London Seems All the More Wonderful in the Company of Friends

At home, my Mr. Mallory's grandfather clock, which is as old as I am, chimes in a similar manner as Big Ben. Admiring Big Ben from my hotel window, I noted that its ninth chime sounds as flat as my Mr. Mallory's clock. There is a difference, of course, in that though much older, Big Ben's chimes sound as if it pounds harder, as if it demonstrates the feisty courage of the people who live and grow all around it; yet its ninth note sounds as improbable as the one made by the grandfather clock at home. Having heard the Big Ben, the all mighty of Westminster chimes, I will return home to hear our grandfather clock, and rather than wonder why the Clock Doc gives me a puzzled look when I ask him to fix that note, I'll cherish hearing it for having to sound flat at all.

I sat on one of the front steps at the entrance to the British Library. Occasionally, I raised my camera to look at a scene through its lens, composing, make adjustments to its settings that depended on the lighting created by the passing cumulous clouds; or I sat feeling perfectly content to watch the people around me. People walked past me in a determined manner. Perhaps they headed toward the same exhibit I went there to see with my friends. "Sacred" is the largest gathering of holy books in one place, beautifully exhibited by the British Library and the reason that took me there.

Lovely cumulous clouds gave a picturesque background to possible images: the spires of the Pancras station reaching above the conference center wing of the library; a young woman wearing a "peace and love" t-shirt munching on food from her bowl; an older couple sitting on a bench to rest from their journey to the library before entering the building; and then, there they were, my friends Jim and Lynn walking toward me, making another image to remember, with the sun shining on their faces and their arms up and waving at me as I looked in their direction. For the first time I was able to put into words something I have long noticed, that they both have beautiful smiles beaming under bright eyes. What a treat that they joined me to view the exhibit of holy books.

The exhibit seemed as remarkable as I had imagined. So was, I thought, sitting at a sidewalk cafe sipping coffee and tea with Lynn and Jim. It seemed, and I'll always remember it this way, a marvelous interlude in my journey to Kenya.

Gnome on the Way

I phoned my Mr. Mallory three times this morning on my way to DFW airport. I just could not say "I love you" enough, and I relished hearing him tell me he loves me -- we cooed together all morning over the phone.

Going through security seemed easy, compared to what I expect on Tuesday at Heathrow on my way to Nairobi.

One fun and grand part of this trip will be to see Lynn at the British Library. We will meet tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. to study the exhibit "Sacred."

Gnome Loses Friend

Bye, Babe, and thanks.

Albert Ellis, 1913 - 2007.

Girls Having Fun: Third in the Series

Click the title above for the direct link. I copy/pasted this report -- this small report -- from the New York Times Online:



Newly Elected Indian President Pratibha Patil in New Delhi, Saturday, after the announcement of poll results.
India Elects First Woman to Be President
Prakash Singh/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

Another Woman Having Fun

Gnome's London

Keeping and eye on London . . . via London Cam on the EarthCam site: http://www.earthcam.com/uk/england/london/

Dress for Success

The woman pictured here caught my eye with her fashion. She's obviously one who believes in having fun. I say, indeed, let us enjoy life as well as we can, while we can. My heroine.

Gnome Steps Off Boat, Steps Into Stream

Take me to a stream, a river, a slowly flowing body of water where the trout can cavort with one another, spawn, and later sip my fly from the surface of the water. Matt drove us to Bartlett Lake this morning. We boarded a small, metal boat, and slowly made our way around the bank. I cast toward the edge of the weeds that live under the surface and provide hiding places for trout and other critters, in addition to a good place for feeding on insects. Initially, the trout ignored my Chernobyl ant pattern. And three other patterns we tied on my tippet. For a couple of hours I did not do much more than cast to the edge of the weeds , watch and wait. Fishing began to seem less torturous when I saw some jumping into the air. I cast in that direction and mostly caught them. Other times I cast and watched . . . and hoped a trout would pass somewhere near my fly, happen to glance up, and decide to open its mouth. All the fish we caught today were Brown trout – beautiful Browns. Since I release my fish, Matt did not touch them. I kept the fish on my line until it felt too exhausted to fight any more, then Matt would reach down and hold the tippet, and with his hemostats take the fly and with a quick twist of his wrist flick it off the lip of the trout. I prefer not to touch the fish, and as my hero Leo Wulff used to say, "A good gamefish is too valuable to be caught only once. The fish you release is your gift to another angler." After a while the wind became troublesome for Matt because it pushed the boat as easily as it would push a sail. Matt moved us to the opposite side of the shore where the lake had more protection from the wind provided by the mountain, but the trout had hunkered down for a while and I cast . . . and watched . . . and waited . . .
Thankfully, time passed and we had our lunch at the picnic table where more chipmunks came to see if they could have a chip from Matt, and some lettuce from me.
Thunder and lightning looked remarkable in the distance. Somehow we avoided the strong rain, but hail fell on our vehicle as we drove to the Governor's cabin for a quick photograph and then headed back to the lodge.
I look forward all the more now to stream-fishing now that I have a boat fly on my fly fishing hat.

