He Knew All The Words

There’s a website I’ve been reading called The 3six5, which takes the form of a “personal journal”-style blog, but with each day of the year written by a different person. Not long ago, I saw on Twitter that they were still looking for writers and I applied to be one of the November authors. I was assigned November 18, which was yesterday. I spent my day in Philadelphia and then on the ride home to NYC I wrote my entry and submitted it. It’s posted here.

Update almost a year later:
The site is no longer there. Here’s the entry:
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Nothing is more like a thing than the thing itself, and today was a Sunday par excellence, full of redemption and history and black coffee and whiskey. With the NYC marathon canceled after Hurricane Sandy, Laura applied for—and got!—a spot in Philadelphia’s race. So I urban-adventured from New York to the City of Brotherly Love, with not enough sleep, my friend Matthew, and good cheer and cheering packed in our bags and printed on our marathon signs.

We arrived perfectly in time to see Laura just before she crossed the finish line. We bellowed and waved and bobbed our signs. She waved and smiled and filled us with pride. Beyond the finish line, she was exhausted and deliciously delirious, saying all she immediately wanted was to go shopping for a new dress. We all wandered through our awe together, then sent her on her way.

The rest of the day blurred by disturbingly quickly. Cocktails and a tapas lunch, the Liberty Bell, a horrifying collection of diseased flesh at the Mütter Museum, one knocked-back drink in an Irish pub. Stone and brick, beautiful old buildings with ugly new facades, the quiet of a weekend’s pace—the city is charming and lonely, another clear signal for Sunday.

Friendship pulses through time like blood in the veins of those horrific specimens once did. And today is just one day. Matthew is barely older than my friendship with Laura. How well do we know each other? How well do we know ourselves? I wonder if we’ll still all be friends another 26.2 years from now.

Heading east, toward the past, as the sun went down, I felt the draw of home. But the bourbon in my belly gave me a hunger for the next—next adventure west, next bite of something sweet. Marking miles and milestones makes for almost instant nostalgia. Remember that time we went to Philly to see Laura run? Remember when we crossed the Delaware, leaving Jersey behind, leaving Pennsylvania behind, in a raking autumn light? Our declared freedom itself was a perfectly Sunday kind of declaration. We found common cause in our day’s hours, and ran circles round time itself.

I’ve been a bit overloaded since the beginning of my autumn vacation season. Having plowed quickly through some entries on my Vienna trip, many entries are yet to be written for Paris, Lyon, Montpellier, Lagrasse, and — now, having just returned — Mexico City. I’m working on it. Check back soon.

For now, a short photo preview.

Paris

Lyon

Montpellier

Lagrasse

Mexico City

Friday, September 14
New York

I usually get sick after getting on airplanes, but the universe had other things in mind for me this time. I was sick as a dog for two weeks leading up to my vacation. Things at work were busy as they always are in September, and as things reached a fever pitch I worried that my trip to Vienna would consist solely of lying in my hotel bed recovering for four days. Luckily, my illness began its retreat a few days before my departure and when I got to Vienna I was more or less fine, but for a lingering deep-chested cough.

I only slept a few hours the night before I left. Coffee and Advil got me through to 2pm, when I left the office for the airport, amid thoughts of how absolutely unprepared I was for this trip. I didn’t really do much research into Vienna, but I did a bit of last-minute planning, and anyway it wouldn’t hurt me to just relax and wing it a bit. I had the possibility of meeting up with a curator at the MUMOK, the modern museum, by way of a mutual friend at MoMA here in NYC. He sounded busy when I was first in touch, but I’d try again when I got there. And I had a ticket for the opera, and a long list of museums I wanted to see.

This is a particularly uncomfortable plane. Also it’s the first one I’ve ever seen with no passenger air vents at all. It’s gonna be eight hours of ear fever. However, I miraculously ended up in a row with no one in the middle seat. Hallelujah.

I’m glad I arranged a car for Vienna. I don’t feel like navigating a train in German. I wonder if Austrian German is different from German German.

We’ve backed away from the gate.

I’m sweating. I love New York. But my god I am happy to be leaving it behind for a few weeks. I forgot to call my neighbors. I forgot to call Barclays.

