White washed buildings cling to the rim of the ancient caldera. Tenuously overlooking the calm waters of the blue bay, all the while kissing the azure crown of the sky. Perched high above the still waters they appear to be snowcaps in the distance.
It is the final week of the season and majority of this bustling tourist destination lies dormant. The silence is deafening. The silence is beautiful. The shuttered shops along tight winding interlocking paths are silent sentries to the summers past hustle.
An island, of perhaps a mere 10,000 full time residents (depending on the sources quoted, it ranges from 6 to 15 thousand, in 30 square miles) can have over 500,000 visitors at any one time.
You may not be able to buy that snow-globe, with the sky blue domed church, but you can get a ready seat in the still many open tavernas, restaurants or wineries. And face the setting sun, sipping and nibbling your way to bliss, watching it slip below the horizon, performing in mother nature's, most dazzling of light shows.
The once round volcanic island, was blow apart around 1500 BC, creating the crescent shaped land mass and idyllic bay we see today. The resort town of Oia lies on the furthest north portion of the island. Strings of villas, hotels and spa's, all in the style of the whitewashed cave dwelling, stretch along it's spine. Imerovigli comes next and leads into the capital Fira, which essentially is the only city open after October 31. Kamari on the eastern side facing the Aegean, is home to the famous black sand beaches. Akrotiri in the south is the home of the historical and archeological sites. Hosting a dig of Minoan culture, like the city of Pompeii, buried in ash and volcanic mud, it dates back to 1500 BC when the volcano erupted, burying for eons this ancient site. It now sits under the cover of a huge steel and glass enclosure that is size of several football fields. It is built for earthquakes and to be ecologically green. The structure is designed to recover rainwater and use natural light and air currents for heat and ventilation.
If you are driving on the island there are car rental agencies in the airport and it is advised to make arrangements a head of time. However, the roads are right-hand side drive, and signage is in both Greek and English. Many hotels will offer shuttle service to and from the airport. Mopeds, scooters, quadbikes are everywhere and are available to rent as well.
We broke up our visit in three phases, north, central and south. To the south and central you will find the historic and archeological sites. The ancient city of Thera, high atop the southern peak, a great place to hike and get an overall view of the entire island. Closed on Mondays, it’s hours are 8:30 a.
m. to 2 p.m. and involves a breathtaking switchback road, zig-zagging up to about 1100 feet. The ruins of the ancient city are atop this perch and date back from the 8th century b.c. and into the Roman era with temples and baths. An city in stone, high atop the island. At it’s base is Kamari and the black sand beaches.
At the far southern tip is the lighthouse, an exhilarating perch to feel the wind, the sun and gaze off into the Aegean Sea the island of Crete 60 miles to the south the next bit of land. The southern half, is less developed and unresort like. The volcanic soil is home to many wineries and vineyards producing many fine varieties of white and red grapes.
A visit to the central portion of the island brings you the capital Fira, which is the only town truly open after the season ends on October 31. Many fine shops and wineries are located in this are. A favorite is the Santo Winery, offering tours during the season. The tours were finished, but the wineries café and store offer a great place to order a tasting flight, sit on one of their many western balconies, sip wine, face the setting sun and sample the local fare. It’s perched high above the caldera and offers superb panoramic views of the entire area.
The white washed city Oia, lies on the farthest point north on the island. Here are quintessential white washed, blue domed buildings of pictorial fame. The tightly packed buildings wind rabbit warren like, intermixed with shops, resort apartments and eateries. Empty now after the end of October, except for a few stragglers, it is beautiful in its desertion. The sound of workmen repairing, rebuilding and restoring for the next season break the silence. A few stores and restaurants are open, catering to the locals and those brave souls who are the last of the visitors.
My blog posts have been mainly about travel and documenting the places we have visited. The last couple I have made strictly photo oriented.
This photo essay was a fun look at a vintage and antique fair here in London.
It's a different way to look at the sights and sounds around you.
As a verified pack rat and collector of all things I find interesting. I have conquered my addition with a recent move and purge of 20 years of accumulated stuff. Tools, wood, antiques etc. Now when I visit fairs, to conquer the urge to fill those empty voids not only on my shelves but my psyche as well, I turn to making photographs.
At this recent Vintage Fair in Hackney in London, I was struck by the variations in color and textures and turned toward documenting that.
The juxtaposition of the different colors, materials and textures was an interesting capture.
Cat hangers under vaulted ceilings to the close up look and colorful jewelery and boxes full of vintage thread spools.
Costume jewelery not only makes for an fun and intriguing fashion accessory, it also provides fodder for interesting and graphically different images as well.
Color, texture and just the surreal visage of the mini royal guard piqued my interest. All these items are exactly like you see them nothing was moved or arranged to exact a feeling or look.
It's weird, I know but there was something about the torso and vintage sweaters hanging about that was appealing.
A strategic rip in a thermal hoodie offers an surreal look at color and texture.
Vintage pearls snaking across wonderfully muted but, vibrant colored fabric makes for an interesting vignette
Sparkly, bedazzled belts, and magnified clip-on earrings.
Wood and fabric, two natural materials that work well together. Rough and rustic or colorful and refined.
All the images were created with a Canon G12, my preferred camera for in close and intimate work. It's small, has a great file size and is not intimidating when working on the street. It's unobtrusive size is the perfect camera for the street photographer, who wants to be in on the action without drawing attention away from his subjects.
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The sound is unmistakable. A solitary Wailing bagpipe reverberates off gold colored sandstone buildings. It's everywhere and no-where, filling the cobblestone streets with a haunting melody that becomes the soundtrack of our visit. It is a weekend of Whisky and Wool. This is a weekend in Edinburgh Scotland. This one has an added touch, flames pouring out in tune with the music. A tourist's dream.Cities have their signature identities
. London is fish and chips, black cabs and red double- decked buses. Paris, the iconic crepe. Chicago, the much loved and discussed deep-dish pizza, or the quintessential hot dog. Belgium has its’ waffles and chocolate and Venice has carnivale masks and seafood.Edinburgh I discovered is a city of wool and whisky. Shops extolling regional whiskys stand side by side with those displaying the seemingly never ending varieties of woolen plaids.
Flights of whisky highlighting regional variations is standard fare. It is a tasters dream. Light flavorful single malts aged for decades in mixed barrels of sherry and port. Travel farther afield to another region and smoky aromas with a tinge of burning peat add a level of exotic to the already liquid nectar of the gods.
Wool, in it’s myriad of intricate plaids is as ever present as whisky. Shops selling kilts, suits, throws, mittens, and bolts of material are ever present as well. If you complain about being cold or have nothing to wear, you have kept your eyes closed pretty much the entire day. The patterns are classified as modern or ancient and the variety is staggering. The prices can be as varied. The wool might have come from Scotland, but that doesn’t mean it was created or crafted there. Prepare to pay more for items made exclusively in country as opposed to an import.
