Rainbow Wanderers

A Disneyland Au Revoir
A retrospective of our visits over five years of Leon

October 11, 2025 No Comments

It’s no secret my spouse is a bone fide Disney adult; I sometimes joke that he’d wanted a kid so he could continue his Disney reveries. Some of it is coming of age as a Millennial, a generation less cynical and more open to popular culture than my own sometimes-snarky Gen X (though many of us, including me, rejected a lot of that cynicism).

At the same time, Millennials were kids during the Disney Renaissance, that late-1980s-through 1990s era where the studio put out a suite of celebrated animated films concurrent with significant theme park expansion. As for me, my sublime-appreciating parents had always been enchanted by the studio’s offerings—and as an outspoken nerd from way back, I welcomed the growth and expansion of the company, as they welcomed Marvel and Lucasfilm under their wing, along with Winnie-the-Pooh, the Muppets, along with their classics (and a few not-so-classics; we’re still trying to pretend Operation Dumbo Drop didn’t happen).

Our first visit with Leon was when he was barely a few months old, right before pandemic-era lockdowns came into effect. As the world reopened, we began excursions to Orange County, and soon made the pilgrimage down there a regular occurrence. Over the years, we’ve brought along (and made) friends, more than a few of whom were fellow Disney adults; met up with extended family members; and generally gotten to know the California parks inside and out as they completed their most recent waves of expansion. I probably know the location of every bathroom in those two parks.

Disney Adulting

The Disney theme parks elicit seemingly at least as many opinions as there are guests. Elite types disdain them as hoi polloi schlock. Multitudes more are alarmed by those rising prices, twinned with reminiscences of the halcyon days of $99 annual passes. And all of us want to do practically anything to avoid lines.

So what’s a Disney Adult parent to do?

Mathew, true to form, figured out all the hacks, and even did some TikToking about it a bit ago. Basically, the key to the parks is this: do whatever you can to arrive early, preferably just as the park opens. Although there will be other hordes there for rope drop, as it’s known, it’s still scant numbers compared to the numbers you’ll see later in the day. Knock out as many rides as possibly early on, then you can slow down and do other activities later in the day.

The same is true for dining: sit-down Disney restaurants aren’t really all that different price-wise from equivalent restaurants elsewhere, and though their quick-serve is on the pricier end for what it is, it’s often of higher quality, with generally good options for vegetarians and vegans. But here too, a trick: tables at most of the in-demand restaurants are snapped up almost immediately when reservations open up. That’s typically at the sixty-day mark, early in the day here on the West Coast. Glad I have an early-rising spouse.

There are also Lightning Lanes (once upon a time a similar such offering, FastPass, was free, but nowadays it’s no longer) to skip the lines. For those with bigger budgets, a stay at a Disney hotel (there are only three at Disneyland, but many more at the Florida parks) traditionally offered up to an hour of early access to the parks, but looks like that perk’s going away soon as well. Other buy-in-bulk options include annual passes for park admission, or even joining Disney Vacation Club, a point-based timeshare option that’s so popular that they have no need for those cheesy timeshare presentations; occasionally, a DVC contract even sells for a higher price than when bought. Arbitrage never looked so magical.

“I watched him grow up at Disneyland”

Looking (with some mistiness) at photos of past visits, I’m not sure if we’re living out a cliché. But then, clichés exist for a reason. It’s the stuff Mad Men character Don Draper talks about in that first-season finale, pitching the Carousel slide projector to the folks at Kodak. He mentions a sentimental bond with the product, which is exactly the way so many Disney adults and kids feel. Sure, it’s a product, but it’s made by artisans who care deeply about their craft, telling stories as timeless as the myths and legends on which they’re based.

Then there’s nostalgia, Don Draper says. Delicate, but potent. The Disney parks try to fulfill the greatest aspects of travel: it’s ability to bring people together through shared, novel experiences. Its a carousel, literally and figuratively, allowing us to travel the way a child travels. Bringing us back to a place where we know we are loved.

Although we’ll be taking a hiatus from the park in Southern California, the title of this piece hints at further adventures—Disney and otherwise—yet to come.

Cruising, Mexico

The Suite Life, By Accident
How our family ended up on a fabulous “mistake fare” cruise adventure

October 1, 2025 No Comments

I’ve become more familiar with the world of cruising over the years; my spouse practically grew up cruising, and from him and his broader family have been learning the lay of the land (or sea, as it were) on this mode of travel. The travel-savvy are aware it has more than a few distinctions from terrestrial holidays.

For one thing, cruising operates at a different cadence. Since it’s rarely a mode of transit anymore, there’s less provision for the sort of efficiency frequent travelers expect. You might wait awhile for luggage to arrive in your room the first evening (seen that); if you get a random bout of nausea and a few, uhm, expulsions, they may confine you to quarters (ditto); if you encounter a mishap, expect to wait in a long line at the cruise services desk—and then not always find an expert at the other end to solve your problem (haven’t we all).

But there’s one more distinction, particularly from airlines: there are hardly ever mistake fares in cruising, and little if any standard in the industry on how they’re handled and honored. In the air travel industry, whole websites have emerged to harvest mistake fares and pass them on to eager travelers; as a rule, airlines have largely accepted these.

So it was with more than a little trepidation that we showed up at the Port of Los Angeles one uncharacteristically cloudy April day to see how our intended seven-day journey down to Mexico would end up.

It began nearly two years ago, when Mathew, scoping out future travel, spotted a fare for a two-bedroom suite on a seven-day Mexican Riviera sojourn that seemed impossible. And yet, with the aid of a travel agent family member, we learned it was legit, and the booking went through with no issues.

There’s really no standard in the travel industry for what constitutes a “mistake fare.” Technically these are those fares entered into the system by accident at an absurdly low price—$50 instead of $5,000 for an international long-haul business class seat. Occasionally these are even put out by the airline itself in order to move perishable inventory. But if your too-good-to-be-true fare disappears within hours, and is never acknowledged in any promotions, it was probably a mistake fare.

This particular outing was on a ship we’d been on before—on my first cruise, in fact, way back in 2014. The Navigator of the Seas, a ship going back to the late 1990s, had been recently refurbished—“amplified,” in Royal Caribbean parlance—and though we’d grown blasé about more basic amenities on mid-range cruise lines, the opportunity to do this one up suite-style was most intriguing. We’d been on a couple of base-level suites on shorter cruises in the past, and even at that level relished the difference: the staff are expertly trained in hospitality, to the point that our little guy’s practically become friends with some of them. Reservations for shows, escorted expediency in boarding and disembarkation…it’s something of a business class experience for a leisure-style activity that abolished Titanic-era classes decades back.

So would we get all that this time?

Having found the fare, Mathew felt especially nervous as we unloaded at the terminal. But as we arrived, boarded, and made our way onto the ship, everything went smoothly. We were immediately impressed by the refurbishment; it made this almost three-decade old ship feel fresh. The Voyager-class ships were the first to boast a large open indoor promenade spanning multiple decks, and it remains a striking feature of this vessel and the newer ones that have literally expanded the concept.

