signal Hill, and visited the towns that both Matthew and Elana grew up in- Wellington and Ceres, respectively. There weren’t too many still moments, except when we had eaten too much, which was every time we ate. If I were to move to South Africa, the biggest crime I would be fighting would not be the car-jackings or physical assaults, but the crime of chronic overeating at every opportunity. It’s likely that I gained somewhere between 14-40 pounds on our 15 day trip, and that’s only a medium-sized exaggeration. I believe my condition is called Portion Control Syndrome, and it always becomes more acute around the holidays, or when I’m on vacation. This means that when I’m vacationing over the holidays I might as well just eat, totter to the nearest bed or couch while I still can, curl up into the fetal position and wait for the next meal, and then eat, sleep, repeat.

Above: Matthew, Elana and Christy contemplate life atop Signal Hill. Below: The patchwork quilt known as Ceres valley, where Elana grew up.

The cheerful/cherryful laborers at Ceres cherry plantation.

Half the harvest.

Two highlights from our first week were an afternoon spent picking cherries in a cherry orchard outside Elana’s hometown of Ceres, and a trip to the now legendary Robben Island, site of Mandela’s incarceration for 18 years. While the former was all pleasantry, sunshine and gluttony, the latter was a much darker, but no less fascinating venture. Once we got to the island there was a short tour by bus, on which a tour guide highlighted a few sights on the island including barracks, the limestone quarry, where prisoners worked all day in the sun, the small village and school that still remain on the island, etc. We then had a tour of the prison itself by a man named Sparks, who spent 7 years on the island as a prisoner. He was convicted of terrorism for some crime, and wound up spending 7 years in a cell with 80 other men. Why he now gives tours of the prison I have no idea.

Above: Lew peering into the cell Mandela called home for 18 of his 27 years of captivity. Below: Robben Island Prison gate.

In Nobel Square at the Waterfront with Nelson himself.

Halfway through our trip we added a straggler to the mix: our good friend, Libby. She flew a paltry 26 hours from Milwaukie to meet us, and it was tremendous to see a face from home in such a remote part of the globe. While Libby was there we packed in quite a bit, including the scaling of Table Mountain (In a cable car), a walk through Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, and a road trip that included Safaris, animal walks and a couple nights at a beach house on the Atlantic. Not too shabby.

Above: Christy and Libby on Table Mt. Below: The fam on TM, with Clifton Beach far below.

Matthew and Christy pointing to the wild herd of unicorns that roam the slopes of Table Mt.

View of Lion's Head, Signal Hill, Table Bay and Robben Island from Table Mountain.

Table Mountain: This flat-topped mountain stands very near Table Bay in Cape Town, and is the city’s main attraction. Any picture you see of Cape Town is likely to have the mountain somewhere in view. Its rugged sloped can be walked in several hours, and its steeper faces can be climbed in the more strenuous fashion, or, you can take the easy way out and jump in a cable car that will get you to the top in about 5 relaxing minutes, which is what we did. From the summit the views of Cape Town, Table Bay, and Cape Peninsula are pretty smashing on a clear day, and the 5 of us enjoyed a short walk around the tabletop, and an short gawk from about 10 different locations at the sumptuous visual feast laid out before us. Roughly the equivalent of ‘looking with your eyes full.’

Above and Below: Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. Nice.

Libby and a windswept Lew with the African penguin colony in Simon's Town.

Total Gaz; the tanks that secrete the heat that cooked the sweet meat in my lasagne at a neat restaurant in Swellendam.

Road Trip/Game Drives/Beach House: A couple days after Libby joined us we took off on a road trip to the East. We wanted to see the Garden Route, a world famous area of South Africa’s southern coast, participate in a safari, and generally see what SA had to offer outside the Cape Town area. We arrived at the Garden Route Game Lodge later that day, browsed the premises, and then reported for our first of two Big Game drives. Our tour guide, Dewald, took us on a two hour drive through the expansive grasslands of the lodge, stopping often to tell us facts about animals, animal habitats and even animal poop (Consequently, did you know that you can drink the water wrung from fresh rhino dung? Yeah apparently it’s 95% pure… although that other 5% is enough to stop me from trying. But, according to him there's nothing quite like wrung dung). The real point of these drives was to try to see Africa’s Big 5, which include lions, leopards, elephants, rhinos and water buffalo. These are the Big 5 not because of size, but because they are the most dangerous to hunt. On our first drive we only saw three of the five (lion, rhino and water buffalo), but we did also see giraffes, several forms of antelope (impala, heartbok, steenbok, eland, springbok, etc.), and some zebra, all strolling around like it was no big deal. We came back to the lodge for a meal of eland and ostrich steak, among other things, and then settled in for an interesting evening discussing the state of the world with a German girl and her father.

Above: Two cuties getting ready for our first Big Game drive at the Garden Route Game Lodge. Below: These two cuties ARE the Big Game (or some of them).

Christy and Libby get cozy with "Old Ironsides."

Lew practicing for the rodeo at the GRGL's reptile park.

Christy trying her luck on the bucking steed.

