Varkala Beach, Kerala…
The setting sun, that funeral fire in the sky, I looked away to follow the last flares of the cerise and magenta streaming over the sea—safired in evening light. “Farid the Fixer got you to the airport?”
As the stars slowly reappeared in the endlessness of sky, I cut the last mooring rope of grief, and surrendered to the all sustaining tide of destiny. I let her her go. I said the words, the sacred words: I forgive you…
I didn’t run. I wish I could say, now, that I walked that night and didn’t run because of something noble and brave that I found inside myself, but I can’t. I’ve thought about it often. I’ve recalled and relived that walk a thousand times, and each time I remember it, there’s less certainty about the why of it. Every virtuous act has some dark secret in its heart, Khaderbhai once told me, and every risk we take contains a mystery that can’t be solved.
At the first bullfight I expected to be horrified and perhaps sickened by what I had been told would happen to the horses. Everything I had read about the bull ring insisted on that point; most people who wrote of it condemned it outright as a stupid brutal business, but even those that spoke well of it as an exhibition of skill and as a spectacle deplored the use of the horses and were apologetic about the whole thing. The killing of the horses was considerd indefensible. I s’pose the whole thing is indefensible. There is cruelty, danger–either sought or unlooked for, and there is always death. Can’t defend it, only tell honestly the things I have found true about it…
More than two million people live in the capital – one fifth of the population – and everything converges here: roads and rail lines; air travel (Ferihegy is the country’s only civilian airport); industry, commerce and culture; opportunities, wealth and power. Like Paris, the city has a history of revolutions – in 1849, 1918 and 1956 – buildings, parks and avenues on a monumental scale, and a reputation for hedonism, style and parochial pride. In short, Budapest is an interesting spot overlooked by most Americans—-perfect for me.
The photos from the embankments or the bastions of the Vár (Castle Hill) make it easy to see why the city was dubbed the “Pearl of the Danube.” Roccoco buildings and bridges are magnificent, especially when floodlit. The eclectic inner-city and radial boulevards are a mish mash of old and new. The local Magyar character makes it all unique. Since the Communist system collapsed luxury hotels and malls, restaurants, bars and clubs have all proliferated – as have crime and social inequalities. I read that the number of beggars and homeless people on the streets has risen. An interesting place, no? There’s more.
The sex industry has earned Budapest the nickname, “Bangkok of Europe,” and the law and order crowd has been cracking down. That means not only hookers and johns get nailed but refugees and illegal immigrants (Africans and Arabs) are thoroughly hammered. The right wing is gaining the upper hand. A new repressive constitution took effect January 1, and the authoritarians who prefer order to other things human, hold sway. But the counterculture has strength too and the Hungarians are master infighters who know their way ’round the underground. I regret missing the ’56— ’57 Russian invasion, altho I couldn’t yet read, much less acquire a passport. No excuses this time.
Budapest is cheap and still a window on historic Mitteleuropa, but also a political hot spot with a potential revolutionary flavor—which makes me nostalgic for Berkeley in ’71 and Mario Puzo and SDS and all that. Plus, I get a kick out of visiting communist countries—China, Vietnam and Laos–where paradox, contradiction and irony rule the day. Hungary was part of the Eastern European Russian block for 45 years, and now that they are headed back to what sounds a lot like a repressive communist style government, it would be interesting to head over and have a chat with a few of the locals.
So, time to book tix for summer, before Phoenix morphs into Riyadh and I hate myself for spending summers in this beastly sweatbox. And before the groaty fascists close the borders (again) to westerners. Besides, it’s a stone’s throw from Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro and the Dalmatian coast. And y’all know what that will inevitably lead to.
Last night Ronnie and I hiked Ventana close to sunset. The memories flooded back. 30 years ago Sonja would have spent most of Saturday in the kitchen making homeade truffles, broiled asperagus and mesquite smoked salmon; Charlie and Ronnie would have loaded their North Faces with champagne, cold packs and obscure Sicilian reds. All of us would be lost in conversation on our trek to our special sunset picnic spot above the falls, 3 miles in.
The land is timeless. High desert of creosote, mormon tea, prickly pear, ocotillo and saguaro as familiar as a cropped lawn to a midwesterner. We had the path to ourselves last night at sunset, save for two athletic girls, jogging back down from the falls to their car before nightfall. We pushed on, recalling our times here, our dead friends, the scarred ones, the lost ones too.
Sacamano lives in Italy, Ronnie in Santa Barbara, our kids are pushing 30. The water trickles, the sinking sun finds an angle and glows neon orange on the stream surface and the cliff faces, just as it always has.
After NYC, SF is the most densely populated city in the US. About 750,000 are packed into approximately 47 square miles. The weather is chilly—drizzly if you are lucky— and the sea rules the land. Walking down wide Market Street the plane trees, archictectural details on the street lamps and the green lacquered kiosks will remind you of Paris. The mahogany Golden Gate Bridge squats over the narrow neck of the bay and running over to Sausalito on the GG is earsplitting with the speeding trucks and buses. Returning to the SF side and jogging back down to Crissy Park and along the Embarcadero, the ears recover. Pier 23 (name of restaurant—there is no actual Pier 23) is empty of people but warm and dry— cold local beer and fish tacos reward a 7 mile run. Some places are tough to leave like Istanbul and Paris but the left brain of logic and practicality gurantees we make it to the airport and return home. But here something mysterious and substantial anethetizes reason. The right part of my brain—the part that loves unicorns and dreams—- overides the left, and I miss my flight back. Twice.