Were we stressing out more than we needed to? Maybe. Then again, it’s probably no surprise to many that the dimensions of our travels have transformed over the years. Sometimes I wonder if in my solo years I was trying to recapture the experience of being a child on family trips: that comforting sense that everything’s already planned out for you, that never-before-experienced adventures await. As an independent adult, once you get good enough at providing for and entertaining yourself, you can almost make it feel that way again.

But throw a spouse and a child into the mix? Faced with the challenge, some utterly refuse to travel while they have small children. Some others are well-to-do enough to leave the little ones at home with a nanny, or, (talk about real suite lifestyle) actually bring the nanny with them on holiday. We’re not too big on the former, and so far aren’t quite the latter either. If there’s one thing that both Mathew’s and my passion for travel bring forth, it’s the notion that Leon won’t be the kid who never goes anywhere—and, more significantly, that he’d be the kid who’d want to go anywhere.

Sure, that’s great from his perspective, but as an adult with said little one, the experience becomes one of tour operator rather than tourist. Far fewer things can readily be left to chance. I’d once been thought of as an over-planner, but back then that really only meant sketching out the broad strokes of an itinerary as budgeting required: hotel and plane tickets in advance (sometimes not much in advance), and all good. I didn’t need to know what day I was going to see the Eiffel Tower, or for how long I’d trek among the ruins of Machu Picchu or Angkor Wat. I could stay out all night if I wanted (and even did, now and again).

But that was then. A bored, frustrated, hungry or fatigued child erases all that, and can turn spontaneity into a nightmare.

This, perhaps, is one panacea of cruising, which suite class only augments. We felt our first wave of relief when our amiable concierge welcomed us to the lounge (a space cleverly carved out of the ship’s topmost deck), and mentioned he’d already booked us times and tickets on hard-to-get ship activities. This has always been a bit of a thing with cruising, especially so in recent years as this travel mode’s popularity has soared. Since you’re literally a captive audience, scarce, in-demand activities turn into a Darwinian scramble for showtimes and reservations.

In our case, he’d booked us times at the ice skating rink—yes, I remember this from our first cruise on this vessel; as a native-born Canadian I always joke that we’re issued skis and skates at birth, meaning I have to try skating on a ship even though I sort-of suck at skating (Mathew’s better, in spite of having grown up in California). Though Leon wasn’t too keen on trying this out just yet (no worries, kiddo, snow’s easier to fall on anyway so still hoping for a skier), both Mathew and I had our go. Pro tip: it may be a refrigerated ice rink, but all that activity warms you up quickly. Dress in layers.

We didn’t get off at our first port, Cabo San Lucas, as it required a tender and, once more with a small one, excursions of this kind become a bigger logistical endeavor. On top of that, I’d been to Cabo before years back, and while it’s a fun destination with a nearby historic town on the other side of the peninsula (San Jose del Cabo, the second “Cabo” in Los Cabos), it wasn’t as memorable a spot as others.

Since our last stop—and, so far, my favorite spot in Mexico from travels past—saw the ship dock a good distance from the center of town, we didn’t get to see too much of Puerto Vallarta. We strolled around some local markets (after navigating the maze of its cruise terminal, for which the phrase “exit through the gift shop” is an understatement), and did another little reconnoiter.

Suite class or not, we did out utmost to enjoy this ship’s offerings on this slightly chilly April cruise down Mexico way: the roving piano player who rolls in and out of elevators with showtune renditions; the eateries which offer an elevated experience (here, too, things have changed: cruising used to include high-tone food, going back to the days of ocean liners; nowadays, main dining fare is just alright, and higher-end chow is more often had for a moderate fee); the game of laser tag; the towel animals (Leon started a collection of these on the nightstand in his bedroom); the exceptionally good ice show put together by the performers themselves.

Also, any concerns about intimidation or family-unfriendliness in suite class evaporated from minute one. On top of staff, who were terrific, we also met a colorful, diverse panoply of fellow suite guests (some of whom may or may not have scored the same fare): a family from Vancouver, Canada whose Mom’s a travel agent (lots to discuss there); an older couple from Southern California—one a former tech-finance director, another a kindergarten teacher—who likewise took a shine to the little guy, while somehow simultaneously holding equally great conversations with the grown-ups.

Since this was an Easter cruise, there was a holiday-themed egg hunt, a search for eggs containing little rubber duckies Royal Caribbean has tried to adopt as a mascot. On our last night, Leon arranged these on the tub, all in a row, mirroring the days and nights on this vessel. He may not have realized it, but it made for a fitting tribute to an adventure where the uncertain and unexpected combine to build the meanings and memories that are for me travel’s raison d’être.

Here’s to (accidental) suite life!

San Diego, United States

From 2021: Leon’s First Plane Ride

July 25, 2025 No Comments

After more than a year of pandemic lockdowns, travel finally opened up again in summer, 2021. Before Leon started preschool, we headed out on our first-ever trip as a family. Here’s a missive to him I wrote that night as the sun went down over San Diego Bay:

June 25, 2021

Dear Leon,

Today was a momentous day for you, at least in the life and worldview we hope to impart: your very first airplane trip. It’s only the first leg of a bigger journey, and it’s just to an overnight stopover still in the same state we live in, you were born in, and have yet to leave (though if all goes as planned that’ll be changing tomorrow).

Sometimes I wonder if you’ll wonder why travel is so big to us both, to your Daddies. On the surface, it seems kind-of pointless, right? Emitting all this carbon into the atmosphere (something that’s a big issue in our time and no doubt will be even bigger when you read this) to have logistical hardships (lost luggage, missed flights, you name it) to only temporarily visit places that have been photographed, rendered, and discussed innumerable times. Why bother?

I’m already hopeful that you know what the better answer is.

I say that, because, as I see it, travel provides that vital, personality-augmenting effect on one’s brain that practically nothing else can give. The feel of another place. The smells, the different light, the people going by. No two places are alike, and you can never really see it all. That’s what makes every experience in a different place from where you live a vital, arresting fragment of existence.

But still, there’s something the endless categorizers and taxonomies of the human persona point out: some people dig that, drink it in deep, let the air and aura of other lands fill, and broaden, their souls. They crave new experiences and hunger to learn from them. And then there are others, those for whom novelty triggers stress. Those for whom travel is viewed as an extravagance, a pointless errand, something both scary and not needed.

Since the day you were born I’ve wondered and worried: is Leon going to turn out like that?

Obviously, it’s not for me to say whether such a path is the best one for you. Nor do I believe that kids come out of the womb pre-cooked, with all their personality traits set for life. Believe it or not, such a view is still prevalent in our time. Sure, I’d rebut, there are some currents and dispositions that must come pre-loaded in our physiology. But what you do with them, how you nourish them, is equally if not more vital.

