Note: I wrote a blog post a while ago that asked the question ‘History,’ History In the following post, I take a different perspective.
What is history? When you visit a new city or country and take a tour, the guide often tells you about the history of the place. I love that. Perhaps my enthusiasm is based on being the daughter of a father who was a high school history teacher and a mother who was a reading teacher. So, I have been a student of history for basically my entire life. But that doesn’t answer the question of what it is. What does a tour guide include in their presentation?
I am thinking about this because we just returned from a trip that took us to some very interesting places with long, long histories. It is hard not to conclude that when we learn about history, we are often told about wars, and if not outright wars, then power struggles. Is history really a narrative of power? It appears to be so. And, when you dig into it a bit, you sometimes find that those power struggles and wars are about personal things – insults or slights.
This is a stretch, but if Hitler had been accepted to art school, could that have changed the course of history? Would his ego have been assuaged enough? Would he not have needed to go on a quest to prove himself with such horrific and destructive consequences?
The trip we took was D-Day themed, so perhaps it was inevitable that the places we saw were chosen based on the role played in that momentous event, or in World War II in general. Perhaps my perception that history is often the recounting of conflicts or wars is colored by the type of tour we chose.
We took a Viking river cruise that was organized around D-Day. We visited London, Paris, and Normandy. Each place we visited was the site of intense World War II action. Gary and I share a fascination with the topic. Our families were impacted, if not shaped, by those events. Gary has watched countless documentaries about the military battles. I have read innumerable historical novels set in that era. With that said, I learned so much on the trip, and Gary would say the same.
First, I did not understand the scope of the D-Day invasion. It covered 72 miles of France’s coastline. I thought of it as a single beach, perhaps because of the way it was portrayed in movies. In fact, even that beach, Omaha Beach alone, was six miles long. Aside from breadth of the operation, it also involved so much in the way of logistics and coordination among the allies. They built a temporary port to facilitate bringing in more troops and supplies. It was quite an undertaking.
Asnelles – part of Gold BeachGold Beach with remnant of temporary harborPart of Omaha Beach
It was also clear that the difference between success and failure was very narrow. The Allies were on the brink of failure. It is scary to think about the consequences of that possibility. One can’t help but be moved by the extraordinary sacrifice made by the young soldiers who carried out that mission. Standing in the cemetery, which overlooks the English Channel, looking upon row after row of crosses and Stars of David, is overwhelming.
A small portion of the cemetery
The land in Normandy still bears the scars of the battle, too. There are craters in grassy areas, and they have left the remnants of the German battlements. The coastline is also dotted with monuments. The statues, sculptures, and museums express the gratitude of France and Europe for their liberation and tell the story of how that was achieved.
German bunkerAnother German Bunkersculpture on Omaha Beach Monument at Utah Beachsculpture near Pointe du Hoc
Perhaps the most powerful aspect of visiting this sacred space is its breathtaking beauty.
I stood on the cliffs, it was so peaceful, the only sounds were birds and the waves. The stark contrast to what it must’ve been like on June 6, 1944, with the pounding of artillery and bombs falling, is striking. When I looked at the cliffs that the soldiers had to scale, I couldn’t help but be amazed by their strength and bravery.
The cliffs at La Pointe du Hoc
The towns, which withstood the onslaught, are charming. Some have modern elements that reflect the rebuilding effort, but many of the structures, which date back centuries, are still standing. I could have spent a great deal more time there. We visited for two full days, and it didn’t feel like enough.
These photos are from the old part of Rouen, considered the capital of Normandy.
I can’t recommend a visit strongly enough. We need to be reminded of all that went into fighting fascism and what people were willing to sacrifice for freedom. It would be tragic if we allowed our country to continue to slide into authoritarianism. I’m not sure Gary and I needed reminding, but I came away with a renewed sense of responsibility for doing what I can to prevent that from happening.
If one of the reasons we study history is to learn from it and avoid making the same mistakes, I urge everyone to revisit what World War II and the rise and fall of fascism have to teach us. War, even a just one, is brutal and exacts a steep price.
A view of downtown from the top of Mount Washington after riding the Duquesne Incline
I could write a book about our trip to Pittsburgh. We were traveling there for a mini medical school reunion.
So many thoughts flood my mind:
The choices we make in our lives, being reminded of a turning point and what might have been. We could have settled in Pittsburgh but wanted to be closer to family. The road not taken is hard to resist imagining.
The side trip that took us at least 90 minutes out of our way, not to mention the time spent at the stop itself, a museum to see an exhibit of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings. When I suggested the detour, Gary initially didn’t want to take the time knowing what a long drive it was already from Albany to Pittsburgh. Then when we got in the car to start what should be a seven- or eight-hour trip, he said, “What the heck. We aren’t in any rush. Let’s go to the museum.” I think he took pity on me, knowing my spirits were low from the results of the election and imagining a stop to look at art might help. He was right – it worked…for a while anyway.
The juxtaposition of gleaming office buildings, the beauty of the confluence of the three rivers and the unhoused, hurting people on the streets of that same downtown area. It is painful to see folks strung out, young people panhandling, wondering what’s worse: to walk by with a shake of the head and a murmured “sorry,” or to give some money? Our society must do better taking care of its own. The wealth suggested by elaborate skyscrapers, high-end stores and fancy hotels, side-by-side with people whose possessions are held in a bunch of plastic bags begs for a more humane economy. Below is evidence of the issue in Pittsburgh.
Gathering with friends from 40 years ago, some we did see eight years ago but others we had not, in the aftermath of an election that broke my heart but likely brought joy to some of theirs, was daunting. I was worried about how it would go.
It turned out that our reunion was warm, and we avoided politics, but I did have some interesting discussions with the woman I knew best all those years ago. We sat next to each other during the Pitt-Virginia football game that neither one of us was interested in. I knew she was a Trumper, and she knows I’m a bleeding-heart liberal. We would not change each other’s minds about anything. I come away as mystified by how I feel about folks who voted for Trump as I was before. Maybe I understand a bit more about her thought process – she sees the world differently than I do. One part of our conversation I will share because I think it is revealing.
I explained that I could not forgive Trump for, among other things, his reaction to the unite the right event in Charlottesville where the marchers chanted, “Jews will not replace us” and carried tiki torches. Trump responded saying there were good people on both sides. My friend explained that Trump was referring to the people who were trying to prevent the removal of confederate monuments – that he was sympathetic to their cause – not to the chant. I said that I didn’t understand his statement that way and if that was the case he needed to make it clearer. She told me that it was obvious to her that’s what he meant. I said that even if that was what he meant, those monuments needed to come down. She disagreed. She asked me if knew anything about Abraham Lincoln. I said yes. She went on to explain that Lincoln supported monuments and naming forts after confederate generals to allow the South to save face. I responded by saying that may well be, and may have made sense in 1865, but it is now 2024, and the country needs to understand that the South lost the war. Those statutes and stories can be displayed and explained in museums and history books. Monuments in public squares should help us to remember and celebrate our better selves – the people honored don’t have to be perfect, but they do have to be on the right side of history. She just shook her head saying history should be preserved. I said, let’s change the subject and we did.
