On my first trip to Japan, I was standing outside the gift shop of an expensive Tokyo hotel, looking at two tea bowls, glazed dark and shiny, one of which was priced ten times higher than the other. To me, they appeared to be of equal value, but given the price difference, they clearly were not. In that moment, I realized that there was another ideal of beauty, another way of measuring the value of an art object than the Greco-Roman aesthetic, which underlies much of Western art. My curiosity was piqued; I wanted not just to understand the price difference (which I now know was most likely based on the potters’ relative fame), but even more to explore the Japanese aesthetic, to see with different eyes.
Beauty is still what lures me to Japan. Beauty in the midst of industrialization, modernization, globalization. Beauty created over time by human beings collaborating with the natural world to celebrate the cycle of the seasons and the transience of life. whether in the form of an indigo garment dyed by hand in a family workshop, a tea bowl embellished with swirling maple leaves, a temple rock garden built 300 years ago, a haiku poem that honors the melancholy of a full moon in autumn. The beauty of an old wooden neighborhood shrine to Kannon, the Buddhist bodhisattva of compassion, rebuilt after being fire-bombed during the war.
On that first trip to Japan, I not only didn’t know how to see, I didn’t really know where to look. I was disappointed that the picturesque Japan described in the travelogues and histories that I had read as a girl was nowhere to be found. Small wonder since the ostensible goal of the trip was to attend the World Expo at Tsukuba, where the entire emphasis was on the world of tomorrow. Not until the end of our week in Tokyo did I happen upon a slice of what I had envisioned in Asakusa, a downtown neighborhood centered on the large shrine of the same name, rebuilt after World War II. Here were quaint craft shops and stalls selling traditional items, like imagawa-yaki, a round pancake filled with an, sweetened adzuki beans, and the floral combs worn with kimonos by geishas and Japanese girls on special birthdays.
Nearly ten years passed before I was able to return to Japan and pick up the thread of my earlier fascination. This time, I was in Kyoto with my mother-in-law for a walking tour of gardens, Buddhist temples, and Shinto shrines. It was late October, but we were lucky enough not to have missed the fall foliage. Everywhere we went, there were golden gingko and scarlet Japanese maple leaves. Not only on the trees, but on the kimonos of the geisha dancers, the handmade wagashi paper used to make wallets and boxes, the cloth handkerchiefs Japanese women carry in their purses, the designs etched and painted on the tea bowls, even the shapes and colors of the confections (also called wagashi) that accompany the tea ceremony.
Like all tour groups, this one had a troublesome member, a person who demanded an inordinate amount of attention. A brusque character who snored so loudly that his two roommates were unable to sleep. I was asked to give him my single room and move in with two older women (who did not seem pleased with the idea) so that his roommates could sleep in peace. A mother and people-pleaser, I at first said yes, but then decided, no, the tour leader would have to find another solution. Looking back, I find it interesting that the day after I stood up for myself, was the day I first encountered the beauty of wagashi, the edible Japanese art form that turns beans, rice flour and sugar into delicate peonies, clouds, and maple leaves.
I had already tried yatsuhashi cookies, a Kyoto specialty, made from rectangles of brown dough laid on metal cylinders of dough so that they curve as they bake. One meaning of the word hashi is bridge and, like many other symbols in Japan, this one has a air of melancholy to it. According to “Must-See in Kyoto,” these crispy cookies with a slight hint of cinnamon represent a bridge made by a mourning mother whose child had drowned. Looking more like the cover over a covered bridge than the bridge itself, today these sweets, both baked and unbaked, are a popular souvenir for tourists from other parts of Japan to take home and are sold at shops lining the avenues leading up to the city’s major temples.
But the pastries I saw that afternoon were different, like the difference between butter cookies and petit fours. In the window of the elegant shop was a plate with a single, exquisite chrysanthemum blossom. Created as a counterpoint for the bitterness of matcha, the powered green tea used in the tea ceremony, the selection of these sweets, shaped and colored to look like flowers and fruits, change with the seasons. I walked in and bought a chrysanthemum namagashi, a fresh, moist cake made from beans and sugar. Like many things of beauty, namagashi do not keep; I ceremoniously consumed mine over a cup of tea in the hotel room.
Returning to Japan in the spring a decade later, this time with my college-age daughter, Tina, in tow, I planned to continue my exploration of Japanese aesthetics in general and wagashi in particular. Arriving the day after the equinox, we were fortunate enough to experience the cherry blossoms in both Tokyo and Kyoto.
Visiting Japan in cherry blossom season requires not only planning but also luck. If the week before you are scheduled to leave is unseasonably warm, the blossoms may open and if the weather turns windy, a white carpet of spent flowers may be all that is left when you arrive. Of course, you can travel further north to catch the blossom wave, but it may be difficult at best to change your reservations, especially if you aren’t fluent in Japanese.