A short flight from London, Edinburgh airport is a compact single terminal, easily navigated. A short cab ride to the Royal Mile in the historic center of the city is about 16 pounds. From there the city of approximately 600,000 is readily traversed.
The G & V Hotel, where we stayed is a sleek modern hotel in the city center, a quick walk to shops, the historic castles and a myriad of eating establishments.
The ever present tourist, hop on hop off buses cruise the major routes and attractions. The city bus system is a bargain with a day pass available for less than three pounds. The streets are cobbled worn smooth and glisten with a patina, that sheens from centuries of use. Beautiful, they also require good foot-ware to make walking less fatiguing.
Our agenda was loose, leaving plenty of room to explore and discover. The historic Edinburgh castle was one of our objectives as well as a tour of the Mary's King Close, a section of the old city that was covered with modern buildings, leaving the original streets and first floors of the historic section literally underground.
The city lies amidst a series of rolling hills dominated by two extinct volcanoes, Arthur's Seat, adding drama to the skyline. The physically fit and prepared are rewarded with a stunning half-day hiking trip overlooking the lush green countryside and the entire city nestled up to the Firth of Forth, the entryway to the North Sea.
The Royal Mile is our starting point, in the heart of the historic city. From here you can you traverse the area from the Edinburgh Castle, past St. Giles and head down to the home of royalty when they visit Scotland, The Palace of Holyroodhouse, across from the modern day and modern looking Scottish Parliament building. The avenue is called the Royal Mile but, it actually is two different streets, High Street near the historic castle and Canongate at the opposite end.
There are many gardens in the area, some very formal and other little secret hideaways surrounded by high ancient brick walls. Spaces lush and serene. Perfect little escapes to sit, think and enjoy a drink or takeaway snack. Dunbars Close is one such gem, a little alley like entrance opens a world unto itself.
A hike to the top of Calton Hill, brings several rewards. It is a collection of national monuments perched atop rounded hill with a commanding view of the city and surrounding countryside. A perfect place to watch the sunset, when it's clear, but also to view the most eclectic collection of architectural monuments gathered in the most haphazard of ways. Situated atop the hill with no discernible design, it is quite striking in its awkwardness. The National Monument, a section of wall modeled after the Parthenon in Athens, is a memorial to those who served in the First World War. A tower, shaped like an inverted telescope, rises 30 meters into the air, to honor Admiral Nelson. An astronomical observatory is there along with a monument in the shape of a circular Roman Temple to a mathematic and philosophy instructor Dugald Stewart of local fame in the late 18th century. It is a great place to get a panoramic view of the city and the Firth of Forth, the North Sea.
Please visit the galley Edinburgh here on my site for more photos.
Edinburgh Castle is a sight to behold, stone walls, transitioning from the bedrock into a fortress that overlooks the city. Almost, as if the mountain had organically grown cut block walls thrusting its presence ever higher. Everything you would want in a castle you will find here. Towering ramparts, canon ports with canon, cobble-stone paths and age. Display rooms brimming with the history of former kings, queens and their struggle to maintain power and glory. Crown jewels, suits of armour and weapons trace the story of this venerated structure back to the 12th century.
The oldest structure in the castle is St. Margaret’s Chapel, built in the reign of King David I between 1124 -1153 in honor of his mother who died there in 1093. A small, unassuming building, solid and squat with a bare interior, and several small stained glass windows. The intricate carved stone archway frames a simple alter area. Despite the steady stream of visitors through the small door, it maintains a majestic aura of a truly special place.
The lines to the castle can be daunting, not only through the narrow entryway up through the gates but to the ticket line as well. A quick tip, order ahead from your smart phone and pickup the tickets at several kiosks that lead up the the castle outside.
All this exploring creates a hunger, not only for knowledge but food too. Pubs, restaurants and places to snack abound. One particular street Victoria which houses the Grassmarket area is sure to satisfy. We stopped at the Bow Bar for a quick bite of local meat pies and whisky. A great selection of local brews and hearty meals. We later had dinner at the Outsider as dusk was falling on the castle through it’s dining room windows.
Our final stop Sunday morning, before the flight home was the Royal Yacht Britannia, moored several miles from the city center, but an easy cab ride or bus trip. The last of the royal yachts, she was commissioned by the current queen in 1953 and was in service till her retirement in the late 1990’s.
The ship is a fascinating time capsule. Staterooms housing royalty and their guests are in stark contrast to the housing of the ship and her crew. Magnificent dining areas and artifacts from the Queen’s many travels are housed here. The ship is a wonderful glimpse into the world of the working sailor and the duty to Her Majesty the Queen. It takes about 90 minutes to go through the whole ship from top to bottom and is well worth the side trip from city center.
London's own professional basketball team, The Lions, is a member of the British Basketball League (BBL). It is one of 13 teams with members from England and Scotland, formed in 1987.
The Lions founded in 1977 moved from location to location and were renamed several times. Struggling to find a permanent home they ultimately found it in, The CopperBox and strive to move forward. They are bringing hoop magic to the UK.
I had the pleasure of being able to shoot a game, a contest versus the Manchester Giants. With many players from the US, it is a slice of home. As staff photographer and freelancer for the Sun-Times Media company I photographed quite a bit of basketball in the states, college and high school. And to be perfectly frank I missed it.
It felt good to flex the eye muscles again and I hope to bring you more games in the future.
Carnevale (Kar-ne'-VAHL-lay). No, not the cruise line, but the party line that descends upon the Italian city-state of Venice. That beautiful mirage, floating on the horizon, mere feet above sea. A flamboyant spectacle that borders on the sublime. An opportunity to leave the 21st century behind and immerse oneself in the city that keeps time at bay.
Venice, as a city, is the movie set, that all movie sets strive to emulate. It's charm and patina is genuine, refined and crafted from centuries of hard living. From previous visits and museum trips, it's learned that maps of Venice created at the height of it's political and military power time in the 1500's the documented buildings and streets are exactly the same today as it was 500 years ago. A resident from the time of the Doge's would have no problem navigating the streets of today. The city stands immortal, it's inhabitants pass through like leaves blowing on the wind.
For these first two weeks in February, leading up to the Lenten celebration, Venice celebrates it's roots, as it melds the glory of the past with the modern world of today, bringing another generation a glimpse of it's living glory.