The game took almost three hours. There was a lot of conversation. Most of it was ordinary stuff about family, travel, health, but we couldn’t help but return to politics every so often, after all some of those subjects involve policy. Every time we did, we had to agree to disagree. At one point she said, amused, “You’re just too woke.” I smiled and said, “Exactly – that’s no insult to me. I work at being woke.” We both laughed.
I was proud of myself. I didn’t pretend that I didn’t disagree with her, but we didn’t get heated. I was able to hold on to the good times we shared, aware of the pain she’s had in her life, the disappointments and struggles. I assume she could do the same for me. We hugged when we said our good-byes.
Gary was sitting next to his friend and former classmate, her husband, who shares her politics. After we left, Gary and I compared notes about our experience of the game. Interestingly, they had not discussed politics at all. Not surprisingly they were more focused on the game, but they talked about other subjects too – work, memories, family, being grandpas. No politics, though. I wondered how they managed that.
I am still processing the entirety of the trip. It was only 4 days, including all that driving, but it represented so much. I am also still processing the election results. It is going to take a long time to digest it all.
The best part of the game that Pitt lost – the half time show. The band was terrific.
The Baksts took Portugal. That isn’t entirely accurate. One Johnson, our son-in-law, Ben, and one Bakst-Johnson, our granddaughter, were with us. And, we didn’t take all of Portugal. Though it is small, relative to other countries, we went to only two locations – Cascais, on the coast, and Lisbon. But, we took in a good deal of those two places!
The impetus for the trip was a phone call from our daughter. She had an opportunity to present her research at a conference on neuroeconomics (what is that?) in Cascais. She wanted to go and she wanted to extend the trip to do some sightseeing and have her husband and toddler come too. She wondered if we would be willing to go and give a hand so it would be more manageable to travel with the little one. She didn’t need to ask twice.
I knew the trip would be different from any I had taken before, and I was right.
After considering staying in the resort hotel where the conference was held, we agreed that taking an Airbnb was a better option. We thought, in general, that minimizing the moving around from place to place would be less disruptive for the little one. We reserved an apartment in Cascais that wasn’t too far from the conference site and another in Lisbon. We spent five nights in Cascais and four nights in Lisbon.
All of my other overseas travel involved staying at hotels or on cruise ships. And, all of those trips, not that there were that many, were either part of a tour or were organized by a travel agent with local tour guides. This was a departure from that. I was excited to see how that might change the experience.
Aside from the difference in accommodations, there were some other obvious distinctions. When our children were toddlers, the farthest we traveled was to visit the grandparents in Florida. We were not so brave as to undertake overseas trips with little ones. I admired Leah and Ben’s willingness to give this a try. I think in asking us to join them, there would be more hands on deck and that would hopefully make it less stressful.
In addition, Yom Kippur fell during the conference. Gary and I had some discussion about that, and we considered joining them after the holiday. It was a little surprising to us that the conference was scheduled to overlap with Yom Kippur, but then again maybe it isn’t surprising. In any event, we decided it would be interesting to observe the holiday in another country. I did some online research and found that there was a Chabad in Cascais! (Chabad is a branch of Orthodox Judaism that includes as part of its mission providing opportunities for Jews to pray and observe the rituals of the religion all around the world. For instance, there is a Chabad in Shanghai.)
Usually before Gary and I travel, I do research, especially if we have time on our own, looking for museums, points of interest, national parks, gardens, etc. This time I searched for things that would appeal to children. I learned that Lisbon has a world renown aquarium. We learned when we were there that Ben’s father’s architectural firm designed it. How cool is that!
So what were my takeaways from this trip?
I loved staying in the apartment(s). We lived among people who were going to work, to school, living their lives. We went to the supermarket – we didn’t cook any meals, but we had breakfasts and lunches mostly at the apartment. I enjoyed walking in the neighborhood and getting to know the streets. Though the word gets overused, it felt more authentic than staying in a resort or hotel.
Scenes from Cascais:
Palace Condes de Castro GuimarãesThe lighthouse and marina in Cascais
Though none of us spoke Portuguese, we managed. Not everyone spoke English, but between knowing some Spanish, using Google Translate and a lot of pointing and gesturing, we communicated. Most menus offered an English version. The overlap between Spanish and Portuguese wasn’t as much as we expected, though, and the spoken language sounds more different than I realized. Sometimes Portuguese sounded almost Slavic or Germanic to my ear.
We visited so many playgrounds! Ben had an app on his phone that located playgrounds wherever we were – now that is a useful app! Our granddaughter had a great time. One playground in Cascais was in a beautiful park that had interesting sculptures and landscaped areas. It also had chickens roaming freely. We were surprised to find wild chickens commonly in parks/playgrounds, even in Lisbon!
Roosters in parks:
Park in CascaisPark in Lisbon
In general, it seemed that Portugal was more family-friendly than the United States. If you had small children, you could avoid lines. This came in especially handy when we visited Sintra – more on that in a bit. Establishments expected and accommodated strollers. The restaurants we went to had kids’ menus, too.
I don’t know how people who have mobility issues get around safely in these old cities – and they are centuries old. The sidewalks are narrow, and they are cobblestone! It looks charming and pretty but presents obstacles. The surfaces are uneven and the topography is hilly on top of that. It made for a good workout, but if a person was in a wheelchair or if they had balance issues, it would be very challenging. I am grateful that Gary and I do not face those difficulties.
Views of hilly Lisbon:
The coast of Portugal is beautiful. The ocean was wild. The currents looked strong. It wasn’t swimming weather anyway, but even if it had been, I’m not sure I would have been willing to venture in. I loved walking by it and listening to the thundering surf.
Our experience attending services at the Chabad was interesting. Security was tight – there was one entrance. Two men guarded the door and if they did not know you as a member of the congregation, they interviewed you. We were asked several questions and had to show them our passports – this was in addition to filling out an online form in advance. They were nice enough about it and we were allowed in. Not surprisingly, given that it is an orthodox synagogue, men and women sit separately. Though, I would have preferred to sit with Gary, it meant that I spent my entire time observing the women around me. They were a mix of Orthodox women (wearing modest clothes that covered their arms and legs, wearing wigs) and women in jeans and casual tops. In my experience, one doesn’t wear jeans to high holiday services. I was wearing a dress. There were a lot of children running in and out of the women’s section creating a bit of chaos. The prayers were recognizable, and melodies mostly were, too. The rabbi, who greeted us warmly when we walked in, was originally from Crown Heights in Brooklyn. His limited remarks (he didn’t give a sermon) and directions (announcing the page number, to rise or sit, etc.) were in English, he provided page numbers in Portuguese too. The prayers were in Hebrew. All in all, it felt familiar which is kind of amazing given we were in a foreign country. I didn’t get much out of the service in a spiritual sense, but that’s not unusual. I appreciated that they made the services available to us and they were welcoming.
