February 20, 1975
Dear Ron and Laura.
By the time you get this letter, it will be almost time so let me do it no— Laura— we wish you a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY— on the 27th, we will raise our spoons of ice cream in a toast. Speaking of ice cream, how are you doing without it? I just can’t get away from all the goodies here and I’m sure all the pasta in Italy won’t be easy to pass up either. Weight watchers sounds like a very good idea but what do you do when you go out to eat?
We really enjoyed hearing your voices and seeing your faces in the snapshots you sent us. Those pictures are frustrating because no matter how hard we stared at them, you guys just wouldn’t move or speak.
[By Mort]:
We are leaving tomorrow for Italy for 3 weeks & should be back 14 March or so. I hope that when we get back to Villeparisis you will know how you stand on the Paris/NY trip— IF AND WHEN. Frankly, until we got your letter and tape we had been vaguely thinking of returning sooner than planned.
We have already cut E. Europe and Scandanavia out of our plans (too cold) & after Italy all that’s really left is Germany & England and we definitely want to drive across the States. We started thinking about home, any home (which we don’t have in LA), and the homesickness became pretty strong. But if you are coming to Paris in April it would be great. Maybe we would ship the car home & fly to New York & spend some time there with you too. But it all depends on what you are going to do. We called a car exporter in Paris and found that to ship our car from here to NY costs $550: maybe its less from Italy.
We will have to inquire there. I realize it may be impossible for you to say for sure. Your letter indicated Marko was trying to make a "deal." That sounds pretty iffy— but you also hinted on it depending on whether you can sell the house— I presume that means our house— if you can, fine— its your decision. Ha-Ha! At any rate, try to give us a sign (like Moses— burn a bush!) Give our love to all pussies & other relatives &friends. We miss you all very much. Love MortBea.
20 February Thursday Villeparisis to Paris to Nice
We drove almost 600 miles today on our way to Italy for a 3 week trip. We filled the tank 3 times and paid $40 in gas, $20 in tolls and arrived on the Cote d’Azur at 9 p.m., found a hotel and had dinner. Of the $100 we cashed this morning, there is now $20 left. We will cash another $100 tomorrow.
On the way down we had a treat— it was sunny and for the first time in 3 tries we saw pretty countryside between Paris and Lyon. The first time had been at night, the second was foggy, but today the sun shone constantly all day— due to a bitter cold wind; and created a magnificent sunset which we witnessed south of Avignon. It was the first day of sun from rise to set that I can remember since our early days in Greece. Maybe Spring will be early this year.
Writing is crazy: I spent two days writing one chapter which I barely squeezed out and this morning I tore through the next one in an hour.
As if it were ordained by some sadistic God of weather that follows us from place to place, the sky was a solid blanket of gray all day today.
The sun is the only free thing about a resort like this. If the sun is shining warmly it doesn’t matter how cold and shabby your room is or how expensive the food is. A picnic on wine, bread and cheese in the sun is better than any restaurant. But gray and cold leaves only the reminders of rip-offs, decadence, and makes you angry you’re not rich.
We drove all along the coast— Antibes, Gagnes, Vence; and it was like that. In St.Paul-de-Vence, a medieval walled tourist town like Mont St.Michel; and the Maeght Foundation where they sell lithographs by Miró, Adami and others for 20,000 in racks like $1 posters; Then on to Valouris where Picasso for fun painted a chapel which is now a museum and he made pottery, so there are a thousand pottery stores there.
We went to "Madura" the gallery which because of its owner/artist’s friendship with Picasso has received his exclusive license to sell copies of his works. They also sell Madura’s ceramics and his widow told Bea (who translated) how her husband had become peevish because people only came to see Picasso’s plates and things, while her husband’s work was much better, and Picasso had stolen many of her husband’s ideas.
We had couscous for dinner which tasted like Afghanistan and reminded me how long we have been traveling.