Between Trout Catching, Gnome Bears Treed Bear

My guide, Matt, drove our Ford F250 to Munn Lake. We arrived there during a moment when the water looked like glass, and it reflected Ash and Vermejo Peaks. I cast a Chernobyl Ant before anything else, then changed to several different patterns during the next hour or so.
Something on my neck, crawling and feeling moist, distracted me from my fly. I reached behind my neck and took between my thumb and index finger the little insect that had somehow come to my neck. It was a Blue Damselfly nymph. I showed it to Matt, who then tied on my tippet a damselfly nymph pattern, and then the trout began to bite. I had seen cruising around me two Palomino trout, so when I saw one again I cast at it. After a third cast it took the damselfly nymph pattern. I had said to Matt, "We should try to catch one of those," referring to the Palomino, which is an un-godly cross between a Rainbow and a Californian Golden trout.
"We should catch any trout," he replied.
Across the lake, while I tried to identify a clump of brown as a beaver house, I pointed at it for Matt, who right away, with his trained eye spotted a Cinnamon bear several yards from the clump of wood. For the next hour or so we glanced up at the bear as it made its way around the lake. Eventually, though, it decided to turn around and walk around the lake to disappear into the woods at the foot of the small mountain called the Wall.
Another bear, a much smaller one, sniffed a bear catcher near the trucks. It frightened a woman who fly fished along the bank with tall weeds. In a panic she flung her fly rod into the tall weeds, removed hastily her fly fishing vest, and began whistling madly at the bear. The bear, startled, began to move away from her. At the same time, Matt sprung into action – he ran toward the bear yelling, "I'm going to tree it! I'm going to tree it!" He ran towards the startled bear waving and yelling. If I were a bear, I would run away, but it lept into a large Ponderosa pine and climbed it half-way. Matt still rushed toward it, and the woman still blared her whistle in between saying, "BEAR! Won't have any of that!" "BEAR! Won't have any of that!" The bear climbed the tree farther up the trunk. I approached feeling distraught about the bear. Obviously we had caused it some distress by harassing it up the tree. I did, though, lower myself to aim my 80-200mm f2.8 to photograph a bear in a tree – and took a couple of bad images. We climbed into our truck and left to find a stream to continue my fly fishing. I do not care to know what people did to that bear after we left. I hope they left it alone to climb down from the tree and continue its routine sniffing for food somewhere far from humans.
At Costilla Creek I fly fished for the Rio Grande Cutthroat trout. I used a small hopper pattern successfully. The trout are beautifully colored.
We drove farther up the mountain. Our mission was to reach the top above the tree line. Since the road is less travelled, we were thrown around in the truck, sideways and upwards. We saw perhaps three to four hundred elk on our way up there. The skyline looked stormy over Colorado, and lent interest to photographic images.
I felt exhausted when I phoned my Mr. Mallory, but my loving interaction with him re-energized me enough to present myself at my dinner table, set for one, and enjoy a good meal before collapsing in bed for a deep sleep.

Gnome Journeys to Vermejo

"Late June and July produce regular hatches of caddis, damsel and mayflies, sending trout into feeding frenzies." I read this while I paused in Amarillo on my way to Vermejo.

Gnome's Red Oak

Strong winds toppled one of the trees here. It was the tree where the Barred Owl would perch upon and watch us in our courtyard in the evenings.