I can’t say much about the food and drink (not meant to be a comment on our fasting for Yom Kippur, though we did fast for that one day). I enjoyed the little bit of Portuguese wine that I had. Given that most of our meals were with our granddaughter, food and drink were not a focus of our attention. Gary and I aren’t exactly foodies so this wasn’t much of a sacrifice. The food was fine. I was surprised by the number of pizza places! The pizza was good. We had good Indian and Mexican meals, too.
On our way to Lisbon we stopped in Sintra to see the Palais de Pena. Sintra is a charming, ancient town in the mountains. There are a number of castles there. For the duration of our stay in Portugal we rented a car because we thought that would be most convenient, and it was, except for traveling to Sintra. Should you choose to go, and I do recommend it, take public transit or a tour or some other means, do not drive. There was a prominent sign on the wall of a building that said “Sintra, a traffic jam in paradise,” or words to that effect. They weren’t lying. We were there on a Monday (not a holiday) and not during high season either, so I’m not sure when it might be less crowded. Anyway, the palace was spectacular and so were the views. And this was an occasion where having a toddler got us fast-tracked through the line!
Views of the Palais de Pena in Sintra:
Lisbon is a great city – vibrant, with lots of restaurants and shops. It was far more multicultural than Cascais and that was reflected in the types of restaurants and stores. We took the metro to get around and that worked out very well. It wasn’t spotless but it felt comfortable.
We stayed one extra night after the kids left to go home. We took a hop on/hop off bus. The route was great and we saw a lot, but I don’t know if it was just Gray Line (the brand we used), but the buses didn’t run that frequently. Everything took longer than it should have and the buses were so crowded people were standing in the aisles. In addition, the audio that played, which gave information about the city, wasn’t synched to what we were seeing. Perhaps another bus line would have been better because in our experience it is generally a good way to get an overview of a city.
More views of Lisbon:
Belem Tower on the Tagus River in Lisbon
We decided we would go out for an authentic Portuguese meal for dinner. We asked for a recommendation at the hotel we stayed in for that final night – the Airbnb apartment wasn’t available for that last night. The woman at the desk offered a number of possibilities. Bacalao (cod) is a dish that is considered a national tradition, so we went to a restaurant that specialized in its preparation. I like cod, and the meal was fine, but not something I would need to have again.
The house special: cod, potato and cabbage
We were glad we had the experience – the restaurant was lovely, it was busy with folks who did not appear to be tourists, the service was good – but we didn’t love the food. Dessert, I ordered the chocolate cake with strawberry sorbet, was the best part of the meal.
Our main goal in taking the trip was to bond with our granddaughter and offer support to Leah and Ben. If we got to see some beautiful sights and learn something about Portugal that would be gravy. Given our granddaughter’s delighted reaction to seeing us each morning and her playfulness with us, I think we can say: mission accomplished. And, we did indeed see beautiful places and learned a great deal. I’ll leave it to Leah and Ben to decide if we were supportive, but I suspect we did all right on that count, too.
Note: Most of the photos were taken by me. Six of them were taken by Leah, Ben or Gary, though I am not sure which ones. Sorry for the poor attribution.
In an unusual turn of events, Gary and I had a free day in New York City. The weather forecast was perfect – sunshine, no humidity, high temperature in the low 70s. I had an idea for what we should do with this unexpected free time. “Let’s go explore Brighton Beach,” I suggested.
Brighton Beach is a neighborhood in Brooklyn. It has been nicknamed “Little Odessa,” because it is home to many immigrants from Russia and Ukraine and it is by the sea (like its namesake on the coast of the Black Sea in sadly what is now war-torn Ukraine).
Usually, Gary turns his nose up at Brooklyn – it is a running joke between us. He thinks Queens is the far superior borough since that is where he grew up. It is true that when we were children more of Brooklyn was impoverished and crime-ridden; Queens had some unsafe areas, too, but more of it was middle- to upper-middle class residential neighborhoods. It has been a lot of years though since Brooklyn recovered, gentrified and became the favored place to live among hipsters and artists. Brooklyn still has rough areas, but it is nothing like it was in the ‘70s. So much has changed since I lived there.
To my surprise, Gary agreed to my proposal. He was curious about it, too. I did a bit of research online about restaurants and sites. We decided to drive, though public transportation is readily available, because it would give us more flexibility. One advantage to visiting the outer boroughs, especially if you aren’t intimidated by the prospect of driving through the streets, is that you can find free parking. Anyone who has had a car in Manhattan knows what an expensive proposition parking can be. We waited until rush hour was over, around 10:00 a.m., and headed to Brooklyn.
I can’t remember the last time I drove to Brooklyn. We headed downtown along the west side of Manhattan and went through the Hugh Carey Tunnel. Back in the day we called it the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. I took that tunnel many times with my family when we came to Manhattan to visit either of Dad’s sisters.
We emerged from the tunnel in Brooklyn and proceeded onto the Gowanus (an elevated highway with a lot of truck traffic). I remember it as a depressed industrial area on one side of that highway and residential on the other. The residential side looked better maintained and the other side seemed to have new developments, some of which was still industrial, but the area looked more vibrant than when I had last seen it.
The Gowanus took us to the Belt Parkway, the roadway that travels along the edge of Brooklyn, skirting the entrance to New York harbor and then Jamaica Bay. We passed under the Verrazzano Bridge. I thought about how big Brooklyn is and I remembered getting around the borough as a teenager on buses. There was a store not that far from the Verrazzano, Korvettes, that had good prices on records. My brother Steven, who had a huge record collection, would give me a list of albums he wanted for his birthday, and I would go to Korvettes to pick one out for him. It was quite a schlep– involving several different buses. I didn’t mind, though, riding through various neighborhoods and looking at the people and stores. Korvettes is long gone, now a Kohls and Target sit in its spot. Some things change but remain the same.
We exited the parkway and made our way to Brighton Beach Avenue, looking for parking. We noted many fruit and vegetable stands, and spotted a market bearing the name of the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent.
The influx of Russian and Ukranian immigrants to Brighton Beach began a long time ago in the 1970s. When the Soviet Union relaxed its prohibition on Jews leaving, many of them found their way to Brooklyn, especially to Brighton Beach. Then when the Soviet Union dissolved in the early 1990s another wave came – this time from the former Soviet Republics such as Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Georgia, etc. The new immigrants established shops along Brighton Beach Avenue catering to their tastes.
We found an unmetered parking spot on a residential side street. The Riegelmann Boardwalk runs along the beach – named after Peter Riegelmann, the Brooklyn Borough President in the 1920s – it stretches almost three miles through Brighton Beach past Coney Island. We got on the boardwalk where it starts and meandered almost the full length of it, passing iconic landmarks like the Cyclone, Nathan’s and the renovated aquarium. It was not yet noon, so it was quiet, everything was just opening. We passed a few fellow walkers, joggers and fishermen/women. We heard a polyglot of languages being spoken, including Yiddish. The sky was clear, there was a warm breeze, and the water glistened in the sunshine. We stopped to watch the waves breaking on the shore. Only a few umbrellas dotted the sand – public schools in New York City had opened that day so there weren’t very many people.