Everyday events take place across the islands, down the Calle's, and the small Campos. Piazza San Marco is ground zero for the gathering crowds to assemble. Costumed participants regale visitors as they stroll about the Piazza dressed in period finery. Food, parades, costume judging, as well as fireworks fill the tightly packed streets and compos. A host of galas, with ticket prices well into the hundreds of Euros, fill the evening for the more well heeled. Costumes range from just simple masks made from paper machie, for 5 Euros to full period dress reproductions of finery worn by the most fashionable of Venetians of the day.
This is a re-enactors dream. You can don a powered wig, ruffled shirt and smart waist coat, knee britches and hose, and strut about like a peacock. Clicking the cobble stones with your cane and smart buckled boots strolling aimlessly, with purpose. To be seen, to be celebrated. Time and belief stands still for an instant, those around you dressed in jeans and hoodies feeling out of place.
You become a walking spectacle, yet remain totally anonymous. Like the action characters along Hollywood Blvd, people stop you for a photograph. Poses are struck, the iphones flash and you move on to the next encounter. If you visit the city outside of Carnevale, you gaze at wonderment at all the shops selling brightly colored masks and you wonder, what the hell are all these masks on sale for and who the hell buys them. (I'm still a South Side Chicago boy at heart). It all makes sense these two weeks of Canevale.
The explosion of color and the sublime is almost as overwhelming as is the crowds. Visiting Venice now is not for the feint of heart. The full time population is just at 60,000 people, more than that visit the city each and everyday. Up to 20 million people visit the city every year. During the day there are gondola traffic jams on the canals. A half hour gondola ride is 80 Euros, a 45 minute tour can be negotiated for about 100 Euros.
We flew into Marco Polo Airport and hopped aboard the water ferry that costs about 15 Euros for a one way ride, however it is slow and takes about and hour and a half to reach the city. There a shuttle buses that also cross over the rail bridge and drop you off at the terminal station. From there a vaporreto water bus ride gets you around, I would suggest obtaining day passes for the time you are there, and can be topped off electronically at the stops. Ticket can be purchased from the operators, but you pay an extra premium. Private water taxis will take you from the airport to your hotel for 110 Euro.
Tourism is the main industry of Venice, much to the dismay of those hardy residents hanging on. A once vibrant city with manufacturing diversity, the current political climate has relied heavily on tourism, forsaking growth in all other areas. The draw and charm of Venice ultimately will destroy it. It will become a parity of what it once was.
But for now, it is a destination that one must put on their bucket travel list. There are accommodations for all levels of incomes, as well as food choices. Premium choice Italian wines costing hundreds of Euros to simple pizzas on a quiet piazza.
The birthplace of Cassonova and Marco Polo. It's the muse that helped Vivaldi create his masterpiece the Four Seasons. An important International Film Festival that began in the early 20th century, this is Venice.
It is a city of romance. A city to stroll arm in arm with your loved one. At every turn marveling in a vignette that seemingly time has forgotten. A little cafe tucked away in a quiet corner glowing the evening light, tables and patrons spilling over into the little square. A glass of chianti, a bit of cheese and bread. It is a living reminder that this moment in time is to be cherished and celebrated, for we do pass through like leaves blowing on the wind.
—George Bernard Shaw (playwright)
Our journey across the pond, has been a cornucopia of visual and sensory excitement. Transplanted to this old world, which is new to me, my head has been on a constant swivel. Eyes darting back and forth, up and down. Trying to see it all. Absorb it. Burn as much as I can onto the synapses of my organic hard drive.
It's a fascinating journey, featuring new twists each and every day. Even the simplest of tasks bring new challenges and life experiences. A trip to the green grocers for you daily supplies, the coin laundry to wash the over-sized comforter that will not fit into the tiny washer-dryer, or even just walking the dogs.
The U.K. is a country that h
as gone to the dogs. The status of 'Man's best Friend' is elevated to a different level. As I start to filter my initial sensory explosion I can see certain patterns arise and one of those is the treatment of our canine friends.Here, especially in Hampstead, dogs are everywhere. On the streets, in the pubs and shops, and especially on the Heath.
'A paper published in the Veterinary Record by Dr Jane Murray in the Department of Clinical Veterinary Science at Bristol University and colleagues, aimed to estimate the number of UK domestic cats and dogs and identify the characteristics of their owners.
In April 2011 there were approximately 10.5 million owned dogs in the UK and 39% of UK households own at least one dog. And more than a quarter (27%) were rescued or obtained from a shelter. This in a country with a human population of just over 63 million.'
You don't notice them at first, for they are the mostly well behaved. But suddenly out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of soulful eyes peering out from under a table. Hear the thump, thump, thump of a tail beating time on a chair leg or catching the eye of someone's canine companion on the Tube.
On leash, off leash, our three dachshunds are having the time of their lives. The trip over for them was simple, and hassle free. Enlisting the services of a pet relocation company, the process is fairly straight forward. Gone are the days of extended quarantines and isolation. As long as the protocols for their health histories and check ups are documented, and proper adherence to vaccination schedules, it is a door to door time frame.
Naturally occurring Rabies does not exist here in the U.K., and they are rightly proud and profoundly protective of that fact. There have been reported cases, but in those incidents people were bitten outside the country and developed the disease upon their return. So, as long as your dog is current with his vaccinations approximately three weeks from the time of travel and they are tagged with an internationally recognized microchip, it is just a matter of paperwork and a plane ticket. A doctors check in the US and a doctors check when they land at Heathrow, along with a deworming and they are good to go. We were advised not to sedate, they fly in their individual crate in a climate controlled, darkened portion of the hold. They were delivered to us seemingly none the worse for wear and happy to be reunited with us.
Our house hunt had only two criteria. The first was the ease of commute for Marcia to get into Central London and the other was a dog friendly property. We were lucky to have discovered Hampstead. An enviable combination of historic quaintness and charm, while being in close proximity to Central London.
Hampstead's ace in the hole, it's crowning glory, is the Hampstead Heath. Nearly 800 acres of rolling hills and undeveloped fields of pure joy for the unleashed pup. From it's highest point, Parliament Hill, a stunning overview of Central London is offered only 3.5 miles away. Quite a bit different from the other of London's green spaces. It is wholly undeveloped or manicured. Paths cross the rolling fields. And if a jaunt across the grass is not to your liking modern paths offer a smoother transit. The heath is a destination for the urban dweller of London, an open unadulterated green space offering the bicyclist, the walker, the dog owner and those seeking a peaceful respite, an opportunity to achieve their bliss.
For the unfettered dog it is pure heaven. Romping with the wind, burrowing in the little grass hillocks chasing grounded little creatures, forever trying to catch a raven, pidgeon or seagull. The heath is open for our four legged friends and allows them to be the best they can be.