22 February Saturday Nice to Genoa
We crossed another border today, leaving the French Riviera via the Moyenne Corniche, then onto the Autoroute, the Alps on one side with small towns in the creases of valleys looking like a Monopoly board that has been folded into a V, spilling all the houses and hotels. On the other side, the Mediterranean was blue with the sun shining frigidly on it and the towns on its shore.
On the Italian side we went through tunnel after tunnel until we reached Genoa, Columbus’ and many other sailors’ home port.
We found a hotel near the train station with a double bed, a "matrimonial" like many of the others we have occupied in our stays in cheap hotels, more like the bed of an old prostitute, sway-backed and unsleepable. This one was unique: down the center and at each end it is high and firm, but on each side it is like sleeping in a hammock. At our budget you have to accept that and the sleazy neighborhood with the clerk warning you to garage your car if you have a radio. There are two kinds of rooms: noisy and cold or quiet and cold. This one is almost the latter; the heater works but the room is big and marble-floored and it faces the court— off the street, so there are only echoes of street traffic.
23 February Sunday Genoa
After reading the literature, we decided there wasn’t much to see in this town and it is bitter cold and Sunday so stores are closed. We walked along the port and into the "Old Town" to the main square, "Ferrari." We discovered an American film was playing. Ordinarily we would not have spent money on it. But this was "English version" so we hurriedly went to see it, twice. Then we ate dinner and charged it because we are short of cash and T/C’s. Tomorrow will be busy— go to the bank and change money, pay the hotel bill, go to the shipping company and inquire about the cost of shipping the car, drive to Pisa and then Florence, If that town proves disappointing, I quit. Despite the sunshine it is bitterly cold here with a winter wind that bites your cheeks and ears. Walking is reminiscent of days spent from the subway at Kingsbridge Road to Hunter College with the wind so strong it brought tears and gave me headaches from the effort to compact my frame into my parka.
24 February Monday Genoa to Pisa to Florence
We did everything we were supposed to do before leaving town.
The shipping company did not inspire our confidence with its small office and indefinite little man who spoke confusing English to tell us that one "garage ship" per month leaves from Savona to the US, but the one in March goes to Wilmington, Delaware. In April— who knows where or when...? When he mentioned the name of the ship’s captain, "Capitan Bozo" that settled it. If anything bad happened on that boat, how could we explain it to anyone without laughter.
We drove to Pisa, a strange town where everything is tilted at a 45 angle except the campanile. We climbed to the top, then down, got back in the car and went to Florence on the Autostrada which we are helping to finance with the same magnanimity with which we did the same for the Autoroute in France.
In Florence the search for hotel was more fatiguing than usual— we settled for a $13 room with a shower and hot water, but noisy and cold as usual. Then we walked to the Academia Del Arte which was closed so we could not see The David.
We snacked and people-watched, then later went out for a good meal after a shower and change of clothes. We didn’t sleep until 2 a.m. and as a result woke up late so that the morning was shot. Since stores close from 12 to 4 p.m., that meant the whole day. That’s the way it goes in the wonderful world of the traveler.
25 February Tuesday ... Fiat
Tonight Bea wryly and truthfully observed that we must be the first tourists to come to Florence and spend two days without seeing Michelangelo’s David. In fact the only things we have seen after two days here are the Duomo, our hotel room, several restaurants and three auto mechanic dealers.
Today we fought the Battle of the Warranty, spending the day trying to get one of this country’s 500,000 "Authorized factory repair outlets" to honor the warranty and replace for free our broken rear view mirror and fix my seat belt harness which has taken on the character of a strait-jacket. After a full day’s effort we got the mirror but there was no seat belt in the entire warehouse of the dealership that covered several square blocks of the city.
Back at our hotel room we earnestly planned a full day of sightseeing tomorrow to see all the great works of art in the museums of this city that is the birthplace of the Renaissance. It is something Bea is insistent upon, because she fondly remembers this city and wants to show me the things she saw before.
We then read the Rome Daily American and found a small article noting a strike of state workers tomorrow that will close the museums. I could write an angry letter about it and get it off my chest, but the stamp sellers are on strike.
