Casa Grande Ruins National Monument

As soon as I arrived in Phoenix, having escaped yet another Minnesota blizzard in mid March, my husband Bill and I set out for Tucson to see the Pima Air and Space Museum, a trip which excited him more than it excited me. However, while on the way, a sign announcing the Casa Grande Ruins National Monument -- an amazing Native American Structure built around the year 1,000 A.D. when Leiv Erickson was landing somewhere along the coast of Newfoundland sent us on a several hour detour (how could I let a national monument pass without stopping?).

The interpretive visitor center at the monument is impressive with its large selection of beautifully presented exhibits on the life of the ancient Hohokam farming community that built the mysterious Casa Grande -- yet another example of the wonderful museums and interpretive centers found in our national and state parks for which I felt a great deal of gratitude.

Built without metal tools, the Casa Grande -- with four feet thick walls to support four stories, was built by ancient natives who somehow moved more than 30,000 tons of the rock-hard caliche found in the area, softening it with water and carrying it to the site where they had to work quickly to shape the huge blocks before the caliche dried. These natives, obvious engineering geniuses, also created an irrigation system of over 300 miles to carry water from a mountain lake to their desert farms – a canal system that is still in use in some places around Phoenix.

Because we stopped at Casa Grande, and because Tucson was farther away than we expected, we arrived at Pima Air and Space Museum just as it was closing. Instead of walking past hundreds of beautifully restored airplanes and bombers, we got to drive past miles and miles of junked planes on the other side of the road.

We stopped at the El Mercado shopping center in Tucson to dine sumptuously (I had an amazing combination of Mexican style seafood specialties) at El Charo on a rather strange covered terrace that reminded me of the rustic seafood huts lining tropical beaches on Caribbean Islands.

Tired but well fed, we drove the 100 or so miles back to Phoenix and toppled into our comfortable hotel beds. Our agenda for the next day (and my next post) concerns a walking tour through the Boyce Thompson Desert Arboretum State Park 55 miles due east of Phoenix.

Visiting the Cloisters in New York

When the weather was fine, I loved walking New York’s cross-town, uptown, and downtown
streets getting from one Pen Festival event to another. But when the weather was lousy, I learned to ride the subway: to read a subway map, to decipher what routes to take, to buy a pass, find the right platforms and transfer to another train.

I also learned that subway riders still yield their seats to the aged and infirm because they always stood so I could sit (not that I consider myself either aged or infirm). Sitting on a wildly swaying subway car that jars to stops and lurches to starts has a distinct advantage to standing, even when supported by a wall of standing riders like oneself.

On Sunday, May 4, the day I was to fly home, I decided to ride the subway uptown to 190th Street to visit The Cloisters in Fort Tyron Park.

To get to the Cloisters, I needed to take the E train to Grand Central Station, then transfer to the A train to 190th Street. I didn’t know that on weekends the A train doesn’t run to 190th Street, that one has to exit at 168th Street where a shuttle bus would complete the rest of the trip. What I also didn’t know was that there were two shuttles, one going to the 190th Overlook Terrace station within the park, and another that went elsewhere. Guess what one I got on?

When I asked for directions to The Cloisters, my bus driver was perplexed. “I’m going to the Cloisters too,” the pretty teenager behind me added. "I'm supposed to meet my class there. I took the train in from Long Island."

By that time we’d already passed 190th Street (no bus stop there!). The bus driver pulled to a stop and told us to head "that way." He waved his hand vaguely toward the west, so we walked back to 190th and headed west, finding ourselves in a residential neighborhood at the base of a cliff. I told the teen that I knew the cloisters "overlooked the Hudson, so they must be up there." I pointed upward.

"They are? Why are there no signs?" she said. She obviously didn't trust my information. She was worried. She was already 40 minutes late. What if her class had already left?

How did I know why there were no signs? I was as stymied as she was. I don't think my "It's got to be around here somewhere," reassured her.

"Are the cloisters around here?" I asked two young women pushing baby strollers.

They didn't know but told us there was a park "up that way." Anna, the teenager and I turned in the direction of "the park," and eventually we found a stairway leading up.

Still no signs. We climbed a mile or more of stairs. We encountered a lady walking a dog. She told us we were heading in the right direction. "I better take you there," she said. "Too many paths that might confuse you."

Anna and I sighed with relief. We'd made it. I lost sight of her there as she hurried off to find her class. There were several classes touring the site, but though I looked for her among them as I walked through the museum, she never reappeared.