We reached a very long fishing pier, walked out to take in the view, and then turned around and started back.
We got off the boardwalk and went up to the avenue to look at the variety of stores and find a restaurant for lunch. The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers and merchandise. Elevated train tracks provided shade for the sidewalk. Periodically we heard the screech of the subway above us.
We looked at a few menus posted in windows and selected a restaurant that offered traditional Eastern European fare. We decided on the Ocean View Café, the menu was in what we thought was Russian (or maybe it was Ukranian) but it had English translations.
There were just a few empty tables, so it seemed to be a popular place for the locals who were speaking a Slavic language to the waitstaff. We ordered stuffed cabbage as an appetizer, chicken kebab with mashed potato and cheese blintzes, we shared each dish. The food was excellent.
We left the restaurant and were grateful to have a bit of a walk to the car. The cherry on top of our great day was that we didn’t hit much traffic heading back into Manhattan, only one bottleneck. Gary and I agreed it was a terrific outing. We timed it just right – nothing was too crowded, but it wasn’t desolate, the weather was an ideal example of late summer perfection, and we felt like we had visited another country – all while in New York City.
When I was a child, my family didn’t take many vacations. My parents were teachers and money was tight. The travel we did do was associated with my dad’s continuing education. There was one exception. We took a tour of upstate New York. We lived in Brooklyn, so this was an economical, practical choice. As I recall, Dad consulted with Uncle Jack to set the itinerary. We went to Niagara Falls, Corning and Cooperstown. Uncle Jack also suggested Ausable Chasm, but that wasn’t included since it is in the northeast corner of the state; it was too far afield from the other places and would add too many miles and too much time. For some reason, the idea of going to Ausable Chasm stuck in my mind as a place I wanted see. All these years later, Gary and I made the trip this past weekend. I’m glad we did.
When Gary cut back his schedule to three days a week back on April 1st, I had visions of taking many weekend jaunts. I have a list of places that are reasonable drives that I want to go, including Ausable Chasm. Somehow, we haven’t taken any of those jaunts. Life gets in the way and Gary’s work responsibilities have not been reduced as much as I might have hoped. But, finally this past weekend presented an opportunity, so off we went.
I looked for a bed and breakfast or inn in the area (the closest city is Plattsburgh) but I didn’t have much luck finding something for all three nights. I found one place that we could stay for one night, but they had a wedding that would take up the inn for the remainder of the weekend. I decided to book that and then find another place for the other two nights.
We arrived at the Valcour Inn and Boathouse which sits on a beautiful property that faces Lake Champlain. It was an interesting place, very comfortable and lovely, but everything was handled online – there was no person to greet us. We received instructions for checking in via email. We entered the necessary codes, and we went to our room. We had access to a wide porch that ran the length of the building that looked out on the lake.
The view from the porch
There were Adirondack chairs available – perfect to sit, read and enjoy the view. Though it felt odd not to talk to a human being, or be able to ask questions directly, the accommodations were quite comfortable. They also posted a list of recommended restaurants in the area and we chose one for lunch.
We went to Rove’s Café and Kitchen in Peru (yes, there is a Peru, New York. As a side note, it is interesting that our state has towns named Athens, Cairo, Mexico, among other famous world locations.) The café was a small, unassuming looking place. Appearances aren’t everything – our meals were terrific. We went back for breakfast on Sunday morning and again were not disappointed. It’s great to find a small, local place that serves excellent food instead of going to the ubiquitous chains.
Keeping with the theme of taking advantage of local amenities, we went to Peru High School to play tennis. It was sunny but windy which made hitting the ball a bit of an adventure, but we had fun. The tennis courts had lines for pickleball and, in fact, two different sets of people showed up to play pickleball on the court next to ours but gave up because of the wind. Score one advantage to tennis which uses a heavier ball.
After perusing Google, I found an Italian restaurant in Plattsburgh for dinner, about 10 miles north of where we were staying. Nonnalisa turned out to be excellent. Again, it didn’t have much in the way of ambiance, but the woman who waited on us, who may have been the owner, was friendly and accommodating. The food was fresh and very tasty. The shopping center where the eatery was located didn’t look too lively, it was kind of desolate actually, but the restaurant was busy. Guests at two of the other tables were speaking French, a reminder that we were close to the Canadian border.
We read that it was good to arrive at Ausable Chasm early if you want to avoid waiting on a long line to get entry tickets. The park opened at 9:00 a.m. and given Gary and my sleep patterns, getting there at that hour would not be an issue. It was good advice. The Inn provided a ‘take-away’ breakfast – a pre-packaged box with yogurt, nuts, cheese and a pastry, plus coffee and juice were offered. It proved to be quite adequate and efficient. So, we got to the park just after it opened and there was no issue parking and there were only a couple of people ahead of us to buy tickets. When we returned to the Welcome Center just before noon, the line was quite long.
Ausable Chasm offers different kinds of experiences depending on the desired level of adventure. We opted for the package that included access to the hiking trails, the walk along the river and the raft excursion (there was another level up that included rock climbing, etc.). It was just the right challenge for us. The walk along the river in the chasm involved crossing suspension bridges – the kind that bounce and sway as people walk on them. It was unnerving to know that the water was rushing over rocks about fifty feet below us, but I did it without hesitating. Yay me!
One of the two suspension bridges we crossed.
The chasm offers many beautiful views from the rim and from the bottom. It is quite a geological phenomenon. And we learned that it isn’t called a canyon because of how narrow it is. You learn something new every day!
View from the rimView of Elephant Ear from the rimview from the floor of the chasmanother view from the bottom
The walk at the bottom is led by a tour guide. After completing the path, we were left where the raft loaded. We put on life preservers and boarded the raft. The current was mild, though there were two areas of rapids, but even those were pretty tame. It was just the right amount of excitement for me. Having gone white water rafting in Quebec and getting ejected from the raft and being rescued by my son, I was pleased that this was less exhilarating.
Once we completed the water portion of our adventure, we had a choice. We could hike back to the gatehouse or take a shuttle bus. We were ready for more hiking and we took the more challenging route. We made our way through a dry chasm – which involved climbing through and around large rocks that at one time was a river bed before time and nature did its thing and rerouted the river. It wasn’t too hard, and it was very beautiful. The light filtering through the trees and our verdant surroundings were magnificent.
hiking through the dry chasmclimbing out of the chasm
We got back to the Welcome Center feeling like we had a good workout. I needed to get postcards to send to the kids and find a souvenir magnet to add to my wall back home and then we could check into our next accommodations – The Shamrock Inn which was just down the road. A shower was definitely in order – all that hiking in the heat, and I had soaked through my shirt. Not to mention that my hiking shoes and socks were sopping wet from the raft ride.