It's a Friday afternoon at our favorite neighborhood pub, The Flask, just steps away from the house down a steep cobbled stone street. Two pups spend the afternoon with their respective owners just tables apart. Quiet respectable patrons at ease within their environs.At first the presence of the dogs in the pubs was a novelty. Now it is second nature to see them enjoying the company of their owners.
Our daily walks include another passion of mine. No something other than bourbon, coffee. A devout coffee drinker, I had a wonderful neighborhood caffeine dispensing establishment in Palatine, Norma's Coffee Corner. It was my 'Cheers' a comfortable place to imbibe my other dark liquid that wasn't alcohol based.
I've found my craving wanting. Coffee is different here. In the land that makes brewing tea a high art, coffee is but an after thought. But we have persevered and discovered a similar shop that delivers that same type of atmosphere. The dogs love it as well. As we wander the stree ts on our daily constitutional, the pups lead the way. Noses to the ground, their brain receptors are programed to wind up at Shamineh Art Gallery and Cafe in Hampstead. They pull and strain and head straight for the door. Welcomed with open arms and a friendly atmosphere, they care not for the black Americano I will order. They know only, the home baked biscuit treats, created especially for them and their kind. Hello my babies, coos Farida the owner, and the dogs respond in kind. Offering their mos
t energetic tail wagging and greeting. And then get down to the business of those cookies.Scanning the news from back home, we happened across an article about how the Metra was going to do a trial run for pets to be on-board the train, crated and only in limited areas. I had to laugh, the Metra board would do well to take a few rides on the Tube and get introduced to the very animal friendly Underground and the island nation that values it's four legged residents.
Just look down, you'll see a pair of soft brown eyes peering back. Happy to be experiencing ' Just another day in Paradise' with you.
Thomas Jefferson, letter to Dupont de Nemours, April 24, 1816
I started this post with the intention of stating how impressed I was with the intensity that the Brits read their newspapers. Papers and their readers are every where, especially on the underground. Free papers in the morning and evening are passed out at the Tube stations, news vendors are ever present akin to the new-stands that one time graced the corners of Chicago. Newspapers seem to thrive here. Even despite recent scandals relating to hacking and electronic eves-dropping.
In light with the recent attacks on the French Satirical Magazine Charlie Hebdon, by cowards, killing in the name of a religion. My focus had changed to the reactions and the swelling roar in defense of a free press and a free society.
I am one of the lucky ones. I have been a working photojournalist/photo editor my entire career, graduating with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Journalism, from Northern Illinois University in the late 70's.
I say lucky because then, the economy was in free fall then too. Jobs were scarce, gas was scarce and people were fearful of committing resources to an uneasy unknown fut
ure. Not many of my fellow graduates were able to secure employment in their chosen profession and sought gainful employment elsewhere. And because of that once you were in you stayed in. You didn't dare leave for fear of never getting back in. You started where you could. Small dailies in small towns, weekly community publications. Always with the intent of honing your skills and moving on, moving up to a bigger better paper with greater circulation greater exposure.Despite the uncertainty it was the golden age of activist journalism. Watergate had just finished, a corrupt government had been exposed and that spirit of watchdog/junkyard dog approach to corrupt politicians was trickling down to the local levels as well.
We considered ourselves lucky to be witness to the best and worst society had to offer. To me, it was and still is akin to a religious vocation. Despite some days that stretched into the wee hours, long days of battling weather, police, crowds, it was never a job. That cliche saying was indeed true. If you love what you do...........you know the rest.
We have seen some dark days of late, especially in the States. Staff firings, poor public image. What was once a esteemed profession had somehow sunk to the level of a congressman or used car salesman. I even think timeshare telemarketers are held in high esteem. People settling for the mediocrity as witnessed by the rise of iphone photos that are given away for free. The blurring of lines between real news media outlets and pseudo entertainment info sources or single issue unbalanced media outlets like Fox have driven those of us with integrity and honor from the business.
This blog is my escape from the past and road map to the future. So when the swelling of support in defense of a free press in France and here in the U.K. I had to go, like the old fire horse charging out of the firehouse when the fire alarm goes off, to Trafalgar Square and participate in that groundswell.
With the National Gallery as a backdrop the French Flag was projected onto the building at dusk. The fountains were lit with the same colors rotating and flooding the square with the intense primary colors. And they sang and chanted and clapped and reveled in the exercise of that most basic of freedoms. To express without fear of reproach their opinion.
Thousands flooded into the square Sunday evening, as millions marched in Paris, proclaiming we will not be deterred from exercising one of man's basic freedoms. I am at best a cynical, irreverent person. Irascible, bearish curmudgeonly even, I do not take myself nor many things seriously. With one exception. I take the re
sponsibility and integrity of the job of providing a fair and balance visual record and the publics trust of that record with an intensity of a thousand suns.
The state of photography and photojournalism is at best a Dickens novel. ' It is the best of times, it is the worst of times.' So many outlets for a young photographer to display their work, their vision. The internet is that blessing and curse. With the burgeoning of so many outlets, the market is flooded more and more traditional media outlets are disappearing making it almost impossible to make an honest living from our craft. This is a subject for a later blog.
But this day, today, as I look over my images from earlier this afternoon, reveling in a sense of solidarity, I can truly and proudly proclaim.
Je Suis Charlie.
nts to see where, and how you live. Show him some sights and all will be well.Show him some sights? How do you come to a major global center, a vast city, as diverse as the world itself, with out high expectations. I planned, no agonized over the upcoming itinerary. When my daughter visited earlier in the fall, we attempted to map out our own travelogue of musts, just for such an occasion. Pouring over the guide books we received as gifts, maps, online sites, the schedules of bus routes and Tube lines and stations. We hiked through central London, and it's surrounds with abandon. At times it felt as if we were on the Bataan Death March. An unending walking tour, cramming as much as possible in the most efficient geographic area within a reasonable amount of time.
Although London is a very walkable city, one must take it in reasonable chunks. Plan your routes around the things that interest you the most. Love museums than plan your day around this section.
Love historic churches and the history behind them, then another plan of attack.
A walk along the Thames yields a variety of sights and experiences.
Love to shop then hit Oxford street and then the amazing Harrods' near the British Museum.
A political junkie, Westminster holds the key for you, the House of Parliament and Buckingham Palace is rife with the pomp of circumstance of royal history. The BBC does nightly stand up news casts from in front of 10 Downing Street.
The call of the sea appeal to you, the glory of naval battles long past but not forgotten. A time junkie and the need for precision, then traveling to Greenwich to visit the Cutty Sark and the Maritime Museum and the story of the competition to measure Longitude is for you. And yes you can straddle the Prime Meridian, being in two hemispheres of the world at once.