July 31, 1970 Friday night for me
Dear Mort,
Robbie left us to continue her stay in Spain. She is going to meet me in Rome where we will go on to Greece. I have spent the last couple of days traveling with Jon and his 3 year old daughter. I’ve really enjoyed Meg but Jon is a big bore. All he is interested in is driving and going swimming. I’ve had to insist on several things but I must say that driving sure beats the train.
Tomorrow he is moving on again but I am going to stay in Florence for about 4 or 5 days depending on how lonely I get. You know Mort it’s hot, I’m full of mosquito bites and I miss you terribly—I wish you were here.
Yesterday we drove from Monaco (no I didn’t see the insides of a casino) to La Spezia on the Italian Riviera. We drove along the coast for a while but the traffic was so bad we finally got on the auto-route which charges you 250 lire every time you turn around. We drove all day in boiling heat—scratching as we went. This morning we stopped in Pisa to see the leaning tower and you know, it really leans— it’s quire amazing. I started to climb to the top but smoking and the heat almost did me in—I gave up and waited downstairs for Jon.
This afternoon we arrived in Florence. There’s so much to see (Florence has over 40 museums) I don’t know where to start. Are you interested in Michelangelo’s David or the Gates to Paradise? Tonight we went for a walk along the Ponte Vecchio which is a bridge built in the 14th century. It is filled with gaudy, tasteless jewelry stores (all supposedly descendants of the stores located there during the 16th century. The entire street was filled with Americans trying to get in all the sights. The whole thing made me feel very lonely and foreign. I talked to an American girl who said she didn’t like Italy because everything is too old—can you imagine that. Why bother coming to Europe if you can’t get your own little corner of the world out of your mind. You know I feel exactly like that sometimes. I can’t get my little world out of my mind.
Mort—I think our problem (yours and mine) is similar. We are both unhappy with the immediate present and don’t look forward to the future with much hope— it’s all really very depressing. If only we could be happy with what we have—since compared to so many, we have so much.
Am I lecturing? I’m just trying to convince myself.
Mort—I miss your quick wit, your humor, your sensitivity, your intelligence, your support, your love, and most of all your closeness.
Please write and tell me about your work, about the way you spend your time, about your thoughts— I want to feel your presence if only by the written word for a while—well, its late, I’m exhausted—I’m going to go take a shower and if I’m very lucky there will still be some hot water and I won’t get bitten by any more mosquitos—(Jon killed one before and it squished blood all over the place—really disgusting).
Oh well—back to my primitive existence. It should be about 2:00 PM in your life—you’re probably sweating away on a case that you can’t quite figure out with a terrible headache which gets worse every time you think of the long, hot drive home—remember it’s almost Friday night and you can rest all weekend. (Of course, by the time you get this letter, work will be in full swing again. DAMN IT!
(Mort—will you take a day off when I come home—just to be with me?)
I love you Bea.
A very interesting day all around. We walked all morning all through the streets, squares and churches of old Florence ending up at the Ponte Vecchio shopping. We then walked to find a couple we had never met before: the sister of Rachel Brimberg who we had met in Tel-Aviv.
Ella and Rami Mairez are here for her to study medicine. They showed us around, to Santa Croce and Piazale Michelangelo and we talked a blue streak with them. We find that though to ourselves we are somber and often down these days, with other people we are still irrepressible, gregarious and very American. We went with them for dinner and ice cream at a suburb in the hills and a local ice cream parlor.
The one day strike by state workers closed all state offices and museums. So instead of seeing the Uffizi and Pitti (inside, that is) and the Academia (David) and the Bargello, we walked.
27 February Thursday Florence
These days when so much "Art" is a cliché life often follows cliché rather than art.
In "Newsweek" there is a story of a millionaire who had no time for his family, so busy making money, until he died of leukemia. The wife then became a severe alcoholic and died of it, leaving orphaned two rich, spoiled children. The boy became a heroin addict, spent his fortune; and the girl a nymphomaniac. The boy after begging the sister for money, murdered her. Bad Ross McDonald, bad Bergman or Hitchcock..