I lived in New Jersey for years before moving to Minnesota 30 years ago but had never visited the cloisters which were built in 1938 to house art works from the Middle Ages within a structure replicating their original functions: cloisters, chapels, great rooms , gardens. Original stone portals, asps, cloister pillars, and courtyards and astounding sculptures, windows, tapestries, paintings, and manuscripts. My journey through this work of art was one of prayer, awe, wonder, and peace.

New York-Pen Festival-Day 2-Grand Central Station

Years ago, when I was a teenager thinking of becoming a nun, I used to take the train from the small town of Suffern (where I went to an all girls’ Catholic boarding school) to New York City in order to see my spiritual director. When the train arrived at Grand Central Terminal, I transferred to the subway to head downtown.

It had been 50 years since I last visited the station and during that time has been slated for demolition, saved by a Supreme Court decision, and transformed into an architectural wonder by the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA). On May 2^nd, I decided to take a memory walk back to the station and was stunned at its new beauty. I gaped at the ceiling, lusted through its food markets, gawked at the travelers bustling through it. But best of all, I arrived at the tail end of the Music Under New York auditions. Not that I was glad to have missed most of it but rather than I was glad I hadn't missed all of it.

Music Under New York is “one of the many visual and performing arts programs administered by the MTA. subway riders in New York City are treated to sound provided by all types of musicians and performers sound . . .More than 100 performers and ensembles participate in over 150 weekly performances in approximately 25 locations throughout the transit system.”

I inched my way into a mix of several long tables of audition judges, rolling cameras and newscasters, and people like me lured by the sound emanating from a second story balcony. A sister act was rolling to a close and a Scottish bagpipe player, complete with tartan kilt and hat, waited in the wings. What I wouldn't have done for a camera (imagine touring New York on my own and forgetting my camera?). And he was good! Could get that bagpipe to hymn tunes of sorrow and of joy. Nothing like a good highland dance tune to get the blood up. Next to perform were an ensemble of Chinese musicians playing historic instruments, a brass group served up some real smooth jazz, and a blues, bluegrass, folk five-some fiddled and stumped up a storm. Please forgive the lack of specifics as I didn’t have a note pad and had only my cell phone with me (not exactly the best cameras . . . hence the less than wonderful photo). I returned the next day to take photos with my digital camera . . . and though the terminal was still impressive the performers were not there to add their timbre to city architecture. (Play on words deliberate).

New York: Pen Festival: Day One

On April 30, I arrive in New York for The Pen Festival of World Literature. A plethora of events awaits me . . . all of them in different locations. I don't know New York. I have work ahead of me. Agenda number one: find my way around the city. Assignment: get acquainted with the streets. Best method: walk

I walk from the Marriott East Side (525 Lexington and 49th)cross town to 6th Avenue and down to 42nd Street to find Town Hall, where I will attend Public Lives/Private Lives for an event featuring Salman Rushdie, Michael Ondaatje, Annie Proulx, Ian McEvan that evening, where these famous world writers will “peel back the layers of their literary selves” to reveal from whence arise their creative voices.

I find Town Hall, then walk uptown on Fifth Avenue, to find the Instituto Cervantes where at 1 p.m. Latin American and Spanish authors will discuss “New Directions in Spanish Literature.”

I didn't realize I would be waylaid by the New York Public Library on 42nd St. It is 10 am and the doors of the library are just opening. Crowds of people line the stairway awaiting entry. The great stone lions keep watch. On the terrace people sit at iron-wrought tables under delicate trees, reading the papers and chatting. They sip coffee that they’ve brought with them. The plaza resembles a café but there are no waiters.

A large placard in front of the stairs announces a “Sketches on Glass: Cliche-Verre” exhibition. I know I cannot pass by the opportunity to view etchings by Impressionist artists Corot, Daubigny, Rousseau, and Millet. I follow the crowds through the great doors, open my backpack for the guards, climb the central staircase to the third floor, and turn to the right.

The exhibit stuns me into quietude. I move from sketch to sketch slowly, trying to absorb the landscapes presented here … captured by a technique that combined printmaking and photography – what is essentially a hand-drawn or painted negative on glass. When I remember to check my watch, I am stunned to find I have only one-half hour to find my way to the Cervantes Institute for the lecture at 1 p.m.