I saw it today when we got to the airport, then you stepped on your very first airplane—just a Regional Jet, to be sure, on a short-hop flight. Still, you demonstrated the trait that fills me with hope and that you’ve possessed since the moment I’ve known you: an unceasing curiosity and fascination about, well, everything. Watching you look out the airplane window as we were on approach to San Diego (a great first airport to arrive at, by the way, surrounded by buildings and city till the moment you land) was one of the more joyous moments we’ve shared in the twenty or so months you’ve been alive. I know that sound you make, a spirited squawk, whenever you see something you find great and fascinating.

You made that sound a lot today.

You’re not going to remember this trip. Too bad, since it marks a return to something: a reunion of our extended family, one I myself am still getting to know; a welcoming your grandparents to their new home base—though if their history is any indication, it won’t be their last (hint: they share the travel bug); and a return to the old life we all knew before this ludicrous plague took over the world only a few months after you emerged into life.

For me, though, that’s the biggest return of all: a return to exploring the world, to getting out there and having those new experiences so often cited in the writings of Frank Herbert, Mark Twain, and Anthony Bourdain. We’d been hoping to start this new, epic cycle in all our lives—traveling the world as a family—for some time now, and it’s my hope that this is, to paraphrase Humphrey Bogart, the beginning of a beautiful adventure.

Happy trails, kiddo.

Love,

Daddy David

United States

Wander the Rainbow is now Rainbow Wanderers

July 18, 2025 No Comments

Fifteen years.

It was that long ago, in June of 2010, that I nervously stepped into a taxi from my little place in San Francisco’s Potrero Hill, headed to the event at a Castro Street bookstore to herald the release of the first-ever book-length anything I’d ever written.

Platitudes about timespan notwithstanding, what strikes me most about those days, when the book and the trip it was about were happening, was the youthful notion that after, say, one’s thirties, all the big life transitions were done. After all, most of us are settled at that age: married, owning first homes (well, once upon a time), having first kids, all set in careers. Life’s future tragedies—the passing of a parent; the failure of a marriage; a massive socio-economic shock—often seem distant, or abstract.

Or as Elastigirl from The Incredibles put it, “we’re superheroes… what could happen?”

Of course, as the years roll on, many of us discover that’s a blend of hubris and horseshit.

Maybe it’s a by-product of these fractured times, but it seems for many the years that follow the freewheeling thirties are anything but placid these days. Future tragedies move into the present. World events move in unpredictable directions. All those best-laid plans go up in smoke.

Perhaps most surprising, then, is what emerged for me out of all that tumult: after decades of both figurative and literal wandering, I finally did settle down, just in time for my adopted homeland to legalize same-sex marriage. Together with my husband and associated creatures, we set about doing two things I never would have imagined for myself that evening when I got into that taxi—or that earlier evening almost two years before, where I boarded my first flight across the Atlantic in two decades: become owners of a single-family home, and welcome a child into our family.

Perhaps least surprising to those who’ve been through it: these supposedly banal journeys of domestication were no less of a whirlwind than the times that came before. The home purchase turned into a multi-year adventure, as we got caught in the winds of San Francisco’s housing, construction, and affordability crisis. We made it out OK, and the house turned out gorgeous, though in pandemic times we were forced to make some big changes once more.

The little one’s arrival was on a whole other level: on top of the usual life-changing clichés about the arrival of kids in one’s life, the whole thing came amid other professional and personal stuff that frankly could merit an entire blog and book of its own (maybe someday). Oh, yeah, and then that little thing called the pandemic happened in the middle of it all.

Yet, through it all, we made a pledge to Leon: as descendants of families of nomads, one thing would always remain a focus in our lives.

Travel!

And so, this project evolves in a fresh, new direction: the continuing voyages, in Star Trek-speak, of a whole family of travelers. Maybe a bit like The Incredibles after all. The cast: me, onetime queer backpacker and child of overseas immigrants; and Mathew, son of two military kids, accomplished global explorer, and master logistician.

Join us as we bring Leon, now five, and help show him—one more Disney reference incoming—a whole new world.

Beach, Israel

The New Adventures of Old Zion, Part Two

October 16, 2018 2 Comments

Our band of California adventurers wanted to see more of the country than just its ancient center. With that in mind, we rose even earlier the next morning for the next phase of the trip.

Our guide for this excursion, a wonderfully hippie-ish fellow also named David from Desert Eco Tours, picked us up in a van and drove us through eastern Jerusalem and into a tunnel leading to the West Bank. We got to see up close how the divided country operates: in the 1990s the Oslo Accords laid out a framework for different parts of the West Bank, a swath of territory cut out of old Palestine that had been originally designated for part of an Arab state, then was occupied by Jordan, then by Israel. Some sections were to be exclusively under Palestinian control; others were partly administered by Israel. Obscured by the troubling news headlines is how people live and work under these conditions: it’s difficult for many, but an uneasy coexistence nonetheless is in place. From the long line of vehicles waiting in the other direction, to enter West Jerusalem and sovereign Israel, however, it’s clear this is a challenging arrangement for many.

As we left the city, the verdant mountains were replaced by arid, rocky hillsides. The Judaean Desert is a small sliver of the greatest hot, arid region on Earth, stretching from Morocco to India. This particular desert lies in the rain shadow of the Judaean Hills, and receives far less rainfall than points north and west. Flash floods from the mountains, however, periodically inundate the region, running through dry riverbeds known as wadis that are analogous to California’s arroyos.

Chasing Waterfalls and Climbing Mountains

Our first stop was a hillside oasis and nature reserve at Ein Gedi. A mountain spring runs through here, tumbling into cascades of small waterfalls that made for a refreshing morning dip. Ibex and Rock Hyrax—last see by me in South Africa for you dedicated readers—roamed the hills. The air had an almost thick quality: at hundreds of feet below sea level, the lowest spot in the world, the region boasts an atmosphere that’s richer in oxygen than at sea level or above.

The nearby Dead Sea, meanwhile, is a shrunken remnant of its former self. Water diversion projects starting in the 1960s have led to the hypersaline basin losing a good deal of its water; many of the beaches I visited as a youth are no longer swimmable, the water having retreated and the shoreline swallowed by sinkholes.

Our next destination, however, involved going up again: to Masada, that is, a mesa-like plateau that’s separate from the adjacent mountains. Begun as a pleasure retreat at its mostly-flat top by Roman King Herod, it was also the site of a last stand by Judaean rebels following the fall of the Second Temple. In my youth I remember visiting and taking in the epic TV miniseries starring Peter O’Toole as the Roman general. After lying mostly abandoned for millennia, the place was rediscovered in the 19th century and became a symbol of Jewish resistance following the establishment of the country in the latter half of the 20th century.