You can start to appreciate my dilemma. What will be our plan of attack. A museum tour? The myriad of markets that showcase food or flowers? The tacky Camden Locks Market with every kitschy souvenir bearing the colors of the Union Jack? Oh my god I forgot the Theater District, a vibrant area with more theater productions than Broadway.
The key is knowing your time frame and what appeals most to you as a visitor. You can get a nice flavour of the city by planning ahead and mapping out a doable route. Most of us coming from the states do not realize how much
walking is needed and walking in real comfortable shoes. Public transportation is the primary means of getting around. If you plan on visiting central London, a car is the last thing you need. There is no parking, the roads are crowded with merciless taxis, hulking red buses and multitudes of bicycle riders with attitudes. Scooters and motorcycles are prevalent everywhere, in all kinds of weather. All vying for a right of way. The underground or Tube is the primary mode of transportation for all of London. The "Good Service" announcement on all lines, is music to daily riders' ears. Combined with bus service and trains, any destination is reasonably accessible. Going outside the city, check for the national rail service first before renting a car.
The old adage states, there is no such thing as bad weather, only people who have dressed poorly. The weather here, is volatile to say the least. As a transplanted Chicagoan, I am used to Mother Nature's dramatic swings.
Chicago's unofficial weather motto, 'Don't like the weather, just wait five minutes'. Well London does that statement proud. Although the weather extremes are not as radical as Chicago, one must always be prepared for change. An umbrella is a constant accessory, because the sun may be shining brightly as you enter the underground, it's a good bet it'll be pouring rain at your destination.
Excited to help out a friend, our visitor showed up with little baggage and an unbridled sense of adventure. Only tempered by my own zeal and stamina, I showed him all the sights we could, and he didn't complain or even cost me a meal. To reward our efforts, a nice pint of my favorite ale at a classic pub close to home was quite refreshing.
Needless to say, we both learned something during his visit. Perhaps I did more than he, but, I can safely say, I sent Flat Stanley home with a book full of photographic memories and an animated view of London.
Strolling over the manicured football pitches covering what was once the ancient Roman town of Verulamium, 'The Time Machine' of H.G Wells comes to mind. In the story, the time machine could travel forward or backward through time, but always staying in the same geographic location. He never left home. A linear history of people on the same site for millennia. Families living working enjoying the same outdoor space. The sounds of laughter, barking dogs, games in action, the very sound of life all in the shadow of St. Albans monastery and cathedral. A continuous line of life and living in this one spot.
The remains of a piece of the original Roman wall date from 256 A.D. It juts up from the earth. Carefully layered and precisely constructed with local materials and techniques. It reminds us of the fact we are not the sole possessors of this space. On the shoulders of the past we reach for the stars of tomorrow. The wall defined the edge of the comfort zone of people of the age. A defined and defensible space. In other words the starting line for the journey into the unknown. We all put up walls. Our finish lines are just figments of our current imagination, waiting to be stretched and pulled to their current limit. Always offering a new starting line. How do we leave with the firings of the starters gun, and lift ourse
lves over that first hurtle to go beyond the walls of comfort and safety. I would say all of our forebears did it. Leaving the knowledge and perhaps not in all cases comfort, of the familiar behind. To go forth from the old world, seeking fortune, fame or freedom in the new.How quickly d
o we lose touch with our past, a generation or two and memories or lines of family are forgotten. There are television shows in both the US and the UK about finding ones lost heritage. It's called 'Who do you think you are'. Each week a celebrity or notable figure traces their heritage back along certain family lines. Aside from the possible scandal of ancestors gone bad, or faced with horrendous circumstances of lives gone awry. My wife and I are struck by how quickly and easily we can lose touch with the generations that pass before us. Especially in our own lives. How quickly the faces of family members in previous generations escape out of our consciousness. Old photographs that suddenly become meaningless because the knowledge of who is in them is lost.It is about minding the gap, The gap between generations. We tend to forget that on those backs and shoulders we are able to rise to the next level. Achieve new goals reach for new stars. It's on the shoulders of the sometimes forgotten we attain our immediate goals.
So as we walk along the playfields of the Veralium of the world. we need to take a minute and pay homage and thanks for those shoulders that provided the platform for our success.
Take the time to fully understand and study your own family. For they may not be celebrity, but they are giants, your own personal Atlas with your world on his shoulders.
I am especially guilty of the neglect. Documenting the world for the eyes of our readers we get caught up in the big picture and forget to bring that same enthusiasm home. Time waits for no man. There might not be another tomorrow for the elder statesman of your family, not another day to ask about the people in these faded photographs. Who really was grandpa/grandma. Where did they come from and essentially, where did I come from.
So when you walk the grounds of your own personal St. Abans, take the time to not only thank the spirits of those that have gone before, but, celebrate their accomplishments by keeping them alive in your memories. Their knowledge and experiences are the paving stones on the road to your own personal journey.
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Oh the allure. To appreciate and experience one of the most legal forms of prurient pleasures. Sultry, sensual/sexual and tactile. A combination of danger and unpredictability with an underlying skill and sense of purpose. Combining the most primal of man's instincts, taming fire and the wielding of razor honed steel. Yes I am talking about the joys and pleasures of cooking. The tactile art of preparing food into delectable and exquisite gastronomical art forms.
The Foundation of my education is built in the most subtle of ways. Layer upon Layer starting from the ground up, sublime and complex, like a lasagna rich and satisfying. Oh there were setbacks, sidetracks, burnt offerings.
The first inklings of these roots taking hold come from a traditional stay at home mom, cooking to the best of her abilities in the canned and frozen era of the rebellious 60's. The doting Grandmother with a treasure trove of ethnic knowledge trying to combat the Tang and TV dinner generation. The sanctity of family meals. Gatherings at holidays, the reveal of those most sacred of recipes and treasured special foods handed down and cherished.
It continues as an undercurrent to everyday life. The most Rudi
mentary of skills, learned in that most secretive of societies, Boy Scouting. Here was the first contact with fire and steel. I don't care how old you are or how refined, put people around a crackling fire of oak, ash and beech and you will see that 1000 yard stare. Peering into the hot gases flickering and dancing drawing your attention, holding it, as time seems to stand still. The awakening of the true meaning of using real fire and real steel to test one's mettle.The dormant years of young adulthood. Career building and the need for speed and fast food lanes. Time found in convenience, time lost in the search for a clear and diverse pallet.
I guess the reawakening began with the creation of my own family unit. The cycle once again builds in the every day struggle to nourish the body as well as the soul. In an effort to assuage the guilt of generations of Polish mothers and grandmothers, the need to feed not only young bodies but, young minds, started anew, the need to prepare decent meals. A daunting task that continues to this day. To emerge from the chicken nugget, PBJ and plain pasta meals days, leading to the awakening and discovery of palates and taste buds. And I liked it.