But the risk is worth it, for cherry blossom season is a magical time. Lasting only about 10 days in a given latitude, this season seems to impart a palpable joie de vivre. The magic of this season is much more than a relief from winter, which is fierce only in the far north of the country. Rather, the sakura has become a symbol of the transience of beauty, of youth, and of life itself. In the Samurai period, the cherry blossom’s fall was a metaphor for the goal these warriors had of a glorious death at the height of their prowess. The movie, “The Last Samurai,” makes reference to this in the scenes where the Samurai leader played by Ken Watanabe has first a dream, and then a dying vision of cherry blossoms falling. Cherry blossom season is also a time for special parties, known as sakura-ben, in which families and colleagues gather in parks and gardens to eat and drink under the trees and then stroll along the paths to view the flowers.
One of my students, Anita, a Taiwanese woman who had lived in Japan for more than a decade, invited us for a picnic in Shinjuku Park in a very modern part of Tokyo. While my daughter went off on her own to explore Harajuku, another trendy neighborhood, I met Anita at the Shinjuku station. Anita had made sushi and noodles for lunch, but suggested we stop at a bakery to pick up a couple of slices of cake for dessert. Wandering around the Tokyo Food Hall with its fascinating array of comestibles, I was reminded me of the food department at Harrod’s in London. After checking out all the possibilities, we chose a green tea mousse cake and bottles of cold oolong tea.
The park boasted more than half a dozen types of cherry trees, some with white blossoms, others with pink. Throngs of Japanese walked down the middle aisle, with picnickers crowded beneath the trees. Anita found a suitable spot and spread out the blanket she’d brought along. After the light and delicious lunch, she suggested we go for a stroll. I picked up the blanket and started to shake it out, like I would at home, but she quickly stopped me, a fleeting expression of shock on her face, gently explaining that the grass I was shaking out was likely to end up in our neighbors’ food, so close were we sitting. One of many little reminders that I was far, far from home.
After strolling through the park, we met up with my daughter at the station, then meandered through one of the adjacent department stores. Tina was fascinated by the ballet flats, in bright colors, in silver, with big chunky “jewels,” a style that would hit the U.S. two or three years later. Fortunately for her budget, the largest size was too small. I was fascinated with the idea that an entire 8-story department store, one of half a dozen in the same genre, was entirely geared to women under 25 and that Anita, at 30, felt too old to be shopping there. The bright pink coats in the window, the color of cherry blossoms, only underscored the idea that youth and youthful beauty are transient.
As an older Western woman, this idea makes me uncomfortable, for its corollary is the reminder that life itself is transient, as expressed in one of the four truths of Buddhism, that everyone and everything we love, including our very selves, will age, sicken and die. A passive acceptance, which becomes palatable to me only when I think of the Roman proverb, “Carpe diem,” Seize the day. A reminder that while I look for commonality and seek to understand this other culture, I am still the product of my own culture, still learning to see.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Iceland
Imagine an island in the North Atlantic, whose center is Europe’s largest glacier, where roads end at waterfalls cascading down volcanic mountains, where millions of birds nest, where a belief in magic goes hand-in-hand with a nearly 100 percent literacy rate, where the people can trace their family trees back 1000 years to the Vikings who wrote and starred in the ancient sagas-- and you have a glimpse of Iceland.
The first time I visited Iceland, I was almost 30 and accompanied by my husband and two children, then 18 months and 5 and a half years old. We were on an Icelandic Airlines layover, and in those few days, I fell for the country’s geological charms. This time I am returning alone, my children grown, my marriage a roiling sea, hoping that this island’s wild beauty might soothe my confused and desolate heart.
My first stop after arrival is the Blue Lagoon, a man-made pool of mineral-rich milky blue water, located in the dark, lunar-like hills near the international airport at Keflavik. The sensation of soaking up to my neck in warm water as the cool summer breeze ruffles my hair is exquisite. The sensual delight deepens into profound relaxation as one of the swimsuit-clad masseuses kneads my tired shoulder muscles, while I lie on a floating mattress.
The stress of the flight having melted away, I continue driving the rental car into downtown Reykjavik, to the hostel on a quiet street where I have booked a room. A basement room as it turns out, with casement windows and white stucco walls. The colorful timber houses in this part of town remind me of the houses my children used to make from Lego blocks. I vividly remember walking through a similar neighborhood on another misty summer evening with my young family. Then as now, clouds scuttled across the sky and the sound of seagulls pierced the air. Hoping to distract myself from the swell of melancholy, I walk along the pedestrian-only main shopping street, stopping to browse in a bookstore. Upstairs, I find a café with deliciously moist cakes, fruit teas and strong coffee, and magazines to peruse in both English and Icelandic. Most of the books on the second floor are in English, Iceland’s second language, a good many of them imported from England. Although several of the dozens of British cookbooks look tempting, the prices are on the high side. I do, however, buy a small book of gorgeous photographs of the island as a souvenir.