When I last visited, however, my technology-mad younger self thrilled at the ride on the rickety cable car to the summit; that’s been replaced by a modern, ski-lift-quality Swiss tramway that whisked us up to the summit in a few minutes. I’ve often remarked how so many places I’d taken in as a boy seem a lot smaller when I rediscovered them as an adult; not so this haunting place. Its summit some twelve hundred feet above the valley floor and sweeping vistas of the barren desert are as grand and breathtaking as I remember, and are comparable in scale to similar such spots in the American Southwest… though no American mesa ever had a Roman Legion laying siege to it, of course. Pro tip: I neglected to bring sunglasses and regretted it. The desert sun reflecting off the limestone cliffs renders this spot thermonuclear-bright.

Afloat in Briny Seas

Although the Dead Sea isn’t what it was, the southern branch of the ultra-saline lake has been crisscrossed by levees and has water diverted to it by aqueducts to retain its size and composition. This serves the needs of industry to its south, which continues to mine the place for minerals; and for the ever-hungry tourist business, for which a new colony of hotels and beaches in the town of Ein Bokek was largely developed in the 1990s. We made our final stop there for yet another iconic activity of the region: a dunk in the briny waters of the sea.

I remember doing this as a kid and having a grand old time with it; everyone in our party was likewise enchanted. The water’s so full of salt and other minerals that it has an almost soupy feeling. Buoyancy is such that the only real way to navigate the waters is to lie on one’s back and float. Only challenge: avoid getting it in your face and eyes. The stuff’s so inhospitable to life—hence the name—that even small drops of it sting like a mofo. I discovered that the hard way.

Our full day of sightseeing complete, we settled in for a longish drive down Israel’s desert highway to the bottom of this long, thin nation.

Relaxation Down South

At the southern tip of Israel lies the beach town of Eilat, a place distant enough from the rest of the country even I hadn’t been there since the 1970s. Ironically, for a city encircled by Egypt and Jordan—and its own resort towns of Taba and Aqaba, respectively—it’s a far mellower place, geopolitically and otherwise, than the rest of the country. Peace accords between all three nations mean the Red Sea region is actually quite navigable, with residents and visitors alike crossing back and forth regularly. All three towns have commensurately seen significant growth and development. In fact, Eilat’s little in-town airport has outgrown its capacity, and a new facility, capable of handling robust international traffic, is set to open in a few months.

Coming to Eilat also satisfied our passion for a bit of R&R after those hefty days spent exploring. Mathew and I settled in at a resort right by the coral reefs while the rest of the gang opted for a more in-town spot. I’ve often written of my love of the sea, and on our first day I made good on that: I snagged a mask and snorkel from our accommodations, entered the water… and found myself surrounded by fish. Lots and lots of fish in glorious colors. Eilat sits at the northwestern tip of the Indo-Pacific ocean system, and I had no trouble spotting numerous varieties of the same sorts of sea life I saw in Australia a few years back.

Back to the Med

We continued the chill vibe as we caught a short-haul flight from Eilat back up to the country’s center. It’s a glorious, short flight to Tel Aviv, recapping some of our earlier drive, before turning westward and landing close to the burgeoning city’s skyscrapers along the Mediterranean at the soon-to-be-closed Sde Dov Airport.

All of us caught a final dunk in the third sea of the trip: the soft sands along Tel Aviv’s magnificent beachfront promenade welcomed us into the warm waters of the sea. This was the first oceanic body I’d ever encountered while still a toddler, and coming back here likewise floods me with so many memories.

We closed out Tel Aviv with similar such reminiscences, meeting up with assorted family and friends who live in this small country’s biggest metropolis—a place that now compares in population with metro Seattle or Sydney, Australia. About the only hitch was my futile quest to savor the famed Israeli iced coffee, which in years past was served like a float or milkshake with a dollop of ice cream inside. Seems the Aroma coffee chain, which once offered those up everywhere, isn’t quite what I remembered. Oh, well.

With that, we bade an early-morning farewell to the little country; as I write this, we’re winging our way westward—the first time I’ve made an uninterrupted return trip from Israel to North America since 1977. As we wrapped up this trip of memories new and old, I was reminded of that scene from The Sum of Us, the Australian play-turned-film that was the first LGBT-themed movie I saw as an out gay adult. The accepting father of a young gay man—played by an early Russell Crowe—turns to the camera and says:

“Our children are only the sum of us. What we add up to. Us, and our parents. And our grandparents and theirs. All the generations.”

Here’s to making ever more sums.

Israel

The New Adventures of Old Zion, Part One

October 14, 2018 No Comments

As I wrote in my last piece, this international foray is taking us to all the places I’d been in my earliest travels. Well, the next spot was more than a vacation destination: it’s the country my family lived for three years in the 1970s.

“Welcome to my third homeland!” I exclaimed to Mathew and his family as we stepped off the plane at Tel Aviv Ben-Gurion International airport. I’d already briefed them on the augmented security involved in entering the region: before departing Amsterdam, we were all interviewed individually in the check-in line, with our stories cross-checked by the plainclothes officials. It was all pretty friendly and relatively brief, though I know that’s not always the case for many.

The flight over, on Israel’s discount carrier Arkia, was straightforward enough, leaving and arriving on time with a generally well-behaved crew and passengers —something that’s not always the case in this oft-surly land. As I’ve gotten on in years and travel mileage, I’ve become of two minds about discount carriers worldwide: on the one hand, I think it’s great that they’ve opened up travel to whole swaths of the public that otherwise wouldn’t be able to get away. On the other hand, cheap fares can sometimes translate into less-than-ideal behavior from all involved.

This time, though, the only hitch was luggage that took forever to show up, something that hasn’t happened to me in Israel since a visit in 1981. That hurdle cleared, we hopped in our arrival van, and rode up to Jerusalem on the newly-redone highway. Pro tip: for smaller groups or solo travelers, the newly-completed high-speed rail link from the airport to the historic city is a good choice as well.

Following a delicious welcome meal care of my local family that evening, we took it easy the next day… which ended up working out well as it was the Jewish Sabbath. Mathew’s parents, who’ve traveled to spots all over the world, were struck by the contrast between workdays and weekend Sabbath in this country; while the holy city was pin-drop quiet on Saturday, by evening after the sun had set and the formal holiday had ended, the place came to life with restaurants, cafés and bars.

In the Footsteps of the Ancients

In keeping with that rhythm, we got an early start the next day: we’d booked a walking tour of the Old City care of Israel Maven Tours, and their name didn’t disappoint. We headed to the summit of the Mount of Olives with its picture-postcard view of the ancient metropolis.

“Most cities are located near four key must-haves,” our guide Tal explained with a relief map of the region. “Access to fresh water; a defensible, strategic location; proximity to trade routes or waterways; and easy access to arable land to grow food.”

Jerusalem, however, possesses none of these: its water source—which I’d explored in my big world trip a decade ago—is modest; it’s not located on the area’s highest ground—we in fact were looking downward at it from a neighboring mountain; and it’s in the mountains, far from fertile farmland, waterways, or major trade routes.