Photo: Mailman in NY

How to eat Big Bowl Noodle Soup

After our trip to the Grotto in Portland, Bill coded Asian Food into his GPA system which brought up several such places nearby. Hit or miss, we selected one (I forgot to write the name of this restaurant down but it was Vietnamese and was called Pho Vong’s Café or something like that). When we were each served a platter of condiments, we had no idea what to do with them until we saw another diner peeling the entire sprig of basil -- 20 or more leaves -- into his bowl along with the bean sprouts and lime wedges which he squeezed into the already deliciously spicy soup.

“That’s an awful lot of basil,” I thought. Nevertheless, Bill and I followed suit. From now on, that is how I want to eat Big Bowl Noodle Soup. It was scrumptious. And those bean sprout came in mighty handy, forming a trellis of sorts when mixed with which to lift the thin noodles with our chopsticks.

From now on, that’s how I want to eat Big Bowl Noodle Soup. I wonder how often I’ll be able to satisfy that wish.

Multnomah Falls, Portland

How much can you pack into one day of hiking and sight-seeing? A lot in a city like Portland where scenic marvels are within day-trip distance.

My husband Bill and I (he captured the photo to the right) spent Saturday morning hiking to the Japanese Gardens and that afternoon we headed off for the snow-covered heights of Mount Hood and Multnomah Falls, the second highest waterfall in the nation. We managed to get halfway to the mountain when the narrow twisting road convinced us that snaking up its flanks would deprive us of the opportunity to see the falls while there was still enough light. It wasn't as if we'd missed the mountain. It looms like a snow covered volcano over the Portland horizon to the east and can be seen from most any place in the city.

We arrived just as an environmental fiesta was coming to a close. Far, far, above us a practice session for an emergency rescue crew was winding down, one final rescue worker doing the last rappel of the day. Rather than the flying leaps and rapid bounce off the rocks that I'd always associated with rappelling (too many adventure movies perhaps), this young man descended very slowly, very carefully, arriving at the bottom to a scattering of applause from spectators who despite the chill weather were eating ice-cream cones.

How does one describe the falls? With adjectives or metaphors? With wild abandon or cautious steps? All of the above and more but rather than risk over-writing I'll leave you to imagine the roar of its drop and the force of its height and presence.

The Minneapolis Star Tribune named Beryl as a "Best of 2006 Minnesota Authors." Her book The Scent of God was a “Notable” Book Sense selection for April 2006.

Japanese Gardens

The Japanese Gardens of Washington Park

Mass transit will take you most anywhere in Portland proper but it’s important to know where to get off. Especially if you’re heading to the Japanese Gardens in Washington Park. If you get off at the right place but at the wrong stop, you might – as Bill and I discovered -- be in for a long walk.

Getting off at the Washington Park stop (Zoo) might not be the best place to disembark – when our main reason for going was to see the Japanese Gardens. If however, we’d wanted to get an idea of Washington Park’s many offerings, the zoo stop was a very good place to get off. To get to the Japanese Gardens from the Zoo stop we had to traverse a few miles (or so it seemed) of the park’s meandering trails, many of which were in an uphill direction.

The trails through Washington Park are quite wonderful. They lead to overlooks, and through various terrains. My favorite trail, leading (we hoped – we had no map) toward the Japanese Gardens, was the Magnolia Trail adorned as it was with a variety of magnolia trees, most of them in full bloom.

As we made our way down a rather muddy trail toward the Gardens, we noted a crowd of people and tents stretched along the entry way to the gardens. An annual plant sale of some sort which we bypassed quickly. Once within the garden confines, I felt the noise and bustle outside its walls fall from me like a discarded cloak.

The Japanese garden concept goes far back in history and is influenced by Shinto, Buddhist, and Taoist philosophy and is intended to create a sense of peace, harmony and tranquility. Every garden contains three primary elements: stone, water, and plants (for a four season tapestry).

The Portland Japanese Gardens include a variety of styles – each of them exquisite with the varying textures and colors of carefully selected trees, shrubs, and flowers. There are two gardens with raked sand, a ceremonial tea house with both inner and outer gardens, a strolling garden with an upper pond and moon bridge and a lower pond with a cascading waterfall, and a natural garden with smaller ponds, waterfalls, and tiny bridges and on the far east side of the gardens a view of downtown Portland and Mount Hood.

As Bill and I left the gardens, having little desire to return the way we came, we asked a man wearing a badge the shortest way back to the trains and we treated to what had to be one of the most involved, intricate, and confusing directions we’d ever encountered in all our traveling days. We were rescued by a “stranger” who wasn’t as acquainted with the gardens but whose directions saved the day. “Go down through the Rose Garden, stay to the left, and keep going down until you reach the road.”

And so we did.Publish Post