Samos

Samos seems the only disappointment of our trip. Not that I wish to emphasize that, so I’ll mention the highlights. Sitting outside at dinner last night with Margaret was most assuredly a highlight of my experience on Samos. She treated me to dinner and a nice wine after a relatively interesting day.
On Doryssa Bay we stayed at a hotel noted for its unfriendly service – when we had service – weighed down by buffet-style food. The low quality of the food, the testy service of the waiter, and the lack of room service all conspire to try the tolerance of those of us who enjoy spending a quiet evening winding down after a day of visiting the sites and a museum of the area.
But back to the highlights of my visit to Samos: This morning we arrived at the Sanctuary of Hera to find it locked. They did, though, tape a note to the gate that said they had gone on strike and would return at half past noon. We glimpsed the excavation site through the fence, though I missed the one last column left standing, then drove downtown to the museum where they exhibit the extraordinary objects they have found in the area. The museum was also closed because of the strike until half past noon. We mostly dawdled over cappuccinos and Coke Light under the awning of a café that overlooked the bay, then had lunch, and then walked back to the museum. Inside, I noted that the collection is marvelous and intriguing for its differing cultural influences. Good things are worth waiting for, as they say.
But I felt antsy about meandering through an excavation site, spotting glimpses on a stone or a hunk of marble of an era or two of people who lived long ago. So when the driver deposited us at two in the afternoon at the hotel, Jean and I set off for an adventure. We crossed the street to explore what is left of the Sanctuary of Artemis and an “ancient” Christian cemetery. We climbed up the mountain to touch what is left of a Cyclopean wall that once surrounded city. We felt pleasantly surprised when we came upon one of the entrances to the E. tunnel surrounded by a tall fence with a locked gate. We spotted a small brown owl sitting on the fence. It seemed to watch us as it kept an eye for a field mouse, which it caught, deftly, then took to its private dining area. We thought we were alone when we spotted a car and a couple coming toward the gate.
They were a nice couple from Chablis, France. We asked them about the distance down the road to the excavation site of a Geometric cemetery that we could see from our location. They said it’s too far for going “a pied” and offered us a ride there. Delightedly, we accepted.
The Geometric cemetery is protected by the same kind of tall fence and the same kind of locked gates. Some excavation appears to go on, though it seems hard to tell with confidence because, though we see a roof over an area of the site, work may have halted.
Karl appeared on the sidewalk on his way to the town of Pythagoran. We joined him, and then left him to his shopping while we walked to the charming harbor. There, we saw moored large yachts on our left, and local fishing boats on our right side. The place is just utterly charming.
If we had not had a constraint on our time we would have chatted with a marble worker we passed by, or a fisherman cutting bait for his evening fishing – language barrier notwithstanding – but we had to return to the hotel, a good fifteen-minute walk, while including a stop to the gelato shop. It was, after all, a pleasant day.

Gnome on Santorini

The akrotiri is closed for now because the new roof fell and killed two persons.

I spent most of the day walking around in the old town of Fira -- all those steps that go up and down on the 1300 foot cliff -- looking for photographic subjects. The town is lovely and intriguing.

Gnome Waves Good-bye.

Outside the silk shop, a leg-less young man on a wheeled platform played a gourd flute. His music drew me. I stood at a short distance from him, listening, not making eye contact, before walking closer to him, then sat down on the steps near him. Then I looked into his eyes, and he into mine. His eyes looked handsome and pretty, almond-shaped and almond-colored, striking for their beauty. His fingers busily played his flute. He occasionally looked up at me, then away, back at the ground. His tone changed after I sat near him and watched him; his music became softer, emotional, affectionate, perhaps even loving, like a musician melancholic for his lover. He saw me smile, and then changed his tune again to a jolly tempo. Suddenly he stopped playing, pointed to my vehicle, and spoke to me in Mandarin, his voice high-pitched. I can only assume he said to me: “Your car is here.” I gave him ten Yuan, and then left him. As we pulled away from the curb, I looked out the window. He looked up at me from his platform and waved. I waved back and wept.

Beijing, May 2007.