So why build a capital city here? Unsurprisingly, given the region’s tumultuous past, it was rooted in political calculus on behalf of the Israelite King David. The city was sited at a geographic confluence of all the lands of the Biblical Twelve Tribes. I couldn’t help catch the historic irony: in the Americas and Australasia, countries formed in the era of nation-states often sited their capitals similarly. To wit: Washington, D.C.; Ottawa, Canada; Brasília, Brazil; and Canberra, Australia.

Guess you could call my namesake monarch a bit ahead of his time.

We strolled down the path of the Mount of Olives, past the ancient Jewish cemetery, following the route Jesus used to take to get into the city. As a rebel preacher and something of an outlaw in the city, Jesus chose to set up shop just east of the city; so call this pathway a uniquely historic commuter route.

We reached the Church of All Nations that overlooks the Garden of Gethsemane. Ancient olive trees slumbered outside the majestic structure—all supervised by errant cat, who are everywhere in this land. I’d probably seen the odd olive tree in past forays here, but I’d never studied them up close: they’re monumental works of vegetation, with thick gnarled trunks and delicate leaves between which hang their edible fruit. Even the name of this place, where Jesus was arrested, is related to the trees: our guide explained that Gath Shemen in Hebrew means “olive press.”

Inside, the relatively recently-built church (though based on predecessors going back to antiquity) presented a glorious ceiling. Dodging a few surly church ladies straight out of Dana Carvey’s comedic skits, we explored the place then continued to the Old City, entering it via the Lions Gate. A short walk brought us to the Pool of Bethesda, a spot that really accentuated the layers of history in this land: Roman cisterns commingle with Crusader and Byzantine constructions—eras as separate in time as we are now from the first European colonies in the Americas. Shallow water in the cisterns months after the most recent rainfall offered proof of Roman engineering prowess; two thousand years on and the facility still kind-of works as intended.

We continued down the Via Dolorosa, the “Street of Sorrows” where Jesus reputedly made his final walk. I say “reputedly” because much about the life of Christ remains hazy; of the many figures in both Old and New Testaments, many facts about the Christian progenitor remain in dispute, right down to the number of stations of the cross on this legendary road.

Our guide here managed to snag us an extra: a small fee to the groundskeeper of a local Islamic boys’ school afforded us a view onto the ancient Temple Mount, occupied for the last millennium-and-a-half by the Islamic Dome of the Rock shrine. Since we were deep in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, our guide informed us that there’s no great love for the ruling power here: souvenir shops sold T-shirts with slogans that chided the Jewish state and supported a free Palestine. However, even with the vague tension we felt strolling this part of the Old City, all seemed peaceful on this Sunday morning in October.

A few more spins through narrow streets and we arrived at the last stop on the Christian way: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where Christ is said to have risen from what’s now an empty tomb. It’s a massive, dense structure crammed into the ancient walled city; administered by six different clerical authorities, the place is a predictable hodgepodge of styles and eras, each more wondrously atmospheric than the next.

A lunch of falafel and kebabs preceded our next stops: the tomb of King David, Zion Gate, and the Jewish Quarter. In what’s probably the most unique bit of urban renewal, the Quarter, which had been leveled by the Jordanians following their capture of the Old City in 1948, was subsequently restored to its Roman-era look in the years following Israel’s conquest of the city in 1967. I’d been to the rebuilt Cardo shortly after its completion in the 1980s, but this was my first time back here since then. The theme park newness of the reconstruction contrasted with the much older bits of Old City we’d already seen.

Spirits and Sentiments

Our final stop was one I’d been to many times before, most recently on my big world trip: the Western Wall. Our guide pulled out a diagram illustrating how small a piece of the ancient Temple walls this was; while the Second Temple was built by Israelites on their return from Babylonian exile, the engineering prowess of ancient Rome, in an early attempt to pacify the Hebrews, was behind the marquee bit of showmanship here. Not content with a mere Temple sitting atop the knoll of Mount Moriah, the Romans framed the surrounding hill with a massive rectangle of walls and topped it with a pediment upon which the Temple sat. Today’s Western Wall is but a fragment of that monumental piece of ancient-world architecture.

I’ve written before about my flagging devotion to religion, spirituality, and even to my own religion. Consequently, the Western Wall seemed drained of meaning to me when I was here last—particularly in the wake of conflicts with friends who professed spiritual leanings. The place, however, held much more significance to my late father, who was a passionate Jew who would visit this site on pretty much every visit he made to the city.

Maybe it’s because this is the first time back here since his death; maybe, because this is a year of many reminiscences contrasted against a future family we’re aiming to build. Whatever the reason, I found myself strangely moved as I came upon the great mass of the wall and placed my hand against the ancient stones. The normally clear blue sky was streaked with clouds shot through with rays of the sun. My secular, yet nonetheless emotion-laden self found the perfect melodic accompaniment to the moment: I played Beyoncé’s song “Halo” and wept more than I had in quite some time.

A final dinner with family at Jerusalem’s First Station—a repurposed rail depot turned trendy hangout—capped off our time in the historic city before we lit out for points beyond. One final pro tip on that point: the country’s Kosher dietary laws are something of a blessing for those with non-religious restrictions. We found a plethora of options for the vegan, vegetarian, and gluten-free crowd.

Amsterdam, Great Britain, London, Netherlands

Sentimental Journeys

October 6, 2018 4 Comments

I’ve long held the belief, articulated by author Ursula Le Guin in her sci-fi novel The Dispossessed, that the only real way to close the loop on travels and explorations is to come home and share your discoveries and adventures. Which for me means the next logical step is to actually bring people from your origin point to see and experience the places that resonated.

My husband’s family are a clan of adventurers: both his parents lived overseas in their youths, and they continue the tradition today through a range of world travels. We’ve already been with them on three cruises to destinations as varied as Honduras, Alaska, Vietnam, and Taiwan. But I’ve never gone with them to any of the spots that first sparked my interest in world travel.

It’s been a nostalgia-filled year already: we’d taken two more of our nieces and nephews on a trip to Europe in the spring; we’ve begun the planning process of starting a family; and, for me, having recently unearthed and scanned some old photo albums, I’ve thought a lot about legacy and continuity. Heck, I’m even working on a new (fictional) piece of writing, a coming-out romance set in the U.K. in the 1980s. Stay tuned, Wander the Rainbow readers.

We all gathered at SFO on Monday evening to kick off our voyage. The British Airways A380—an aircraft I’d only flown once, a few years back—lumbered to our departure gate. Strong tailwinds over the Atlantic meant a shorter than usual flight from the West Coast to the U.K., about nine hours, still plenty of time to get the usual so-so sleep and watch the odd movie. At this point, arriving at Heathrow has become a routine ritual to inaugurate an overseas trip—so much so that I already have the app for the Heathrow Express on my phone. Travel tip: tickets are cheaper if bought for the first time through the app.