Oh these video screens have POV feeds from the front of the plane. Love that. The sun’s low in the sky and reflecting prettily off the water beyond the tarmac. The Verrazano bridge is lovely in silhouette. Ah, there’s WTC1. I’m actually about to cry. From stress, frustration, confusion, relief. Other planes take off on bent wings. The orangey red of Austrian‘s pillows glows to match the raking sunlight.

I’m so sleepy. Lulled further by this POV video. The slow winding yellow line guiding us to the runway. Are we there yet? We still have so far to go. Now following another plane, as it elegantly turns out of view.

Another crosses. We turn. I see the Empire State.

Planes diverge in a field of asphalt. We’re alone on our path. Now the pastel chalk of low-res camera feeds kaleidoscopes into something abstract. It’s not like looking out the front window, where context and peripheral vision give our brains more pieces with which to build the world. It is instead a dizzyingly abstract peephole looking onto some strange, desolate land where there are only 256 colors.

We rest.

We continue, turn toward a lighted lane. Did I bring with me everything I need?

The engines swell. We race forward.

We have embarked.

Saturday, September 15
Vienna

Well I didn’t sleep much on the plane, despite my exhaustion and Valium. It was quite bumpy all night and I kept getting shaken awake. We arrived 45 minutes early, which was great for getting my body off the damned plane, but bad for not being able to check in to the hotel till 1pm. Anyway, my car was waiting for me at the airport, with a handsome young Turkish driver. Guten morgen!

I arrived at the hotel bleary-eyed, left my bags, and strolled out into the center of a sunny Vienna just waking up, 9am. I strolled to nearby Stephansdom — St. Stephen’s Cathedral — which was lovely with its crazy colorful roof. But I was too out of it to feel like paying to see its main altar. Perhaps I would return to see it and the bell tower later.

I decided to stroll and get lost. Wandered through the pedestrian-only area of the historical city center, where my hotel was. It’s all Forever21, Prada, H&M, and McDonalds, which is weird, but with absolutely beautiful architecture. I headed north to the canal, then circled back. Sunshine and autumn breezes made it quite pleasant, and my zombie-like demeanor made it all unreal. Eventually I wound my way to the Ringstrasse, which rings this inner part of the city. I saw the opera house, Sacher Hotel, Michaelerplatz and all the amazing buildings there — Hofburg Palace, with the Spanish Riding School, National Library, etc., and Volksgarten park.

Across the Ring was the main museum district, and with more than two hours to go before I could check in, I decided to plunge into the Kunsthistorisches Museum, which was more or less the reason for my coming to Vienna. It is a stunning building — grand and imposing, with the heaviest old door that opens with a turn of a handle and the full weight of the body. I went straight for the Bruegels, as I knew I would have trouble with stamina given my condition. Well, I spent a good hour in Saal IX with about a dozen Bruegel paintings. The Tower of Babel, Children’s Games, the autumn and winter paintings — just mind-blowingly great. Strange, detailed, encyclopedic compositions, with a reverence for peasants and even more so for nature and landscape. These paintings made me feel as tiny as standing on a beach looking out at the black ocean at night. I moved on to Rubens — a vast and high-quality collection of them, including a Lamentation of Christ that moved me deeply. I can only imagine what a believer would feel looking at this — with Christ’s flesh rendered the color of vomit and the anguish of John and the Virgin absolutely riveting. Van Dyck, Dürer, sure. Out in the main rotunda they have built a scaffolding up to the arches just below the ceiling so visitors can see the early murals of Klimt. Gorgeous and vertiginous. I was delirious at this point, so I left without seeing Titian, Tintoretto, and the other Venetians. I planned to visit the Bruegels again anyway.

Then more wandering, a pastry, a stroll through Michaelerplatz, some live music there from a seated band that then got up and marched right toward me. Heading toward the hotel I stopped at one of the ubiquitous Wiener Würstl stands. I had a kāsekrainer — sausage with cheese inside. It was sliced, served on a little square paper plate with a big dollop of spicy mustard and a slice of brown bread in a napkin. It was heavenly. I had time for a gelato, so I had one — chocolate and fiore di latte. Then I finally checked into my hotel.