As I have found in trying to write about travels, it is hard to get around the clichés because they are really a distillation of the best things that have been said about things which many clever people have been trying to describe for a long time.
Today we saw "art" that takes cliché subjects and makes something other than cliché out of them. Michelangelo’s David and Pieta, Giambologna’s sculpture of The Rape of the Sabines, Cellini, Uccello.
But the hero of the day was Donatello’s David, so different from Mike’s, more subtle, less "perfect", less Godly and more boyish and / or girlish and so less awesome and more comfortable to look at. It won us over, won the anti-cliché award for today.
The Uffizi and Pitti were closed, we discovered they are only open in the a.m..
August 3, 1970 Monday night 11 PM
Dear Mort,
Well, I’m tucked away in my very own hotel room which is the size of my bathroom at home. But it is mine, it’s quiet, there’s a breeze and most important of all, NO Mosquitos.
I just got your letter of the 27th ... I’m glad to hear you’re looking for apartments ... in my neck of the woods. I would like to live near you ... I also wish I could go with you to help you choose an apartment but when I get back home I will help you decorate. I’m bringing you a few things from Europe ... I hope you like Early Tourist Period ...
...Well I saw the David and he is everything they say he is—really beautiful. What impressed me even more were the other statues by Michelangelo. In the same gallery with The David there are about 8 of his unfinished works. Michelangelo is quoted as saying that God puts the figures in the marble; his talent is merely to take them out. In the unfinished statues you can see what he meant—he sure knew how to hack a chisel!
I have also been to 4 museums with Florentine paintings. I don’t dig them and never did. I’m really museum-ed out—I don’t care if I never see another painting of Christ!
Today I spent the day walking around and shopping. Florence is filled with outdoor stands selling everything imaginable. You’re supposed to bargain but I’m afraid I’m not very good at it. Did I forget to mention my climb to the top of the bell tower of the Cathedral. I almost fainted on the way up. I had gone as far as I could possibly go, and I was hyperventilating and seeing spots before my eyes. Someone going down said I had about twice the number of steps left to the top. The stairs kept getting narrower and more difficult to climb—toward the top I was literally doing it on my hands and knees, but I done it. And the view was worth it.
You know how insecure I get—so whenever I get a letter from you, I get all my spirits back, as I did today — so keep writing. I think of you.
I love you, Bea.
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| Uffizi Gallery |
28 February Friday Florence
All snuggled in after a decent dinner, we read our books until sleepy, and after a long day, our bodies needed sleep. Then at midnight, a truck pulled into the street below our window and raced its engine and many decibel variations, most rattling our windows deafeningly and coninuously for two hours. It finally left and we grumpily began to doze off when a second truck came and matched to the first for noise. The same pattern ensued, grinding noise for an hour, then it left, and there was peace. Until the third truck arrived. At 3:30 a.m. it left.
Of course our plan to wake early and go to the Uffizi and Pitti in the morning was rattled away with our nerve endings. We got to rhe Uffizi but almost near closing. In fact we were ruined for the full day, dragging ourselves through the gallery and dully viewing Boticellis, Leonardos, Rafaels, etc. in record time on leaden legs. With irritation at all those exquisitely pained Christs, some of who were at least lying down when taken from the cross. He did not have pain like we felt. We spent the afternoon in our hotel bed shivering and trying to block out hammering, traffic and knocks on the door from the maid who at 3 p.m. was going to clean the room.
In the evening we went to dinner with Rami and Ella at a kosher restaurant near the synagogue once more reminding me that Israelis are not Jewish. On the way there we stopped at a store to look at pewter lamps and would have bought one if the wonderful woman had not talked so much and diverted our attention from her goods— a nice person but a terrible salesperson.