It was another quick overnight in London… which meant another dinner gathering with members of the Lightman clan and our multi-generational friendship. This time, though, the big difference was that both my Mom and I were there at the same time—the first time that’s ever happened. It made for even more nostalgia: this whole shebang began with two people (my parents) on a date, almost exactly fifty years ago, in this grand old dame of a city. Oh, yeah, and we managed to have a meal of killer Indian food, naturally. This is London, after all.

Next morning, six of us—Mathew, me, his parents, and his brother plus fiancé, hopped a Eurostar at St. Pancras, another well-worn next step in travels in this part of the world. But we were on a new trajectory for the now almost quarter-century-old trans-Channel rail line, one that previous required a transfer but can now be undertaken in a single three-and-three-quarter hour journey: Amsterdam.

This city’s also a familiar groove for us: Mathew had visited with one if his best friends some three years back, and I’d joined them for the final days of that adventure. I’d also been there on my big world trip… but, for me, the connection to the Dutch capital goes back even further: it was a frequent stopover point when we lived in the Middle East for three years when I was a boy. Its combination of old-world grandeur and modern-day liveliness is one I rediscover and appreciate every time I return.

“Looks a bit like Disneyland,” I said to Janelle, Mathew’s brother’s fiancé, as we strolled the canals fronted by those flat-faced brick townhomes. No accident, that, as I discovered in my wanderings around Europe over the past decade: theme park Imagineers have been combing Europe for decades in search of the sublime aged, walkable intimacy that’s a centerpiece of its towns and cities. For many of us who’ve grown up in North America, nostalgia for such places therefore has gone in reverse, having been ignited by visits to themed attractions that echoed when we saw the real thing years later. I actually think that’s a good thing, as we travelers can experience sentimental reminders of places as we first experience them, in person, as adults.

For me, however, Amsterdam came with another mission: both of the last times I was here I’d missed the Rijksmuseum, which was in the middle of a decade-long remodel that finally concluded a few years back. I hopped the newly-completed, super-efficient central line of the Amsterdam Metro out to Museumplein, stood in a refreshingly short queue, and, in front of the iconic IAmsterdam sign, snagged a ticket for a morning with the Dutch masters.

The remodel of the museum is impressive: the central atrium of the massive state museum is now enclosed in glass, and has become the new entrance to the facility. The previous entrance, a grand, stained-glass lobby, is now the access point for what many of us come to this place to experience: masterworks of the Dutch Golden Age in the 1600s.

Rembrandt’s The Night Watch is, of course, one of the place’s signature pieces, and the crowds in front of it echoed those I’d experienced mobbing the Mona Lisa. But unlike Da Vinci’s not-huge signature work, The Night Watch is flippin’ massive. As with Mona, though, it’s another work whose name was given to it years later.

As a onetime aspiring filmmaker, though, the old Dutch masters offer another enticement: the brooding hues of Rembrandt and Vermeer (and many others), no doubt influenced by the moody Dutch climate, meant that the interplay of light and shadow are an extra-big deal than the more luminous works of artists farther south. Cinematographers study how lighting and shadows are depicted in these works. Also, in an era when art was so dedicated to royals, nobles, and the Church, many of these Dutch painters captured scenes of ordinary people going about their workaday lives. It sort-of fits with a place that practically invented the modern market economy, and whose tolerance in an intolerant age led to welcoming the pre-American Puritans and—in later centuries—legalizing and regulating cannabis and prostitution. In the Netherlands, everything goes, yet in remarkably orderly fashion.

Later that day, Mathew and I indulged another fixation: at this point we’ve been to cat cafés on three continents, and as proud caretakers of a cat and dog of our own, we seek out such spaces wherever we can. Well, Amsterdam’s got its own entrant that even predates the Asian-originated cafés: a canal boat that serves as animal shelter and tourist attraction. We arrived at De Poezenboot not long before they were set to close—cats being cats, the place is open to the public only two hours a day. Pro tip: arrive when it opens. After navigating the short line, we entered the floating structure, where cats of all shapes and sizes do their thing. A few were still in carriers, recent rescues that were still acclimating to their new surrounding. Though one burly, longhaired tabby—echoing our own fearless, independent Khaleesi—was meowling loudly until the place stopped admitting visitors, at which point he and his compatriots were let loose in the facility. While the other cats cautiously stepped out of their pens, he bolted like a racehorse and proceeded to run laps around the place.

It was only a brief sojourn on the Continent, but we made the most out of it. At night we visited the city’s Red Light district and strolled the lit-up canals that reflected the tall, skinny buildings in the shimmering waters. So far, aside from the usual small travel misadventures—stumbling on the cobbled streets, or trying to get our American ATM cards to work in Dutch train ticket machines—this nostalgia-filled voyage was off to a strong start.

Up next: our adventures across the Mediterranean in the Holy Land.

Italy, Rome

Rome, Open City

April 22, 2018 1 Comment

They say that one who tires of London tires of life, but I think the same can be said for Rome. City boy that I am, I wondered if my travelers three would feel the same way about Rome now as I did then.

On the Red Arrow

With that in mind, we left our Florence accommodations and headed to the one significant portion of our our European rail journeys unaffected by French strikes: the high speed train from Florence to Rome.

Italy frequently gets assailed for being one of Europe’s somewhat less organized countries: orderliness is a rarity, trains are rarely on time… actually, things seem to have improved on that front since my last visit: the Frecciarossa (Red Arrow) is Italy’s entrant into the European high-speed realm, and as with comparable such rail travel elsewhere, it’s so smooth and speedy that you arrive almost before you settle in. Jacob and Sam played against us in a mini-chess tournament and creamed both Mathew and me.

Roma Termini left all other European stations we’d seen so far in the dust. It looked to have been remodeled since I was last here and is a massive monument of midcentury grandeur. As I explained to the gang, Italy’s medieval city-states, such as Florence and Pisa, emerged in the Renaissance with some influence and importance. But nothing ever equaled ancient Rome in the Western world until the modern age.

(Family) Historic Fountains

Today Rome remains a good-sized city, with a metro area population a bit larger than Seattle’s or Montreal’s. As with Florence, bits of family past from this city have worked their way into our present. One example of this is a statue of a fountain that sat in my grandmother’s dining room and now graces my Mom’s, the boys’ grandmother’s, dining area. It’s a miniature copy of the Fontana delle Tartarughe, the Turtle Fountain, one of the city’s smaller but still grand historic fountains that were built during the Renaissance at the terminus of some re-activated Roman aqueducts. It’s said that ancient Rome had enough water coming to it as New York City did during the mid-twentieth century; in an age before electricity the fountains were all designed to operate via simple gravity pressure.

We meandered past the ruins of the ancient city and around the former Jewish ghetto and synagogue before coming across this waterwork in an otherwise-unassuming little piazza. A movie crew looked to be setting up for an evening shoot, period picture car and all. It was easy to imagine my glamorous grandparents driving through here headed to some event or another in this lively city.