To cook is to learn. Stretching the imagination, like that pizza dough across the floured counter top. It is all of the humanities rolled into a flour and egg pasta. Art, architecture, science and literature. Poetry for the palate. Bright shiny pennies everyday. It is the ultimate reward cycle, learn something new and treat yourself to a sumptuous feast.
Like woodworking, it is a hands on process, requiring intricate muscle memory techniques. Serving those minced onions, not dyed red with your own blood is quite an accomplishment.
And the tools. Please don't get me waxing poetically about the carbon steel of a santoku knife or the simple beauty of a Griswold cast iron frying pan, seasoned to a deep black with countless hours of cooking. I cherish my le cruset enamled 4 quart cast iron dutch oven as much as my
motorcycle. A Berland's tool store or Sur la table and I am lost for hours. That's another column all together. The equipment
I have acquire for the kitchen is only overshadowed by the amount of tools in my garage.But now here comes the rub (you decide about a possible pun) our new adventure overseas, has forced me to leave, no abandon my beloved collection of kitchen and garage tools at home. It just wasn't practical or feasible.
And worst of it is even more basic. I've lost my fire. No, not that burning ambition to create or the allegorical energy to carry on in the face of adversity. No I am not burned out, (god I love these puns). I mean literally. Our transplanted temporary residence is all electric. The glow of blue flame, instant and understandable is replaced by the bright orange electric coil.
The horror of the electric stove. Numbers, settings constantly reccycling off and on. The orange glow is the same color same height at setting one on the dial as 8. Fire, Despite its ephemeral form is a medium that can be controlled and regulated.
Mind the Gap
Learning anew with the power of electricity, and a rented kitchen I feel as a babe in the woods. A novice learning how to cook eggs and oatmeal without burning. Trying to regulate that simmer on the risotto is ever more stressful when everything has to be converted to grams and centigrade too. A simple omelette, (although those who cook know that an omelette is not simple) has to be learned all over again. Sweating onions and garlic now involves real sweating, watching so they don't burn.
But with challenges come rewards. The satisfaction of conquering a new skill set. Knowing that you licked that flameless bastard. Beat not only the eggs in the bowl but the odds of burning them once again.
This is minding the gap. Acknowledge there is a problem, a change, a new encounter. Assess your resources, what do you have at your disposal to address the problem. And finally Adapt accordingly. No situation is perfect. Imperfection is rule rather than the exception. So I will keep slicing and dicing and trying to figure out what the hell temperature 6 really is.
We celebrated an early mini-Thanksgiving this year on a recent trip to LA for a family visit. And that's what it's all about isn't it. A brined turkey roasted golden brown with the special homemade stuffing and gravy, surrounded by those you love. So matter how simple or complex the meal, the real intent is love. Love of food, love of learning new skills, and most of all, love of family.
]]>Footba ll (soccer), rugby, cricket even?
For every person we asked, where do your loyalties lie? There is an equal number of different offerings. No
clear cut answers. None of the simplicity of one city, one team.
Here in the U.K. it seems to be one team for every person. A plethora of colors to sing for, swear for and in some cases bleed for.
Back home, even in multi-team cities, like Chicago, the choice is fairly clear cut, one or the other. Mostly geographically derived, a birthright so to speak.
However, here in the UK, or in Europe itself, a deck of cards is fanned out with the mantra, Pick a card, any card, but you have to pick one.
So, to try and narrow our focus, we googled football teams (do not misconstrue my substitution of football for soccer) a whopping 135 teams appear, spread across the top eight leagues, from the uber exclusive, high priced Premier at the top hosting 20 teams, to Level Eight, a geographical based division with regional league names, each hosting 22 to 24 teams.
Teams play on a point system within each level or league, and can be promoted or relegated depending upon the point totals. Three points for a win, one point for a draw and no points for a loss. The top point getters can be promoted up to the next league, while the bottom three with the fewest points are relegated downward. It ensures a level of competition among clubs and an incentive to perform. The season is long, almost nine months. From July/August to the middle of May.
Geography doesn't count. Fans living in London follow Manchester, Liverpool, Newcastle. Colors don't count. The color palette uniforms are cut from is tonally similar, with minor variations of style. History does count. Most of the clubs have histories that extend back
in time for a multitude of decades, and have strong loyalties spanning generations.
So to that end we begin our search, our quest. For whom shall we root for.
We took in our first ever Premiership club/match. The Tottenham Hotspur FC versus Newcastle FC. The match took place on the pitch of Tottenham in the north of London. Traveling to the Spurs stadium, White Hart Lane, required two underground stops and a bus ride. In reality a fairly easy commute. Being without a car is almost a blessing. But like any great game day event, the trail to the stadium is easy to follow. Point yourself in the direction of those fans proudly wearing the colors of the day the blue and white.
The Spurs stadium is a little older, worse for wear. It sits on the edge of a construction site that will ultimately be their new home across the street.
Unlike NFL stadiums standing alone, isolated with acres of asphalt surrounding them, moat like, this stadium is in a neighborhood. Similar to Wrigley Field in Chicago. Serviced by train and bus and tube. People do drive but, the parking lots are not immediately visible and as we traveled the last leg by bus, the pop up parking lot, on private property, seems to be an universal experience.
Streaming off the bus we walked in the midst of thousands of fans on a pilgrimage to their personal Mecca. Outside the stadium the atmosphere is universally festive. Droves of fans in team colors, and kiosks dedicated to their needs. Player jerseys, custom made on the spot, food, souvenirs, programs, everything to make the game day experience memorable. We waited in line for a
n eternity to get the obligatory souvenir, a scarf with the Spurs logo and colors. Babes in the woods, newbies, we wandered, circling the stadium, trying to find our gate. Maybe it was the accent, the subtle differences in language, but we could not find the gate listed. Despite asking multiple people, multiple times and always heard the same thing, turn the corner and go two streets up. Frustrated, finally we found it.
Despite leaving well in advance, arriving on the scene with almost an hour till game time, we made it to our seats just as Ref blew
the opening whistle and the match began. My usual good sense of direction has been continually challenged these past few months. I miss the grid system. But, that is the adventure, always move forward around the next corner. I always had a cocky attitude to that game show Amazing Race and felt pretty confident I could ace it. Not so sure any more.