The Shamrock Inn provided a lovely room, clean and comfortable, though it was a bit small. The friendly owner, who checked us in and lived on the premises, recommended a place for lunch back up the road in Keeseville, a small café that was known for its great grilled cheese sandwiches. After cleaning up, off we went. We were not mislead. Those were killer grilled cheese sandwiches – and I got a frozen strawberry lemonade which was perfect after our morning’s efforts.
One of my favorite things about traveling is seeing different towns – how do other people live? What does a town offer that is charming or unusual? Does the town look to be thriving or is it struggling? Just driving the roads in and around the area was interesting. Fortunately, Gary shares my enthusiasm for that. Keeseville looked like it was trying to comeback from difficult times. Peru looked like a settled community with both established businesses and places that were struggling. In between we saw a mixture of beautiful lakefront homes and trailer parks. We like to look up the towns on Wikipedia, see if there’s some interesting history, what the population is…
In that vein, we went to the Museum of the Underground Railroad which is right next to Ausable Chasm. This area of the north country of New York State had a role in helping escaped enslaved people make it to freedom in Canada. We learned quite a bit about the journey and about some specific people who successfully made it and some local people who helped. We also learned how different views split church congregations in the area. It is a small museum, but worth the visit.
We had one more day in the area and we decided to go across Lake Champlain to Burlington, Vermont, which involved taking a short ferry ride. We rented bicycles and rode along the Burlington Greenway Bike Path which skirts the lake and traverses a causeway that connects the mainland of Vermont to Grand Isle. It was a beautiful ride that took us through forested areas, we passed public beaches, and then to the causeway. We rode 9 miles out and then turned around.
the causeway part of the bike path
We didn’t go all the way across to Grand Isle. 18 miles was sufficient for us, given that we had not biked at all in quite some time. My legs were aching, and Gary’s butt was complaining, but it was well worth it. We rewarded ourselves with cocktails and lunch after returning the bikes. There was a restaurant on the water right across from the rental place. It was wonderful to sit in the shade, drink some water and sip a pina colada.
Me after 18 miles in 85 degree heat – I did it!
All good things must end. It was time to go home – back to the grind of work for Gary and back to my routines. Three days went by quickly, but it did feel like a mini vacation. We did all that I hoped to – satisfied my curiosity about a place I had heard of as a child, took in the beauty that is the north country of New York State, spent quality time together, learned some history, got a good deal of exercise and enjoyed good food. I look forward to our next three-day jaunt whenever and wherever that might be.
After Mom died at the end of February, I felt like I needed a reset. The last couple of years have been difficult. Though I was not the primary caregiver for either my mother or Aunt Clair, I was very involved in their medical decision-making. I accompanied them to doctors’ appointments. I visited them and tried to provide comfort. It was a painful process watching them deteriorate and being powerless to change the inevitable. Not to mention the grief I felt and feel when they were gone.
I also faced my own abdominal surgery to remove what turned out to be a benign cyst – it was actually my left adrenal gland that had hemorrhaged. While I only had a long weekend of worry before I knew it wasn’t cancer, it was still surgery under general anesthesia. The recovery was uneventful, but not without its discomforts.
All of the stress involved in these circumstances left me drained. I was not taking good care of myself. I was on the road a lot, driving over three hours each way to see Mom, and making poor food choices, stopping at Dunkin’ Donuts or McDonald’s instead of finding healthier options. There is a long tradition in my family of seeking comfort in food and I succumbed to that impulse too many times.
I thought it would be helpful if I could go someplace and gather my thoughts, get into a better rhythm. I have never gone on a retreat before, but the idea appealed to me. I wasn’t looking for spa treatments, though a massage might be nice. I was imagining some yoga, healthy food, a walk in the woods. I heard of some places like Kripalu in the Berkshires, Omega Institute in Rhinebeck in the Hudson Valley, and Canyon Ranch in several locations.
I looked them up online and read what they offered. Kripalu seemed closest to what I was looking for. I talked to Gary about it and he was fully supportive. I signed myself up for three days of retreat and renewal. They offered structured programs of varying lengths, but I wasn’t so much interested in something that formal. I wanted more flexibility. Fortunately they offered that option too.
Kripalu offers different levels of accommodations which are priced accordingly. I chose a private, dorm-style room where the bathroom would be on the hall. The idea of sharing a bathroom didn’t bother me, but I wasn’t looking for a roommate.
As I anticipated my time away, I was a bit nervous. I had not done yoga in years. There was a time, about a decade ago, where I was doing it regularly but I was never a serious student of it. I was afraid I would be in over my head. Perhaps people who went to these things were committed yoga practitioners. I called Kripalu, before I put my money down, and asked: Is this appropriate for someone of my age and level of experience (or lack thereof)? I was reassured that they offered programming that met me where I was.
I was still nervous about it, but decided I would take the risk. What’s the worst that would happen? I would try a class and if I really couldn’t manage it, I didn’t have to go again. The classes were voluntary. I could spend my time reading, relaxing and taking in the Berkshires if it came to that.
It didn’t come to that. I had a great experience.
I checked in and got settled in my room. It was small, like a single dorm room. It did have a sink which I appreciated. It also had a lovely view of the lake, they call it the Stockbridge Bowl.
the view from my window – beautiful even in the rain/fog
This would be the first time since college that I would use a communal bathroom and shower. I wondered if it would bother me. It didn’t. They kept it spotless, and I think during my three days I might’ve crossed paths with another person only a couple of times.
I studied the schedule of classes/workshops and planned out my time. They told me that Gentle Yoga would be appropriate for me. They offered more vigorous classes, but I was quite challenged by the gentle version. The biggest difference from ten years ago was my balance, though my flexibility and strength weren’t what they used to be either. But I didn’t feel self-conscious about it. Everyone seemed to be focused on themselves and the teachers were encouraging. I did the best I could and felt reasonably good about it. I did a yoga class once each day. As I remembered from my previous experiences, I particularly enjoyed Savasana, the final ten minutes when you lay on your back (or choose a comfortable position) close your eyes and breathe while soft, soothing music plays…very calming.
I took two hikes. Each was guided by a staff person. I loved the approach they took. They began with a short meditation, and they suggested that during the walk out – in one case we hiked down to the side of the Stockbridge Bowl (walking through some woods and meadows in route) and the other we climbed up to a pond – that we walk in social silence. In other words, we traveled as a group, but without chatting. They wanted us to pay attention to our surroundings, listen, see and smell nature. They asked that we leave our phones in our pockets, not even to take pictures. I thought that was great – took the pressure off. When we arrived at the destination we sat quietly for a few minutes. In one case the guide read us a poem. After a time of taking it all in, the guide said if folks wanted to take photos or chat, they were welcome to; if you wanted to continue in silence, that was fine too. On each return trip I chatted with people. It was a great balance. I did notice a difference in how much I took in when we walked quietly versus when I talked with someone, but I enjoyed both experiences in different ways. Here are some views from my hikes:
the pondthe path by the lakei love light on water
Another interesting aspect of Kripalu is that they ask that breakfast be eaten silently. There are signs up around the dining hall and other spaces where you can take your meal asking that you respect the silence. (In fact some folks come to Kripalu for a silent retreat – they spend their days in silence.) The sign on the table explained that they urged you to be present while you were eating your first meal of the day – to pay more attention to the tastes and how your body felt. Again, I found it to be a great practice. This only applied to breakfast, other meals were social. For all meals, though, they ask that you not use electronic devices – they preferred that you use a physical book, but people did use e-readers. The prohibition on electronic devices extended all over the campus. There were designated areas where they were permitted and of course you could use them in your room. I loved being free of my phone. Most of the time I left it in my room, unless I knew I wanted to use the camera.