1 March Saturday Florence to Rome
We settled our bill, got the car out of the garage and made our way out of town and onto the Autostrada to Rome. The countryside is not as interesting as France’s, not as green, varied or picturesque. Amazingly, we found a suitable place to stay in the second penzione we tried— bed comfortable, hot water, fairly cheap, but of course heat only enough to prevent our bones from rattling, not enough to warm our extremities. We are doomed to have cold toes until summertime. Bea has a particularly crampy period and we are both dull from weariness. We rested the afternoon away, ate dinner in the penzione and met another strange and lonely traveler. This one is a young woman from San Francisco who taught Sociology until she came into some money and decided to travel. She has been doing it alone since 1970; six months in London and now beginning six months in Rome. She is shy, quite unattractively built— thin face but massive body, like a glandular condition. She doesn’t seem to be suited to travel: she has no knack for language, art and is paranoid about foreigners, but she is an unhappy misfit, so she travels.
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| Marcus Aurelius |
2 March Sunday Rome Part of my current negativity about traveling is because, as Bea says, I am merely tired of it and want to go back into my shell. Another part though may not be so negative. It is the growing realization that most of man’s creations in this world are just not very impressive and also that the differences among cultures that travel is supposed to expose a person to are just not very great. What differences there are that really count— language and religion, are a nuisance.
We walked and drove through Rome today from the flea market to the Forum and Coliseum, Capitoline square and museums, the Spanish Steps and Borghese Gardens. There were many crowded streets and confusing frustrating road signs. The sun was out and it became very warm and Springlike, making our walks around the Roman ruins a pleasure, but I still couldn’t take the profundity of its creation or destruction very seriously (as I did at the start of our trip).
It is my own problem, I’m sure and only a passing mood, but that is the way I find myself feeling at the moment. I am influenced by reading "Burr" in which Gore Vidal claims to tell the "truth" about all our founding fathers who it seems were empire building, power hungry scoundrels and not "democrats" or even "republicans."
In that view of the lack of nobility of great men, it is hard to view the creations of Imperial Rome or the art done by Renaissance geniuses for the glory of their patrons— the Medicis, Borgias and Popes--- without cynicism. Certainly the miracle is that we can find in their creations some truth and beauty coming from works even though they were made for the purpose of encouraging fear and superstition, or massaging the egomania of their patrons as well as of the artists themselves. The art books are full of Michelangelo’s quotes that he was "unworthy", but when he created the David he is said to have found it to be "too perfect" so he "humbly" spoiled its perfection by making it disproportionate in some secret small way. When he created the Pieta, some 50 years later, he tried to destroy it because it too was too perfect and the artist feared being compared with God.
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| Roman Coliseum interior |
These days, when my thoughts are so rotted, I realize that I have no capacity for enjoying the moment— I live best in the past or the future— preferably in fantasies of each.
Today was certainly a full day spent in experience that fulfills lifetime fantasies, but seems to have left me feeling sadly empty. With an Aussie couple staying here, Colin and Mandy, we went to the Vatican and walked through the art treasures— the Rafaels, Matisses, Buffets and of court the Sistine Chapel, then to St. Peter’s— to the very top of the cuppola.
We saw beautiful things, maybe the best that man can build or put on walls, but it left me feeling unfulfilled. The meaning escapes me. Even the discussions with the Aussies about travel and films and, well, just conversation seemed to be talk to fill silent spaces as the "sightseeing" is to fill spaces of time.
Some day when it has faded into the fantastic past it will be a "treasured memory" to be conjured up in some future as a warm memory of a wonderful and hectic day. But that will have to wait until the hard edges of the experience have worn away.
Friday August 7, 1970
Dearest Mort,
...Last night we went to Piazza d’Espagna, or as the tourists call it, the Spanish Steps. The place was packed with American hippies singing, playing guitars, rapping and selling stuff they had made. There were also about 1000 Italian men looking for a pickup—Ann and I wound up the steps and were approached by guys every three seconds. It got to be funnier and funnier (If I had been alone it would have been very frightening, but as far as it was, we laughed hysterically.)
The Italians don’t just talk—they sometimes touch—I got very good with my Italian and told them exactly where to go. By the way my Italian is getting quite good. I can carry on a fairly decent conversation. Two guys followed us all the way up and daown — they were sadly disappointed to find our that we were Russian (thank God they couldn’t speak Russian).