Lions and Christians and Bus Tours…

Next morning, we headed off from our accommodations in Esquiline Hill — literally the ancient Roman suburbs, today an elegant neighborhood of midrises — to the sight so often associated with this city: the Colosseum. Here again, we managed to brave the crowds, and I again had the sensation from last time I visited this place: it was meant for crowds. Sports fans both, the boys were amazed to see a two-thousand-year-old structure that rivals in scale the ballparks of today. No lions eating anyone for spectacle here anymore, but we Marvel movie fans were tempted to yell out, “we know each other… he’s a friend from work!” from the last Thor film‘s gladiator scene.

Rome’s both big enough to tour by motor vehicle, and dense enough to make an al fresco experience worthwhile. Since we weren’t all of Vespa-riding age a la Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, we instead bought tickets to one of the half-dozen of open-top bus tours of the city. It was a glorious sunny day and this proved to be a great way to spot many of the major sights.

We made a brief stop at the Trevi Fountain — yup, grander than the Turtle Fountain but so thronged it was difficult to get near the thing, never mind drop in a lucky coin. Nearby, we visited the shop of a brother of one of my Dad’s old friends. Gloria hung out with me when I was here ten years ago, where we met at some friends’ apartment who’d done up their outdoor terrace as a sukkah, the temporary shelter Jews in warmer climes put up during the fall festival commemorating the Israelites endless wanderings in the desert. This time around, we caught up on details of her life — she’s moved to Tel Aviv, finding it a livelier and less formal scene than Rome — and ours, which she summed up as follows:

“I see many Instagrams of you,” she said, motioning to Mathew, “and the cat!”

Sounds about right.

Big Art, Little Country

Next day, fortified by a couple of home-cooked meals care of Mathew, we rose for a mix of culture and sport. I’d booked us in one of those “skip the line” tours of the Vatican, Earth’s smallest nation-state, hoping it would get us in quickly and provide a fun, edifying way to see the place. Well, it did usher us past the throngs queued up outside the city/state’s walls… only to herd us into one of those typically boring tours that put off a generation of kids (mine) to art and history. So we skipped the rest of the tour as well, and meandered through the glories of the Vatican museum before coming upon the peak attraction: the Sistine Chapel.

“Oh yeah, it’s really colorful,” said Jacob, in response to my earlier note about the 1980s restoration of the frescoes that some have accused of looking too much like cartoon animation. Still, the place remains astounding in spite of the crowds gawking at the ceiling. Regardless of how one feels about Roman Catholicism and its impact around the world, they sure got a nice headquarters.

Saturday Sport

For our last evening in Rome, the Fates handed us a nice gift: as sports aficionados, both boys were hankering to catch a game of some sort here in Italy… which, given this nation’s passions meant soccer– ahem football. Looking on the calendar early in the year seemed to indicate this was playoff season, and nothing was scheduled for the week we were there… until a couple weeks ago, when a match popped onto the listings for the Saturday before we were to head home… perfect. Best of all, two of the cities we’d been to were competing that evening: Rome vs. Florence.

Rome being Rome, there was not easy way to get to its Stadio Olimpico, the arena used in the 1960 Olympics and extensively remodeled in the 1990s. A combination of Metro and taxi did the trick. We nearly had a heart-stopping “are they gonna let us in?” moment when they asked for our passports as identification, but they relented and allowed our group of American/Canadians in to get an up-close look at this frenzied pastime.

I made sure to get us seats in the better-viewing-angle seats along the stadiums sides… but not just for the view. The cheaper “Curva” seats, along the stadium’s goalposts, are where superfans of both teams tend to sit… and even though this wasn’t as crazy a game as their matches against Lazio (the cross-town team) or Naples, it was, by our North American reckoning, pretty nuts. Both Sam and Jacob noted that playoffs games with the Montreal Canadiens (“the Habs” as they’re affectionately known) can get pretty intense, but this was on a whole other level. In the Rome fan section, people waved enormous oversized flags and chanted pretty much the entire two hours we were there.

Alas, it didn’t help much: Rome lost the game, and for a moment there when a possible goal of theirs was declared invalid, I thought fans, even in our more sedate section, were about to mutiny.

Nonetheless, it proved a swell outing. We headed home via sardine-can-crowded streetcar and Metro to our short-stay apartment before another long day of flights home.

The score on this tournament of travel: up two more newly-minted world explorers, and some great memories of fair Italia. Up next in this series: our niece Layla in two years.

Florence, Italy, London, Pisa

Tuscan Trails

April 21, 2018 No Comments

After Mathew’s and my successful bit of initial travel, it was time for the big adventure: this was to be the third entrant in my “take the kids overseas at age 12” odysseys… and for this one timing and circumstances dictated mixing it up. For one thing, I had two nephews (from two different siblings) around that age with similar tastes and attitudes. Having two kids likewise made Mathew an integral travel companion. And as for destinations, Jacob and Sam suggested a spot near and dear to our family’s heart, having been the place where their granddad, my father, lived and was so strongly influenced by as a teen: Italy.

London Calling

To get there, we hopped a flight on old reliable: British Airways, who by this point have hauled me back and forth across the Atlantic innumerable times over the past decade. In fact, this very flight from Montreal to London — which due to Montreal’s northeasterly position is one of the shortest on the carrier’s North America roster — is the same one that took me and both these kids’ moms to London for the very first time some three decades ago. Although they’re considered a midgrade carrier in the international airline derby of “who’s the best,” their service has always impressed me, especially in comparison to the legacy North American airlines. Both British this go-round and United on our overnighter to Orlando offered same-day upgrades. The British one, however, even only as a bump to Premium Economy, still far outshone United’s offering on practically every level.

After clearing Heathrow’s fiendishly long immigration line, we popped on the Heathrow Express (still the fastest and most economical way to get to Central London, even with four people), dropped our bags at our accommodations, and tooled around town a bit. It was chillier on this outing that it had been the last bunch of times I’ve been to the British capital: like North America’s Northeast, Europe’s had a pretty substantial winter, with sizable snows in London and flooding of the Seine in Paris. All that was double incentive to head northward (and indoors) for a fabulous home-cooked lunch care of our family’s historic friends — the Lightmans. Sydney, patriarch of the clan, turned 94 that week and still seems as crisp and with-it as he was when he first showed us around London thirty years ago. It’s been almost five decades since my twentysomething Mom stayed at their home and was encouraged to call back that man with the funny-sounding name. In all the years of hearing my clan’s origin story I’d never quite connected how much a product of the then-new Jet Age my parents’ union had been; I guess it makes sense that it’s spawned generations of new world explorers, and the ties that connect them, across the globe.

Added bonus: one of the Lightman clan had a black cat whom I saw a few visits ago; this time I got to meet another one, David and Kate’s elderly Freddie, who also seemed impressively spry for his age. Hopefully our Khaleesi back home will age as gracefully.