I have more to share about the workshops I took, but I will save that for another essay. It has been over a month since I returned from my retreat. While I wish I felt as energized as I did in the days immediately after my return, I can’t say that is true. I do carry the lessons I learned, the peacefulness I experienced and the spirit of it within me. I am sure I will return to do it again.
We were on our annual pilgrimage to the Mets’ Spring Training in Port St. Lucie, Florida. Gary is a lifelong Met fan and we have been fortunate over the last five years, Covid notwithstanding, to join friends and watch some preseason games while getting a break from the harsh Albany winter.
We began our trip with a 6 a.m. flight. When I book a 6 a.m. flight I have good reasons for doing so. I think it is far less likely to be delayed and we will get to our destination early, leaving us a good part of the day to get settled and enjoy ourselves. The reality of the 6 a.m. flight though is painful, and I wonder if it is worth it. We are lucky that Albany Airport is small and only 15 minutes from our house. But even with that, we had to be up and at ‘em by 4 a.m. A lot of sleep is sacrificed.
As we approached the airport there was a sign saying that the only parking available was in the economy lot. I was grateful for the warning – saved us driving around in a fruitless effort to find a spot in the lots that are closer. They even had a guy at the gate telling us to go to row V – that’s where there were openings. Again, I was impressed. This was well organized. Not only that, but the shuttle bus was waiting for us at the end of the row so once we parked, we hopped on and got to the terminal very efficiently. Score three for Albany Airport.
Travel these days can be quite stressful. I don’t know if it is that everything is understaffed, but it isn’t uncommon to stand in long lines for everything from checking bags to security to getting coffee. Years ago, we signed up for TSApre. In some airports it doesn’t offer much of an advantage, but it sure does in Albany. Though it was still only about 4:45 am, the line wrapped around itself many times. The TSApre line was short. As we passed hundreds of people, Gary whispered to me, “It’s great that no one signs up for this. I hope it stays that way!” I probably shouldn’t write this as it might jeopardize the advantage we enjoy.
Everything was going entirely too smoothly. Gary found the place with the shortest line to get us coffee. On the other hand, it was Burger King so it wasn’t great, but it still had caffeine. We boarded the plane without incident. The flight was smooth. We both watched “The Holdovers,” a very enjoyable movie that had humor and emotion.
I knew something had to go wrong. I’ve never traveled to Florida without enduring trials and tribulations. I’ve lost my phone, gotten my laptop crushed, suffered food poisoning, had my usual floaters (a routine condition in my vision) escalate to the point that we had to go to the emergency room – all on prior visits The list can go on. What would it be this time?
When we landed, as is our custom, I went to text our kids that we had arrived safely. My phone, though, would not connect to a network. Instead of bars, it displayed SOS. That was an inauspicious sign. I had never seen that before. Gary’s phone had the same problem. I figured once we got into the terminal it would connect. Nope. Still no service.
We retrieve our luggage, which took a while. Every so often I rebooted my phone to see if we had service. Still no. Gary connected his phone to the wifi network in the airport and learned that AT&T, our provider, was experiencing nationwide problems and in some areas service was down.
We got to the rental car agency. Still no service. We needed to provide proof of car insurance in order to decline their exorbitant extra fees; I had never been asked that before. We had no phone to contact our agent. The clerk behind the counter, a nice guy, gave us the office landline to use. After being on hold a fair amount of time, we got through that and produced the needed proof.
We still didn’t have phone service and now it was time to head to our hotel. It had been a long time since we drove anywhere without a GPS app. I asked the clerk for a map. He said they didn’t have them anymore. Not surprising.
Okay, we knew the general direction we needed to travel – north. We would have to figure things out old school.
We pulled out of the lot and saw a highway and headed toward it. It was the wrong highway, but it helped orient us. We turned right and headed north. We came to a red light. We needed to find our way to I-95. I rolled down my window and yelled out to a guy who was putting something in the back of his pick-up truck. “Excuse me, sir!” I got his attention. “Which way to I-95?” He pointed – we needed to make a left at the light. “Thank you!” He was a young guy, that may have been the first time he had ever been asked directions. Happily he didn’t lead us astray.
I knew our hotel wasn’t far off of the interstate. We drove north and fortunately spotted it. We figured out how to get to it from the exit – we still had common sense.
Though it felt strange not to have access to GPS, or the other smartphone apps, for those hours, we were proud of ourselves! We managed to get where we had to go. We were relieved that service was restored shortly after we arrived at the hotel. The idea of managing without it for more than a few hours was daunting. It was a reminder that, if pressed, we could still function without it, but wouldn’t want to have to.
Note: I wrote this piece mostly in Florida. I wanted it to be light-hearted. I didn’t know when I began it that something else would go wrong while we were in the Sunshine State – something much more serious. My Mom took a turn for the worse on the second day we were there. I don’t blame Florida for this. I decided to keep this piece light. Learning that the end was near for Mom and debating whether to return home immediately or stay for the few days we had planned will be a topic for another essay at another time.
Last week was difficult. My mom’s health has continued to deteriorate, and it has presented challenges to get her needs met. Suffice it to say that elder care in this country is imperfect – and that is a generous assessment. We are a family with resources but even with that, it can be hard (perhaps impossible) to find services that match her needs. I feel for folks who don’t have the financial wherewithal or time or knowledge to navigate this terrain. And that doesn’t even touch on the emotional toll all of this takes and the baggage we may be bringing to our decision-making. So, Saturday night, when I could finally breathe, I realized that I had Sunday to myself before diving back in to Mom’s care. And it was supposed to be a sunny day! Not warm exactly, but warm enough. I decided I could be a tourist in my hometown – New York City.
When I was old enough to go from Brooklyn to Manhattan by myself or with a friend, I loved exploring. They used to have city buses that ran ‘culture loops.’ It was an inexpensive way to see the sights. I went to museums, I visited landmarks, I window shopped. I especially enjoyed observation decks – I went to the top of the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center multiple times – they weren’t that expensive back in the day. I loved walking the avenues and side streets, finding interesting buildings and people-watching.
I thought about how I might spend my Sunday. I had read about a new observation deck, The Summit. It is next to Grand Central at One Vanderbilt and stretches upward for 93 floors. The observation area is comprised of three floors and includes an art installation or two. Decision made. I would check this out. I bought a ticket online. It was not cheap.