Hotel Kaiserin Elisabeth is terrific — somewhat formal, but stripped down to a bare formalism that I would come to learn was very Viennese. Narrow hallways, framed mirrors, a staircase circling the tiny elevator. Haltingly formal but pleasant service. The room was large and quiet, with hardwood floors and area rugs. The bed was an austere affair — two firm single futons on a large wood frame, with simple white bedding. I took off my clothes and collapsed into it. I slept from 2pm till 6pm, and I didn’t care about wasting the day. I needed it.

I awoke and “showered” and dressed. I wandered around the cool evening targeting two of the restaurants I had read about on Galerie St. Etienne‘s helpful Guide to Vienna — I’d choose between Novelli and Vestibül. Vestibül is in the Burgtheater building. It was empty when I arrived at 7:30pm so I wandered out past Cafe Landtmann (famous as a power hub), circled back, and aimed for Novelli to see what its vibe was. Despite having the address, a map, and GPS I couldn’t find it. I learned later it’s become something else.

So back to Vestibül, which had also been featured on both the NY Times’ recommendations and New York Magazine as well. Now it was full. I tried my two German sentences out on them: “Ich spreche kein Deutsch” and “Ich habe nicht eine Reservierung.” No matter — they spoke English and they had a table for me. A wonderful small dining room awaited me — all marble and grandeur (it was, obviously, the vestibule of the theater). White tablecloths and a seemingly mostly local clientele. A cheery, plump blonde woman was my server. After I ordered in English, a woman at the table next to me — also dining alone — asked me, “What brings you to Vienna?” “Bruegel,” I replied and smiled. She was impressed, as it turns out she’s a paintings conservator at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, visiting Vienna for a conference. We had a lovely, meandering conversation throughout the meal, with long pauses when we would retreat to dining alone. I had the tasting menu — duck, thinly sliced, served with puree of pumpkin. It was perfectly autumnal. Then veal — some sliced thin and rare, and a thick piece that was braised or stewed — cooked to tender perfection and covered in a thick gravy. It was accompanied by peas, snap peas, and a wedge of braised lettuce with a lemon zing to it. Great. For dessert, even though I was in notoriously sweet-toothed Vienna, I opted for cheese over sweets. A blue roquefort was brought out, with walnuts and pear. Wow. I had a zippy glass of white wine with the duck and two glasses of their house red — a zweigelt — with the rest of the meal. The red was dry and complex, dark and leathery. The meal was €85, and totally worth it.

I walked slowly back to Hotel Kaiserin Elisabeth through empty streets. I planned to drink a whisky from the minibar and write in my diary. Instead, I simply collapsed into bed and slept like a fucking rock.

The complete series of photos from Vienna can be viewed here.

Commence the vacating of the vacation. Ticket. Baggage. VAT. Security. Board. Valium. Sleep. Home.

Eyes take your last look. The Paris of Marie and Marco’s 50th anniversary, the city of lights that opened itself to me and my family, the magical place that allowed me a last-minute cocktail (or two) with Carter, is about to retreat. The chimneys go dark. The nightlife goes home. The livers fatten somewhere outside the periphery, just waiting for me. But I come no more. Instead I go. Au revoir, Paris. Au revoir, mon ami.

Feeling peaceful, just before vespers.

DMZ and HTL, Albi, France, 2012

There is nothing more satisfying than spending a day at the Mediterranean Sea, in the sunshine, with loved ones.

There are worse things than sitting on a balcony in the south of France, enjoying a sunny autumn afternoon, drinking a fantastic liqueur that’s not distributed in the United States. Here’s to Suze, and to an American future of White Negronis.

Today we drove to Carcassone. It was positively medieval.

Life for us in Lagrasse is simple. This is the boulangerie we’ve shopped at three times in a day and a half. Bread, cheese, wine, repeat.

Another rainy travel day, this time by car, from Montpellier to Lagrasse. We tilted at windmills along the way.

All five of us fell madly in love with Montpellier. It’s a magical little city, filled with wonders and vistas and beautiful people.

Sunshine, a great cathedral in the distance, and an Americano. I <3 Lyon.

Rainy train travel from Paris to Lyon. The train trip was great, but I admit the rain got the best of me that first day in Lyon.