Last Day in China

Above, a photograph of my travel companion and her seven-month old baby. (Photo courtesy of Y.P.)
I will remember yesterday for as long as I live: It is special to hold a panda in one's lap. I smelled a sweet smell as I held my face near his ear, and the bamboo he decimated with his large incisors smelled as fresh as he did. The panda seemed more interested in the tender shoots that the caretaker handed to him, and yet, there seemed a certain contentment in being held by humans who could not love him any more deeply than we could feel for him and his species. And the panda seems an inept species, for they require the intervention of humans to survive and adapt to a world growing smaller. The Chinese people have stepped up to their task; I paraphrase Indira Gandhi: "The greatness of a nation is measured in how well it cares for the animals."

Reciting Ancient Chinese Poetry as an Answer

Mr. Weng Baopin, Director of the Han Yang Ling Museum showed over five hundred slides of artifacts found since 1989 at the excavation site. Enthralling, to say the least. Figurines dated since 188 - 141 B.C.E during the reign of the Han Dynasty emperor, Liu Qi. I asked him if among everything they had happened upon any literature. The moment the interpreter finished asking my question, Mr. Baopin began to recite a poem. It was delighfully musical and it had a sense of aggression and determination. Something else differed about it, but I couldn't tell what I perceived in it. Mr. Weng kept reciting it with no pause while the interpreter and I watched him. The first few lines contained the sounds "tong," "wong," and "chong;" in between I heard a melodic "tsing" and "ming." I lost my focus on the musicality of the recital because I began to feel anxious for a translation. Then Mr. Weng ended the poem and laughed. He said something to the interpreter, who then turned to me, laughingly, and said he could not translate the poem because it was in ancient Chinese. I felt enthralled to imagine an archaeologist memorizing the poetry he found in his digs.

Gnome in Xian

I watched the discoverer of the vaults that hold the army of 8,000 terra cotta soldiers. Today, he sits in the shop of the museum and signs his name hundreds, perhaps thousands of times per day for the visitors who buy the book about Emperor Qinshihuang's tomb. He hates photographs taken of him, and holds a fan up to obstruct his face from a lens. A bronze sign sits before him that in Mandarin and in English says NO PHOTOS. I noted that he concentrated on his task at hand every time he put his pen to the book, but then he tossed the book back at the visitor as soon as he finished signing it. Fame can become tedious and make one grumpy. He stood up, finally exhausted, and walked away. I watched him then, too, then reached into my bag for a pencil. I handed it to him. He looked at it curiously. Then he raised it in my direction, gave me a big smile, and extended his hand. I shook his soft hand hard, smiled back, then left him. I hoped, and still do this morning, that his smile remains for a while.

Gnome in Beijing

Gnome in SanFran.

Fabulous decorations at the Admirals Club in DFW Airport. That's Bryan sitting at left with his cell phone -- stuck to his ear. I don't know him. He paced around the group of lounge chairs nearby mine. If he wasn't dialing his phone, it was ringing. "Hi, this is Bryan . . . Hi, this is Bryan . . . Hi, this is Bryan." Busy guy.

My first photograph of this journey had to consist of art work of whatever kind. I liked the hanging on the wall above Bryan's head. I couldn't see it very well, but it seemed to have an oriental motif -- and how appropriate.
The grilled salmon at the Hyatt Regency on Bayshore Drive seemed ruinsously salty, but the veggies -- tender broccoli and asparagus -- tasted just right. The chef did a great job on those veggies; he must've run out of salt when he spilled it on the salmon -- haha. Later, I thought that a small dinner consisting of the Mondavi Cabernet, some Brie and the bread they serve here would have been wonderful for me, for here they bake their own bread -- and it's delicious. The only thing wrong here, aside from the excess salt on the salmon, is my Mr. Mallory's absence.
I phoned Mr. Mallory from the carousel at the airport in San Francisco. He told me that Portside had helped himself to Hodge's doggie meal, and was spoken harshly about it. Later, Portside came to Mr. Mallory, lay at his feet, and wagged his tail, as if trying to make ammends. It worked, naturally, and Mr. Mallory gave him many pats, and would have given him cookies, too, if he had known where to find them. I told him, "in the kitchen, under the clock, in the little glass thingey;" so Portside should receive a few cookies, maybe, at some point during my absence. He prefers them at bedtime. Portside is a connoisseur of doggy treats and could write a critique of his own.