Pisa Surprise

Next morning we headed southeastward… but not the way we’d expected. I’d initially booked an over-the-top rail journey across Europe, Eurostar-ing it to Paris then to Italy by overnight train, sleeper cabins and all. Alas, the French industrial strikes mucked with our plans and canceled a number of our rail connections. But hey, one good thing about Europe: travel options are abundant. We managed to score pretty good last-minute fares to Tuscany’s largest airport and stay overnight somewhere we’d only planned to do as a side day excursion: Pisa.

Score one for the serendipity of travel. Although I’d heard so-so things about Pisa the town, we quickly grew to love it: glorious Tuscan feel, with eave-roofed orange-hued buildings framing narrow, winding streets overlooking the same River Arno as Florence. We found all the food options we’d been seeking (the boys are big fans of pasta and pizza); I even kicked off an Instagram Gelato Olympiad to see which city and gelateria would offer the best frozen, creamy concoction. Right out of the gate, Pisa made a strong showing at the two spots we visited.

The town’s main attraction is impressive in its own right: originally intended as the city cathedral’s bell tower, the 900-year-old Leaning Tower is a striking, many-arched white structure soaring into the blue Tuscan sky. I didn’t make it here on my big world trip as I’d been mistakenly led to believe that climbing the tower was no longer possible. That was indeed true in the early 2000s, when the tower’s increasing lean was stabilized; now, climbing the off-angle steps is a delight so popular that we had to snag timed tickets for it in advance.

As with so many “touristy” destinations the world over, I always go in asking the question: “Does it still have the magic that drew people here in the first place?” The answer from all four of us was an unqualified “yes.” From the oh-so-obvious photos of us “holding” the tower in forced perspective, to the glorious views of the town and surrounding hills, Pisa’s Tower was definitely worthwhile. The same holds true for other spots in that main cathedral square, all great examples of medieval Tuscan architecture.

Florentine Family Ties

From tranquil Pisa we hopped a local train inland, to Tuscany’s biggest destination and home to our family’s paterfamilias in his younger days: Florence. Although a modest-sized place these days (under 400,000, though with a metro area of 1.5 million, about the size of Salt Lake City), its bustling train station gave us the impression of a much larger place. Once again, however, as travelers in during the busy Spring Break holiday, we encountered crowds the likes of which compared with those at Disney parks.

Nevertheless, we were determined to take a walk down memory lane: we headed for the Ponte Vecchio, visiting Ugo Gherardi’s jewelry shop. Now ten years older than when I saw him last, Ugo himself was there and happy to see us — and especially proud to encounter two of the grandchildren. Here, again, there are connections going back generations, as both Ugo’s grandfather, and my grandfather, the boys’ great granddad, had known and done business together. We bought a few gifts to mark our visit, and got some great views of the famed bridge. We’ve all seen medieval bridges with buildings built on on them, but it was Mathew’s and the boys’ first time actually walking on one.

Nearby lay another bit of family history. My Dad’s family ended up in Italy almost by accident. They were living in Shanghai, China during World War II, and apparently my grandfather had done some secret business with the Italian underground. Consequently, they were given entry visas to Italy and decamped for there in 1947. My grandparents settled in Rome and sent my Dad to school in Florence. He was only a couple years older then than Jacob and Sam were on this trip now, so we could only imagine the vivid, rich experiences he must’ve had in this city as it recovered from the depredations of war. He went to one of those expat schools, Miss Barry’s on the Via Dei Bardi. It’s no longer a school these days but the building still exuded that institutional feel tempered by its Tuscan glory. We could only imagine fourteen-year-old Leon cruising the narrow streets on his moped back in the day.

While Florence remains glorious and is still something of a center in Italian life, one thing became apparent in our time there: with the throngs of tourists clustered at all the big attractions — we couldn’t get near the Cathedral or climb its clock tower, though we did get a good peek at the Medici Chapel in spite of a surly ticket-taker who, in true Italian fashion, spoke only Italian —the place somewhat disturbingly reminded me of my time in Venice a decade ago. I find when places lose their relevance in the present (as Venice has) but remain popular with out-of-town visitors, they start to resemble theme park versions of themselves. Nothing wrong with that — I retain a fondness for the artistry of Renaissance masters and Disney Imagineers alike. But when real-life places lose the hum of the everyday, I find they rob the visitor of a certain authenticity as well. For that reason, even with the family connection and all that glorious art, we found Pisa — a living, working college town in addition to a moderate tourist spot — to be a more enchanting place than Florence.

Plus another detail: in our ongoing Gelato Olympiad, Pisa still managed to nudge out its bigger Tuscan sibling, at least for the places we visited. As we packed that last night in Tuscany, we wondered what we’d be in for at our next and busiest stop.

Canada, Florida

Tropics & Traditions

April 4, 2018 No Comments

Although we’d managed some respectable adventures since Mathew and I returned from Europe in mid-2015, both time and finances have been constrained since then by a mammoth home remodel; we’ve been working on our place practically since that time. With that finally in a “done” state, it was time to make good on a pledge that marked our Atlantic travels from three years back: continuing forays with nephews and nieces around their 12th birthdays.

Before that, however, we opted to kick things off with a few add-on excursions. We did a quick overnight in Guerneville, a popular Bay Area weekend spot in Sonoma County astride the Russian River. While Mathew made use of our accommodations’ spa treatments, I opted to visit the redwood forest nearby at Armstrong State Natural Reserve. It made for an appropriate first stop: my Dad loved the redwoods of coastal California, and it was his cosmopolitan, adventurous spirit that I carry with me in my voyages with the family’s next generation. I’m probably not the first to say it, but I could almost feel his presence amid the canopy of ancient trees as sunlight filtered through their mammoth branches.

Next on this multifaceted voyage was a jaunt to America’s southeast. There the world awaited… as well as portions of other, fictional worlds. I’m speaking, of course, of the Walt Disney World resort outside Orlando, Florida. We’d been hankering to check out their Pandora: The World of Avatar attraction at the theme park—though given its size, theme country might be a more accurate moniker. Thanks to Mathew’s diligent Disney planning—especially over this Spring Break holiday period—we made the most of our time there and skipped a number of long lines. Plus it was fun to visit themed variants of Old Europe prior to seeing the real thing.

From tropical Florida we made our way to the Great White North. The nickname seemed accurate this go-round as our plane descended toward Montreal: they’ve had a snowy winter this year as has much of the Northeast, and even in early spring piles of snow were visible around backyards and parks.

The Jewish Passover holiday and the Easter holiday often coincide—one of the only such festivals that do so, thanks to both depending on variants of the lunar calendar. That’s no accident: they say the Last Supper was in fact a Passover seder (a ceremonial meal held the evening of the holiday); and, of course, spring solstice holidays from various faiths stretch back to prehistory. Passover, however, being the commemoration of the whole Exodus/Ten Commandments saga (with or without Charlton Heston) is always a lively deal among Jews, and my family’s no exception. For this year’s outing we headed to my sister Tamara’s house, where various branches of our family tree made for a lively night of singing, eating, and preparing for our big voyage across the Atlantic.

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