Before starting my day of touring, I accompanied Gary to the Amtrak Station. Though I had taken the train from Albany several times since the new Moynihan Hall opened, I had not seen it. Somehow when I exited the train in Penn Station and made my way to the subway, I missed the new part. So, this first stop revealed a new sight – a vast improvement from the old, dingy station I was accustomed to. I said goodbye to Gary, he was heading home to go to work on Monday. I would have enjoyed having him join me on my adventure, but there are advantages to not having to worry about anyone else’s preferences.
I exited the station and started walking east and north. I was reminded again that New York City is beautiful. Yes, it can be dirty and gritty, but the parts I traversed were not. The architecture can be so interesting. You also find hidden gems, like this in front of the Polish Consulate on Madison and East 37th Street.
I am also often struck by how the sunlight makes its way through the caverns created by the buildings and casts shadows. The sun was brilliant, and the air was crisp and clear.
My ticket was for 12:00. When I arrived at One Vanderbilt there was quite a long line for the noon entry. I should have anticipated that it would be crowded – it was the weekend and it is New York! Somehow, I had forgotten about that. They had it well organized, with sufficient staff shepherding us through the process – the line snaked around kind of like it does at Disney World. We had to go through security, too. They issued booties – a good portion of the floors up top are mirrored and they don’t want them to get scuffed. You aren’t allowed to wear stilettos – not a worry for me since I’ve never worn a pair in my life! They also provided sunglasses, they warned that it was quite bright up there, but I had my own. It took a while to get through the whole process and I wondered if it was going to be worth it.
The final hallway before the elevator is darkened and there’s dramatic music playing. I guess they are trying to play up the excitement. I could imagine it being a bit scary for young ones. They also warn you if you are sensitive to flashing lights or loud noises that you should tell the staff.
Finally, I got on the elevator and we flew up to the 91st floor.
It was worth the wait. The views are stunning. The mirrored walls and floors create a wild, pixelated scene.
Though it was likely designed for the Tik Tok generation, I loved it. There were young folks making the most of it, creating what I am sure were super cool selfies or portraits of partners or friends, but I was surprised to find that it didn’t annoy me. It was interesting. I was mostly focused on taking in the vistas and people were considerate. They took their pictures but kept moving so you could get to the windows. Since the air was so clear you could see across Brooklyn, Queens, New Jersey, Westchester. You get a full appreciation for New York Harbor and the waterways that flow from it. All I can say is wow!
The art installations were cool, too. One room had mirrored balloons floating around. This was designed by Marie Kusawa and I enjoy her work – so whimsical and fun.
Naturally there were opportunities to spend more money – but you don’t have to buy anything in the gift shop or the café (there is also an open air terrace where you could bring the drink purchased at the cafe). You don’t have to buy the photos they take. But, there is no denying that it can get expensive. The base price, just to take the elevator and walk through the three floors of observation areas and installations is $42 for an adult. It was worth it to me.
There is a glass ledge you can step out on – they take a picture of you there. I bought this one. I tried to take my own photo, didn’t come out nearly as good.
It was a great day. Accomplished just what I needed it to. Now I will get back to the real world.
Money can be a great thing. Not a surprising a statement. This notion was reinforced by the tour we took of Olana, home of Frederick Church, one of the significant painters of the Hudson River School. Church was born into a monied family. He may have disappointed his father when he announced his plan to be an artist as a teenager, but he had the luxury of making that choice. He was able to pursue and fulfill his dream. He wasn’t under pressure to make money; he could take his family on an 18-month trip to Europe and the Middle East without worrying about where his next dollar was coming from. He could come back inspired by all he had seen, buying knick-knacks and artwork, and full of ideas for building his own home in Hudson, New York. Olana was born at least in part from that trip and thanks to his vision we can enjoy his property today.
Olana, we learned, didn’t just refer to the building – which was the family home; it referred to the whole property including the acres of land surrounding it. Church viewed the whole thing, the land and his home, as a unified piece of art. Church would buy parcels as they came up for sale in order to preserve the views he found so inspiring. Here are two views from our walk of the property:
He painted many landscapes of the Catskills and Hudson River from here. When Church arrived in the area, the land had been clear cut of trees. The property was barren. He wanted to restore its natural habitat. It was the fashion of the time to plant exotic trees and plants, bringing home flora from Europe and the Middle East, but Church didn’t adopt that approach. He used native trees, and he purposely left open spaces to frame vistas. He took an artist’s approach to the project, specifying where the plantings should end so he could have a pleasing view of the mountains, rivers and farms that surrounded his property. We are fortunate that Church was a visionary. He left us a magnificent place to explore and appreciate the beauty that Is the Hudson Valley.
While we were walking the land, our guide pointed out a small cement factory that we could see in the distance. A number of years ago there had been a proposal to build another factory that would have included a 40-story smokestack. The idea was moving ahead until some in the area got wind of it and objected. Ultimately, the plan was defeated. The guide believed that if the plan had gone ahead, it would have ruined Olana. I wondered if that was the case. A view would have certainly been diminished but did that mean that Olana could no longer be a place people would want to visit and hike? Would it literally have ruined Olana? Certainly if the emissions from the smokestack were noxious, it would have. The question is moot since the State rejected the proposal.
After the last of the heirs of Church died, the land and house became a New York State Park. I am in favor of preserving wild spaces, especially for public use. But there is a balance. Economic development is also important. People need to make a living. Many towns in the Catskills have struggled and lost population. Our guide explained that Olana itself is not an insignificant employer in the region. It is a dilemma faced all over the country – the tension between development and preservation; these tensions are regularly encountered in the Adirondacks. I don’t reflexively reject development. I want to understand the implications, the costs and benefits, before coming to a conclusion. Unfortunately, it can be hard to come by good information on that. I think many of us have a knee jerk reaction to these issues. We can be predisposed to believe that any encroachment on nature is a negative thing (especially when it involves our own property or neighborhood), or we may automatically support anything that promises more jobs and tax revenue. Neither of those reactions are useful in effective policymaking.
As we finished our walk of the property, the guide asked us what we thought of the house – meaning the design of the structure. All of us on the tour liked it but saw different things in it. Some were reminded of an Italian palazzo; others saw Middle Eastern touches. It is something of a mish-mosh.
Money does give you options that most of us don’t have. Church found folks who were willing and able to fulfill his vision.
Money can also make people crazy. It can be a trap. Frederick Church enjoyed his largesse. He connected with many of the accomplished people of his day. Prominent people from New York City visited him at Olana. Other folks in that circle were not so fortunate. We learned on the tour of the Wittgenstein family of Vienna, the patriarch was a contemporary of Church, and one of the richest families in the world. Several members of that family committed suicide and the one remaining son gave all the money away. Money does not buy happiness. We can forget that when we are in the midst of challenging times. When we are barely making ends meet, or the ends aren’t meeting, it is understandable to think that having more money would solve all our problems. There is no doubt that money can help with a myriad of issues, but it doesn’t solve loneliness, or bad decision-making. Apparently, Frederick Church did not struggle with those issues and he left us a legacy we can enjoy.