The stadium is
full. The seats are tight and the feeling electric. The Newcastle fans, situated enmasse in one corner, sing the entire match. Security in bright orange ring the pitch and the game goes on. The highs and lows, mirror the groans of the crowd. Jeering and cheering the sentiment is universal, whatever sport you're watching. Excellence is demanded and punished if not realized. We love football ( Marcia, my wife, a
nd I had two of our three children play on soccer clubs in the States and we know something of the game). We understand it, the need for precision and discipline on the field. The value of vision. The athletic skill and talent to play at such a high level. It was great. We experienced the Spurs fans and their reactions, as well as the Newcastle fans and their energy. Newcastle defeated the Spurs, this day 2 to 1.
No we are not eschewing our roots. We are just adding another layer to the structure of our lives. A new chapter to our story. The Hawks and Bears and Bulls still captivate our souls. The Sox and Cubs will always polarize our Northside/Southside household, annually thrilling and disappointing all at the same time. No, it's the search for new friends, new color schemes to brighten our disposition. We'll continue the quest, red and white for Arsenal or maybe the blue of Chelsea will win our hearts. It will be fun looking for that answer, as well as what's two streets up and around the corner.
Wait I almost forgot, there's rugby and cricket too? Whoo boy here we go.
orn facades created by artisans long forgotten. It is akin to wandering onto a movie set/Disney theme park, only better because you know this is the real thing, the
inspiration for all other modern manifestations. The center of the city has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2000, it is a living, breathing example of medieval Europe.Settled from the pre-Romans Gaul days, it has been an important trading center between the North Sea and the capitol of the European Union, Brussels. It is the capital of the province of West Flanders in the northwest section of Belgium.
The city is also known as the Venice of the North. Canals wind their way through the sections of town offering a different glimpse to the traveler. They connect the city to the North Sea and shipping ports. Tour boats filled with tourists, ply the canals now, rain or shine, learning the fine points of the historic city. Boats are available in multiple languages and are easily boarded at strategic locations.
The narrow winding streets are not automotive friendly, although cars do compete with pedestrians, bicyclists and horse drawn wagons. Beautifully patterned paving stones wet or dry provide the most basic of canvas that the city is painted upon. A good pair of rugged walking shoes is a must. For although the streets are beautiful a full day of walking over the rough uneven surface will tax even the hardiest of hikers.
Brugge has it's very own soundtrack. Carriages pulled by majestic draft horses, prance about the city. A finely clipped dance, their shod hoofs add a rhythmic, clip clop to the background track. That combined with the low rumbling roar of bicycle wheels, over those same stones, and the murmur of multiple lan
guages, the air is filled with a natural symphony.
The rumble
and roar is punctuated by the subtle yet ever present sound of church bells.
A city of monuments built by man to honor and glorify the creator. Towering structures reach for the sky and mark the passage of time with tuned carillons echoing through the canyons of Flemish brick buildings. Sunday morning, calling the faithful, they provide a pleasing soundtrack to morning coffee and waffles. The tallest being the Church of our Lady, the tallest in the city and said to one of the tallest brick structures in Europe. Also the Basilica of the Holy Blood and St. Salvator's Cathedral.
It is a cultural stop as well. Aside from the beauty of the preserved architecture, it is a city of museums of history and art, adding to the visual feast.
Masterpieces of Flemish masters
such as Jan Van Eyck and Hans Memling adorn the walls and displays of the various churches and museums such as the Groeningem
useum.
After all this walking the best way to refuel the body, after the soul, is with waffles. Waffles to this city is what crepes are to Paris. From street vendors, to the multitude of cafes and restaurants, a good waffle is easy to obtain. Sweet, covered in sugar, chocolate or caramel, to a waffle covered in fresh bananas for breakfast, they are a true delight.
Then you are ready to tackle the chocolate shops. There is a purveyor of chocolate about every 50 feet in Brugge. From the fanciful sculpture of fall pumpkins and leaves and holiday favorites to the overtly bawdy sexual oriented chocolate busts and derriers in your favorite flavors. You cannot leave without consuming a bit of chocolate. Especially for the train ride home.
Brugge is accessible by train and car. We made our way from London St. Pancras station on the Eurostar fast train. In less than two hours we were in Brussels and then hopped a smaller Belgium line to Brugge that runs several times a day and in under an hour we were heading into the heart of the city. However, make sure you exit the station on the proper side and do not wander aimlessly away from the old city into the surrounding town by accident. My mistake, and a big one, after a rousing walk through what I though were the correct directions, but muddled by lack of signage and road construction, took us in the opposite direction. What should have only been a 20 minute 3/4 of mile walk doubled and a taxi to our destination was a welcomed relief. My usual impeccable sense of direction was clouded by the thoughts of chocolate and waffles, however I take full responsibility will refrain from gloating about not needing GPS.
For some a weekend in Brugge will suffice, the shops and streets will serve enough memories to last a lifetime. The cafes and chocolatiers, the horses and canals, will burn a indelible memory. For others who crave more, seeking out the nooks and crannies of the city, to experience an ever widening exploration of the senses, it's definitely worth a revisit.
For a more complete photo experience visit the Minding the Gap Gallery.
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A modern building, red brick, big windows lots of open interior space. It emulates the style of most new Harley dealers in the US. It has a sense familiarity. You're comfortable after you walk through
the front door. I wouldn't necessarily call it a must see destination but, for any HD fan going to London, it may not be in the same league as Big Ben or Westminster, but it is an indulgence for those of us, that like to collect local HD items. Rows of new motorcycles sit enticing the faithful, like sirens of old, calling out, beckoning those of us who hear their song. Come to me, admire my shine,
caress the smoothness and depth of color in the paint. Feel the comfort of the leather seats. Revel in mirror-like chrome. See that reflection of yourself within the depths of the art, that is the machine. When you experience that vision, you are one with the bike, giving yourself up, to live the adventure. To cruise through the next curve wondering what lies ahead.My caffeine addiction dictated my previous choices. A coffee mug was my travel souvenir in the past, but cupboards fill up quite fast with all that molded ceramic. And most of them do not fit in the cup holders in the car, let alone on the bike. Wearable items now mark my travels. A shirt or T-shirt, emblazoned with the local HD dealership logo, is my keepsake of choice now. To use my chest as a walking billboard it will be for something I believe in or fully endorse. I've outgrown the need to blindly display someone else's cliche slogan or design. A wearable item is dual purpose, choose wisely and not only is it a keepsake, but a fashion statement as well.
Going to a local HD dealership is also a connection, an icebreaker
, a chance to meet and greet people in a new area. It provides a common bond, a point of comfort and ease. What do you ride? Where are the most scenic routes? May I please drool all over that satin black Fat Bob sitting on the showroom floor? When and where does the local HOG group meet? You get the idea.Now I'm not advocating you change your trinket habit. If a six inch fake bronze Big Ben is calling your name, or a "I heart London" book bag is your thing go at it. The Eiffel Tower etched inside that block of glass is always a conversation piece.