Day two at the lodge we left early for a second drive, and Dewald took us to the elephant area. Four out of five was as good as it would get since the leopard is very flighty and can get out of the vast compound if it wishes. We ended our time at the GRGL with a tour of the reptile park - where several of our group rode on tortoises - and a cheetah walk where we went into the cages and listened to a talk about cheetahs in very close proximity to the actual beasts (maybe 8 ft?).
We spent the last 3 days in the East at Thabile Lodge Guest House in Outshoorn (oats-horn), and at a beach house in the quiet seaside village of Franskraal. Unfortunately, we never really saw the Garden Route itself, but both of these places were serene and relaxing, and made good subtitutes. At Thabile we got to know the precocious owner, Lenny, who Matthew and Elana knew from previous stays at his place. A renegade with a mischievous grin and one racy joke after another to tell, he made our stay very comfortable.... in a mischievously racy kind of way. Christy likened talking with him to talking with an old friend, and Libby liked our stay there better than anywhere else in South Africa. It was also at Thabile Lodge where Lewis took his first unassisted steps. All in all, an extremely pleasant place to be.

Above: A contemplative Lew takes a peek at the boars (not to be confused with the Boers) at the Cango Wildlife Ranch. Below: At Thabile Lodge, Outshoorn, in the Little Karoo (Smallish desert east of Cape Town).

The crew at Thabile Lodge, just before taking leave (Picture courtesy of Lenny).

Our last stop was the beach house in Franskraal, which was quiet and easily up to the task of accommodating the 5/6 of us plus Elana’s dad, who got there hours before us to spend time fishing. The two nights we spent here were a calm way to end what had been a packed trip, and we enjoyed walks, games and braais both days.

Above: The ocean-kissed, mist-laden town of Franskraal on the southern coast. Below: Franskraal Harbor.

So it was in South Africa. If I was to profile the country as a person, she would be a warm, beautiful woman in her mid-30s with an easy laugh, who welcomes all colors and knows how to dance. She would be 90% carnivore, and the other 10% of her diet would be a combination of marmite (yeast extract), biltong (the SA equivalent of beef jerky… oh wait, that’s meat again), and condiments for her steak, pork, or other serious meat. She would enjoy rock climbing, swimming and the outdoors in general. She would hunt big game and dry it out for more biltong. She would be forgiving of the faults of others, as others have been forgiving of hers. She would rise early to swim out into the ocean’s pounding surf. She would wander out late through the vineyards, touching the vines on each side of two rows with arms outstretched as she passed, humming a quiet song about the spacious African sky, only returning with the setting sun.

For more pictures, visit: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2614757&l=f2272&id=13951407

And, if you'd like to see ALL our pictures, please visit: Kuwait.

Another Foray in Paris

A recent workshop took me to Paris: Disneyland, Paris, to be exact. If you're wondering what kind of good behavior, talent, clout, good looks, bribery, or favoritism is required to get yourself sent to a conference in Paris, the answer is it takes a lot of all of them, but especially good looks. No, really, our school sends people to various trainings throughout the year, and it was my good fortune to be qualified to get sent to Paris for 3 days for mine. So, in early November I packed my bag and flew to Paris with one other member of staff for a few days near the City of Love (Disneyland, Paris is about 35 miles east of the city, and the conference was held there because it has a beautiful convention center).


Here, the morning fog lifts around the Newport Bay Hotel where the conference was held, and where we stayed.

The fog lifts along one of the canals feeding into a lake that is ringed by hotels.

On my early morning walk I encountered this dew-laden specimen. Decent craftsmanship.

Paris was still clinging to its leaves, although this pile is proof that a substantial number had fallen victim to the annual death. It was tremendous to be in a place that marks its seasons with more than a temperature change.

One of Disneyland's lakes, girded by various paraphernalia accenting the Newport, RI theme.

Part of Disney Village, which I had to walk through to get to the train station each night.

The Obelisk is nice because it's so centrally located. To the west you have the Champs Elysees and Arc de Triomphe; to the north there's Madelaine Cathedral and a host of other things; directly to the east are the Tuilleries and The Louvre; and to the south is the Seine, Musee D'Orsay and many other places of interest.

On the first night of the conference I took the train into the heart of Paris for one reason only: to make my way to Musee de Orsay, which houses a large collection of art in a beautifully renovated train station along the Seine. Its collection of Impressionistic pieces by Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Sisley, Pissarro, Renoir, Degas and others was fantastic, and my visit was the highlight of the trip.

A rather frightening sculpture by Rodin

One of the Van Gogh self-portraits

A slice of Claude

The Haystacks

One of the paintings in Monet's Rouen Cathedral series.

"Monet," as painted by Renoir

"The Floor Scrapers," by Gustave Caillebotte

Whistler's Mommy

Van Gogh's "Room at Arley"

View from my room

The only picture I took part in.

All of these autumnal photos are from just outside the convention center.

The second night of the conference I attempted to go to a museum in the Tuillerie Gardens, but it had closed, so I footed it the two miles or so to the Eiffel and took the long ride to the top. This photo is a view to the SE along the Seine.