...How much nicer it would be to be here with someone I care about. Are you sure you won’t come to Europe? How about for three weeks? I’m such a nag—hasn’t it been nice having me away and not nagging you? Gee I wish I could be there right now to nag, etc.
We got tickets to see "Aida" tomorrow night at the Terme di Caracalla which is an ancient Roman open air theater once used for fights between Christians and lions. The production of Aida is supposed to be unequaled. Mort, as I write to you I find myself constantly using superlatives. I have seen so many things that merit superlatives, I’m running out of them.
Until the next soon. With much, much love, Bea.
4 March Tuesday Rome
It began to rain last night when we went out to eat with Colin and Mandy at a local restaurant and it rained all day. We began the day ambitiously driving to San.Pietro in Vincoli and viewing Moses. Again I found it less impressive than its reputation, thinking perhaps I have become numbed to great art the way we have become insensitive to misery in the East, from overexposure.
There is also something aesthetically unpleasing about Mike’s work—a beefy strength that is so solid that it doesn’t move me—the only really stirring work of his is St. Peter’s Pieta in which the body of Christ is somewhat restful—it is not a figure which looks to be able to resurrect. Even The David is great because of its size and bold perfection. Mike’s egotism also puts me off: about Moses he is supposed to have said, "Why don’t you speak?" and struck its knee with his hammer. We drove to the Baths of Caracala but it was raining so hard we decided to return and spent the afternoon reading and struggling to write. In the evening we had dinner with Colin and Mandy and Joan; and Signore Tofanelli showed us his war medals and babbled about his WWII capture of Austrians, saying he never talks about it.
5 March Wednesday Rome to Tivoli to Rome
The sun shone again and we drove with Colin &Mandy to Tivoli and picnicked at Villa d’Este and Hadrian’s Villa. The fountains, the ruins, the sun, the trees, moist smell of the trees at the Villa d’Este were enjoyable fun. At Hadrian’s Villa we played with a puppy and talked with some women who were tending a herd of sheep. 
The day was spent very well and almost renews my desire to travel except that my heart is set on going back and facing whatever will come.
6 March Thursday Rome to Venice
A few statistics at this point: 217 days out of LA. We have spent $7,100 and average of $32 per day (pretty close to our estimate of $35.) Since we got the car 103 days ago on Nov. 18, we have gone 8,000 miles. After the cost of about $3,500 for the car and insurance, we have since spent $657 on gas, tolls, parking, oil, repairs and other travel expense, an average of 8 cents a mile.
Today was a perfect example. We went 300 miles and spent $16 for gas, $8 for tolls—$24, exactly 8 cents a mile.
Most of the distance was under heavy fog, drizzle and clouds which were worse near Bologna a dismal looking town (what we could see of it). We ended in Mestre, the mainland arm of Venice. Tomorrow we will begin to examine the canals.
7 March Friday Venice
I did not sleep well last night. My throat which began to feel raspy yesterday became tight and by morning I knew I had a cold (probably donated by the Aussies we met in Rome, who were both complaining of "travel flu").
It was very noisy in the morning and we both woke up in bad moods. But the day was sunny and warm and the sky perfect blue which helped the city become a delightful surprise.
We took a vaporetto to Piazza San M
After more walking, my cold progressed to my nose and while my sinuses became swollen in my chest, we went back to Mestre and had good pizza.
8 March Saturday Venice (Mestre)Over the night my nose was overrum by the enemy and ceased to function, though it bravely sputtered all night long to keep the supply lines of air to my lungs open.
We spent the day drinking tea, blowing my nose and wishing we were home. The only comfortable way to have a cold is in your own bed drowsing away the day watching old movies on TV. But that is our luck to waste a perfectly good cold on Venice when it could have provided a day off from work if we had been home and working.