But, just othink how awesome your Mom would look wearing a flaming skull on a black background, touting the bar and shield, from someplace foreign or exotic.
Priceless.Right now as I am writing, I'm slurping black coffee from my "I Heart Washington D.C." mug, go figure. I still drink coffee and still have all those damn mugs. But I am wearing my Bahamas Harley Davidson t-shirt.
Whatever your bliss, seek it out. Embrace it, and you too can proclaim, 'It's just another day in Paradise, Baby '.
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For the first time in over 40 years, I do not have a car key on my key ring. In our move to London , we made a conscious decision to be car free. Multiple factors contributed to the decision, cost of storage, length of stay and realistic expectations.
Our commitment is at least two years and that is a long time for a car to sit idle. You've seen the shows, a dark
foreboding space, an amorphous lump sitting covered in some sort of tarp. Dusty, covered in chicken feathers and straw bales, forgotten long ago. Waiting to be rediscovered. Whoa wait a minute, I lived in Chicago, anyway you get the picture. So we shed our cars. Which really on the surface is no problem. London has one of the most extensive public transportation systems in the world. The Tube, the overland train and those classic ubiquitous red double-decker buses.
Our days of the drive-thru and parallel parking, suburban parking lots, are a thing of the past. We are pedestrians now. And my eyes have been opened wide.
I have a new found appreciation for those brave souls choosing to be self propelled. To move about the world under their own power exposed to the elements, naked to the wrath or blessings of Mother Nature. Dependent upon the made-man system known as mass transit.
Despite it's
availability, mass transit takes work, forethought and planning to use. Some of the first Apps we downloaded dealt with transit. Tube mapper, bus routes,and time between buses.The simplest of excursions needs to be planned and thought out. I'm not complaining just awakened to a new dimension of moving about.
Forethought and logistics. Like an army on the move, the start and finish is the ultimate goal. Like the litany LA drivers recite every-time they move about, taking the 405 to the 105 to the 110 etc. etc. the same mantra applies here. Take the Northern Line, to the Central line or to the Piccadilly line etc. etc. All the while listening to the overhead speakers proclaiming " Good service on all lines at this time" which is not always the case. British mass transit while altogether extensive and comprehensive, can be fickle and mind numbingly inconsiderate. According to those with longer tube riding experience, spot strikes, errant debris such as leaves on the tracks and other seemingly innocuous occurrences can shut down a whole line. Forcing thou
sands to seek alternative routes. Then there is the Cinderella factor. The underground does not run all night long. Certain lines shut down overnight. So to that end, a pub crawl or night out is defined by what time the last train leaves for your stop. So when that clock strikes the appointed hour, you don't want to be turned into a pumpkin stranded in Shoreditch, needing to get back to Hampstead, and that is a long expensive cab ride.I am still enamored by the notion of not paying car insurance, fuel and maintenance costs. Parking is a nightmare here and the enforcement officers make the LAZ guys of Chicago look like a bunch of girl scouts. I carry an umbrella w
ith me at all times prepared for the random rain shower, a copy of the tube map along with the bus app on the my phone. Walking everywhere has improved my health and I am actually getting better winded. I enjoy watching people and notice my environment more closely. The downside is a minor loss of spontaneity. A quick trip across town or an out of the way spot in the country is tougher to accomplish. Not that it can't be done. Logistics and a good working knowledge of the resources available still can make it happen. Rental cars and car clubs like Zip exist, but that's another blog topic.
The adventure is in the journey and every journey an adventure. So in the mean time, I will carry my copy of the Tube map, my umbrella and most of all 'Mind the Gap'.
]]>That's what this blog is about new beginnings. We laugh every time we gather, clink glasses and utter those words, but they have become meaningful to the story that is all our lives. We all have moved forward, seeking replacements for the lost, re-threading the broken strand in the loom weaving the tapestry of our lives, taking stock of what we have and making it work.
We'll touch on topics of just about anything. From cooking and food, cultural events, photography to making furniture from recycled re-purposed items.
A working photojournalist for the past 35 years, my job was what most people did as a hobby. I have had the privilege of witnessing history and trying to record it, informing, entertaining and educating the readers who we represented. A spiritually fulfilling career, albeit not that lucrative. To that end, my mission was to make my hobby or hobbies, what most people did for work. I have learned to remodel houses, plumbing, tiling woodwork and furniture building. What ever it took to accomplish projects because monies were tight. My real passion as a teen was the automobile and what made it tick. This was in the era before the electronics and computers, a car was simpler to repair and customize. To this day it breaks my heart to have someone perform routine maintenance just for convenience sake. We learned by working on our own cars and those of our friends. Those skills have stayed and translated, to somewhat of a lessor degree, in today's complex automotive world.
This brings to right now and how we got the name of the blog. Minding the Gap. An opportunity presented itself to my wife in the form of a job transfer that would take us to London. The publishing industry in the Midwest has taken a terrible turn. The newspaper we worked for was hit hard by the recession, laying off staff to near epic proportions. The private sector reduced the need for any kind of photographic work, as well and for the past several years the market has taken a nose dive (many topics here for future blogs). With my prospects limited in the short run, the trip across the pond was a no-brainer.
Mind the Gap. A phrase painted on the the platforms of the Tube underground in London. Reminding riders to be aware of their surroundings. Mind the Gap, cross that ever so slight space,
between the train doors and the platforms edge. Mind the Gap, know where you came from, but look ahead to where you are going.
That's how I interpret Mind the Gap. Life gives you an opportunity to see where you are at the moment and where you want to go. As with the train platform, jumping from that solid, safe concrete pad into the flexible, forward moving train is an exercise in faith and future.
It's a simple mantra, to know where you are and where you came from, but also, urges and encourages you to step forward as well. Look before you leap, but leap none the less.
The gap is that space that you must cross to get from point A to point B, physically , metaphorically, and or spiritually. Be it learning the skills to cut and lay tile, because the bathroom needs a new floor. Going to night class to learn a new skill set so that you get to the next level of your career. Accepting criticism in order to grow and develop personally and professionally.
We are imperfect beings, we all have gaps. The gulf between the train platform and train car, for some, is as wide as an ocean. For others it's just a hairline crack.
I know my gaps. I know where I have been, but don't really know where I am ultimately heading. I know what skills I have, which ones need honing and those yet to be discovered.
This exercise is going to be my gap, my journey of discovery. I hope some of you will follow along. Some days it may be serious, some days not. We'll explore places and things. Talk about food, travel and maybe even a little furniture building. I'm not here to preach, to teach or to sway anyone to any particular opinion or point of view. I'm just getting ready to make that leap.
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