There was a ubiquitous advertising campaign when I was growing up – “You don’t have to be Jewish to love Levy’s Rye.” I can see the poster in my mind’s eye plastered on buses and the walls of subway stations. A picture of a cute Chinese boy with a sandwich.
This ad came to mind as I was thinking about one aspect of our trip to the Eastern European capitals. We took tours of the Jewish Quarters of Budapest (Hungary) and Bucharest (Romania). The tour guides were not Jewish, but they showed a deep appreciation and knowledge of Judaism and the culture associated with it. As tour guides, one would expect a certain familiarity with the topic, but not necessarily warmth or affection. In the current environment, given the heightened tensions and increasing boldness of antisemites, I had not expected their sincerity or openness. But, the truth is, as with all groups, you shouldn’t have to be a member to appreciate what that group brings to the table (literally or figuratively).
I was moved by the attitudes of our guides. They came to their interest through their own personal journeys. In one case because of a romantic relationship that led her to live in Israel for 7 years, and when that relationship ended, she maintained her connection, though she had not converted. In the other case academic study of history led to curiosity and more research into Judaism. As part of that process, she became acquainted with the production manager of the Yiddish Theater in Bucharest and arranged for us to meet him – more about that in a bit.
In Budapest the area we explored is still called the ‘Jewish Quarter’ and there are some Jewish residents, but not many. The name is a relic of a time long ago. We walked the narrow streets, learning that it is an area that is now popular among young people because of the restaurants, bars and shops. It is also home to the largest synagogue in Europe – the Dohany Street Synagogue.
Before we toured the synagogue, we stopped at the shoe memorial that lines the Danube River, a display that commemorates the murder of Budapest’s Jews by shooting them into the river which occurred between December of 1944 and early January of 1945. Our guide didn’t sugarcoat things – she acknowledged that Hungary fought on the side of the Nazis and that their fascist party, the Black Arrow, orchestrated the round up and murder of the remaining Jews. I wasn’t expecting that unvarnished acknowledgement but was grateful for it. The memorial was created in 2005, marking the 60th anniversary of those horrific events. The shoes are a poignant and painful symbol of the human beings lost. Men, women and children swept into the current leaving only their shoes as tangible evidence of their existence. Hungary today has a Jewish population of about 47,500 in total, with many living in and around Budapest. Before World War II Budapest alone had a Jewish population of 200,000, with an estimated 825,000 in the country as a whole.
Our next stop was the synagogue. Since we were traveling after the attack by Hamas on October 7, security was heightened. Entries were timed and by appointment only. We went through metal detectors and our bags were checked. The synagogue is so impressive – and reminded me, in its grandeur, of many churches we had visited throughout Europe. I believe the sanctuary could hold 3000.
Neither my family nor Gary’s had roots in Hungary, so we were not tracing our family tree. Oddly enough, one of the names on the headstones we saw in the cemetery next to the shul for Jews killed in the Budapest ghetto during the war years was Sandor Bruder – Bruder was my paternal grandfather’s original last name, he changed it to Brody when he arrived in America. It was chilling to see the name on a grave, but I have no knowledge of an actual connection.
Another note of significance is that the Dohany Street Synagogue was where Theodore Herzl, widely considered the father of modern Zionism, was born and raised. Mount Herzl, the home of Israel’s national cemetery in Jerusalem, is named after him.
Memorial to the victims of the Holocaust in the courtyard of the Dohany Street Synagogue
The tour of the Jewish Quarter was arranged through our cruise company, Viking. There were about 15 of us and I don’t think most of the others, aside from my brother-in-law and his wife were Jewish. I found it interesting that they chose this tour – there were other options. Again, it was heartening to think that folks who didn’t share our heritage were interested enough to make this choice.
Our tour of the Jewish Quarter in Bucharest, Romania was arranged privately so it was just the four of us. The guide, Alina, asked us if we would want to meet the production manager of the Yiddish Theater if he was available. We were shocked to learn that there was a Yiddish theater, neither the city nor the country has a Yiddish speaking population that would seem to support it. We had no idea what to expect but were happy to see the theater and hear what the manager had to say. After walking through the area and viewing the outside of three synagogues – they were each locked because of security concerns in view of the war in Gaza (two were museums, one continued to host religious observances) – and learning about the history and current status of the Jewish community in Bucharest, we headed to the theater.
The production manager, George-Marcel, limped into the lobby to greet us, he was having some knee problems, but that didn’t get in the way of his showing us his pride and joy – the theater. He shared his own history, in English, telling us that decades ago he was at a low point in his life, working a job that brought him no satisfaction, when he heard about a position at the theater as a cleaner. He explained that as soon as he walked into the building, he felt he was at home. The people were accepting. The spirit of the place touched him. Though he was not Jewish, he identified with the stories that were being told. “Their story is our story,” he said, “their history is our history.” He didn’t see the history of the Jewish people as separate from that of the Romanian people. This resonated with me – the world would be a better place if we all believed that. Rather than confining our focus to our own traditions or limiting our understanding to our own tribe, if we embraced learning about each other and thus discovering our common humanity, there would be a much greater chance of peace in this world.
Images of the Yiddish Theater
Over the many years George-Marcel worked there, he took on more and more responsibility, eventually becoming the production manager. In the process he learned more Yiddish and Hebrew than I’ll ever know. He also built relationships with the artists who came through, as well as the small regular staff. The theater receives some government funding, not enough to keep it solvent but something to build on. They stay afloat with additional donations. It was interesting to us that the government, I don’t recall if it was the city or national government, values their work enough to continue funding it. The theater does put on other productions and collaborates on different projects but continues to offer Yiddish plays and musicals. Like with opera, a translation is projected above the stage so the audience can follow along.
After the tour, we went to George-Marcel’s small office, filled with knick-knacks, where a large Israeli flag hung against the wall next to his desk. One of the things common to the countries we visited, particularly Hungary, Serbia and Romania, was the popularity of home brewed brandy – which was called different names in each place. George-Marcel took an unmarked clear bottle from his bottom desk drawer, distributed paper cups and poured a bit in each and we toasted. ‘L’Chaim!’ His homemade brew was made from apples, but my palette didn’t detect anything other than alcohol. The warmth I felt as the liquid made its way down my throat matched the warmth in the room. George-Marcel asked us to sign his guest book which we did, expressing our thanks for his welcoming us and for sharing his knowledge. We wished each other well.
In the lobby of the theater – our tour guide, Alina, in front, George-Marcel between us
It was the last day of our trip, and it was a wonderful note to end on. Though we were thousands of miles from home in a country so different from our own, we made a connection that we will remember for a long time to come.
In honor of the fifth night of Hanukkah, here is a display of menorahs in the museum of the Dohany Street Synagogue.
Note: If you are in Bucharest, Alina offers other tours of the city as well – we would heartily recommend her – alina@wheninbucharest,.com
Stories I Tell Myself 