We saw a lot of Venice in the one day we tramped around from sunrise to sunset. It is a sort of Disneyland kind of place—the oddity of the canals being the major attraction. Once the oddity has worn off, you are left in a very expensive resort in touristland where every store sells glass—really horrible stuff, painters do scenes with canal, gondola, bridge and church in international tourist art style— sienna and white impasto, pastel water colors, charcoal sketches. They have them everywhere in Touristland and apparently the suckers buy them.
9 March Sunday Venice
I am still sick with this wheezing, sniffling, snorting, coughing, phlegmish and suffering, so we went into Venice and had tea in the Piazza San Marcos, saw the jewel encrusted altar screens in the Church, walked all through the city looking for a decent place to eat, snacked at one bar then finally alit in a restaurant for dinner.
We have found the food in Italian restaurants generally inferior to those in France and Spain; i.e., we eat better in those countries for less money than in Italy. Of course, the pasta here can’t be matched anywhere. Somehow spaghetti with tomato sauce is always super— the best part of any meal—and veal is better here than in France where meat is uniformly bad and sauces are uniformly great.
Riding back after dark in the vaporetto the city looked like any US town— after a flood or hurricane. The only difference is here the water never recedes.
10 March Monday Venice to St.antonio, Switzerland
We are going to be in a lot of trouble in Switzerland, it appears. In Italy we were able to find hotel rooms at between $8 and $10 a night. Here it is barely possible to find a room for $10 a person. In fact the US$ is practically worthless.
We drove today from Venice all the way across Northern Italy and then up into Switzerland. It rained hard all the way. By 2 my cold which has taken up residence in my lungs and tries to keep warm by keeping warm air out, had almost succeeded. I huffed and puffed until we found a hotel that takes credit cards (we think—they are always a little vague about it).
We had dinner in the hotel’s "world famous" restaurant—hamburgers. Actually it was excellent. We had soup, hamburger, fries, green beans, ½ liter of wine and ice cream sundae for dessert for $18.00— about 2X as much as we are used to spending but we’d better get used to it again.
11 March Tuesday St. Antonio to Lichtenstein to Buchs to Zurich
An incredible day full of happy happenings, but mostly full of surprises, some good and some—well you can get the idea... Bea had nightmares ("bad thoughts") that kept her up and I had stuffed chest pains that signal the next stage of my cold. In the morning we were anxious to move on and had our breakfast of rolls, butter and coffee quickly. It had rained all day and night and now the sun and blue sky slipped in between the clouds that hover around the snowy mountains whose peaks surround the valleys like broken glass.
We drove up through the St. Bernardino Pass having had to detour away from our intended route because it was closed by snow. The mountains were eerily black and white—no green or "earth tones" in the filtered light. High up at snow level it was so brightly white, seeing was difficult. Through villages and back into green pastured valleys and a detour to Lichtenstein (which was disappointingly filled with unenchanting high-rises rather than castles as advertized) then back into Switzerland. The language had now changed from Italian to German, at first disconcerting to our ears, then somewhat comical, reminiscent of Sid Ceasar talk, but the ambiance was comfortably familiar.
We stopped at Buchs and parked by a little lake and ate sandwiches and fed the lake’s inhabitants, ducks (Mallards and a strange gray black short-beaked bird) and 2 swans with very strong bills. Some ducks followed our food onto the shore, quacking at us and the competition which included pigeons (Italians no doubt) and sparrows (French?).
We drove on in a valley between mountains that became increasingly hidden behind clouds, along the Austrian border. The land was well farmed but we saw few sheep and no cows which surprised me since Switzerland is famous for dairy, but this is still winter. There was much industry at the foot of the mountains.
We reached Zurich by 2 and drove around looking for a hotel for 2 hours. Prices are absurdly high and the relatively inexpensive pensions we knew of were full up. Later we drove to a movie theater and saw "Earthquake" which did not make us long for LA. We then ate in a German restaurant. The waiter kindly helped us choose a meal and we struck up a conversation with a man at the next table, eventually learning that he is a wine merchant named Herr Norbert Kaiser, and he was taking his teenage son to see the movie which we had just seen.
He said he did not get to see many movies. We warned him that this one was not typical of modern movies, and especially not to judge the US or even LA by the film. We spoke a little about our travels and the recent difficulties with prices and winter and the discouragement we felt.
A few moments after he and his son left, we began to eat our food—veal in sauce and bratwurst, both with potatoes and beer, great— he came back.
He was upset about our first impressions of his city, Zurich, and he traveled a great deal for business and sympathized with our loneliness and admired the travel spirit. He invited us to lunch at a chic restaurant with him tomorrow. He was the nicest of a parade of nice people we have met here—everyone we have asked for directions (and we are experts at that) have been superbly helpful. One young guy saw us as we were slowly driving down a street befuddled as usual and directed us to the right way. It was admirable, as if the dream of travelers that all people in a country are courteous had come true.
12 March Wednesday Zurich
A strange and very wonderful day. We shopped, buying gifts for Bea’s parents, Ron & Laura, and Barbara (despite prices being very high—of themselves and in relation to our $ — the quality of items is so high and surroundings so conducive to spending that it was hard to resist).
For example: we walked through the Omega Building, the HQ of the Watch Co. which was modern, efficient, and very classy, so that even though I found I saved $11 by buying mine in Italy, I regretted not waiting until here.
At 12 we went to lunch to Ferlin, a restaurant near our hotel where we had been invited by Herr Norbert Kaiser, the man we had met last night. We lunched with the chief procurer of books and paper for Zurich schools and a head of an engineering co. and M. Ferlin, the owner of the restaurant. Herr Kaiser ordered for us: the specialties—a ravioli in white sauce and veal with cloves and onion with garlic spinach, white wine and chianti. He insisted on picking up the tab. The owner was an old friend and customer.
After lunch, Herr Kaiser drove us around the city and to another restaurant on the lake for brandy and coffee, then back to the city, where we said goodbye. It was a dazzling display of generosity that left us confused and delighted and in awe of a decency and gentlemanliness that we have rarely seen.
After all our carping and complaining, the fact is that our experience on this trip has broadened our desire to be open and express enthusiasm and friendship to others, especially lonely visitors.
13 March Thursday Zurich to Villeparisis
We had a vague idea of going to other Swiss cities for a day or two, then driving north along the Rhine into Germany for a while, but the idea fizzled with the gloominess of morning which brought gray damp skies and a realization that we have been on the road for THREE WEEKS! That seems to be the outside limit of our endurance of hotel-suitcase living these days, so we drove back to Paris.
We were determined to take a route other than the Lyon Autoroute which we have worn out.
We had never come from the east before, so we drove from Basil through Alsace-Lorraine. The farms are lush and the towns have German names; of course it has been disputed in three wars now. That reminded me that we were near WWI battlegrounds. But the weather was so secretive we could see only ghosts of the countryside, missing Verdun and San Mihiel. We passed through Chateau Thierry and Belleau Wood but the US cemetery was closed.
Back at VP we found lots of cheerful mail, including Ron’s confirming his & Laura’s arrival on April 4. So I suppose we will be staying through April 11 rather than leaving soon. In the next two weeks we will be going to Germany.
14 March Friday Villeparisis
Certain puzzles remain constant. The search for identity continues ... until insanity...
When does one learn to live with mediocrity, inadequacy, banality; that is to say, reality ...about one’s self? Maturity, I define for myself as an acceptance of what you are and the striving to be happy with what that is. It assumes a continual effort to make the most of the material at hand, but without constipating frustration attendant to a refusal to accept yourself.
You are not tall, not handsome, charming or brilliant. There are positives, too, which you know and should always be emphasized but never magnified: some wit, some insight, some sensitivity, some humanity (perhaps all weaknesses when viewed by other angles, but we are being positive).
So you’ve got to live with that and make the best you can of it, continue to experience and try to grow within the framework of what is. You can’t stop trying because it is essential to continue to try to reach the borders, to seek out capacity.
Keep trying and keep options open, but, for God sake, don’t be so damn serious about it all.
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