By this time, I’m ravenous. On that first trip, we ate at the Hard Rock Café, which had just opened a Reykjavik branch, where I had a plate of grilled salmon that tasted amazingly fresh, as though it had just been caught. I have eaten quite a few salmon over the years, but that was perhaps the best, the freshest. Tonight, I pass a quaint restaurant with puffin on the menu and go inside for a lackadaisical lobster dinner. (Puffins are too cute to eat if there are other options.) Next trip, I will go straight for the Italian restaurant and order spaghetti Bolognese.
Despite the jetlag, I sleep most of the night. Like most lodgings in Scandinavia, the hostel offers a hearty breakfast buffet of cold cereals, yogurt, boiled eggs and sandwich fixings: breads, cheeses, pickled fish, ham, and sliced cucumbers, tomatoes and bell peppers, along with strong coffee, black tea, milk and orange juice. I toast a slice of rye bread, spread orange marmalade on one side, top it with mild cheese and cucumber slices and eat it between sips of tea. The sky is bright but cloudy, and I wish that I had brought a warmer sweater. If I decide that I need one, at least I am in the right place to purchase one; sweaters seems to be one of the country’s major products, judging from the plethora available in the shops on the main street.
The first time I came to Iceland, I was the only one in the family who didn’t get an Icelandic sweater. Instead, I was cold, rationalizing my choice not to take care of myself by telling myself that I wouldn’t have any use for it back in Los Angeles. Later back home, I had to cajole the kids to put on their itchy woolen pullovers and caps to pose for that year’s Christmas card photo.
After breakfast, I stretch my legs with another stroll around downtown, then drive northeast out of town towards an area that tour operators have named, “The Golden Circle.” Not that this place is teeming with tourists. In less than an hour of leaving the capital, I am in a landscape with few signs of human habitation. There are no billboards, no electrical towers or telephone poles, no factories, farms or houses, no barbed wire fences, no sheep. Only the mountain rising to my left, the road beneath me and the occasional passing car. The only other sign of life is the odd Icelandic horse, singly or in pairs. Short enough to qualify as ponies but stout enough to carry an armed Viking, these animals have a unique gait, called a tolt. Since my first trip, I have secretly dreamed of taking a pony trek into the island’s glacial interior, but the only move I’ve made in that direction was one summer’s worth of riding lessons, nearly a decade ago now.
In earlier centuries, Icelanders rode their ponies every two years to Thingvellir, a plain that includes the continental divide, for the Althing, the world’s oldest continuous parliament. Not only were laws passed at the Althing but also grievances were aired, cases tried and judgments carried out. As I walk the trail alongside the meadow of Thingvellir National Park, I try to imagine what it must have looked like with crowds of men and women, horses and tents. Off the main walkway, I detour to two small pools where women accused of witchcraft were drowned and pay my respects to these victims.
Not only is this plain a national park and UNESCO World Heritage Site, it is also where the tectonic plates beneath of continents of North America and Europe meet—and slide. No wonder there are so many earthquakes here. Walking under the shadow of the ridge of black rock, I remember one night during that earlier trip when we were staying in a tiny cabin a quarter-mile from the nearest farm-house, off a dirt road between the sea and a dormant volcano, and how I was too afraid to light the propane heater after an earthquake visibly shook the bunk beds. That night I understood intuitively how Icelanders could still believe in magic.
Leaving Thingvellir, I drive towards Geysir, the geological wonder after which all others geysers are named. In a field pocked with bubbling hot pots, Geysir sends a burst of hot water into the air at regular intervals. Nearby is Gullfoss, a huge double waterfall. On this cloudy summer day, there are a couple of dozen visitors wandering the path between these two, eating ice cream or a lamb sandwich (slices of lamb on soft flatbread, this is Icelandic fast food) bought at the kiosk. Inside the visitor’s center, another ten or 12 people browse the racks of Icelandic woolens or the shelves of books and tchotchkes.
On my first trip here, there was no visitor center and, on that late August day at the very end of the tourist season, no other tourists. Having been to Niagara Falls with its masses of visitors, shops and tour boats, I was stunned by the contrast. Not only were there no other people, stores, or boat rides, there wasn’t even a guardrail between the dirt path that ended in a rocky shelf and the edge of the falls. It was just the four of us and the roar of the falling water. There was a lone marker, a stone plinth with a engraving of Sigríður Tómasdóttir, a local woman who in the 1920s fought to save the falls from being dammed for hydropower. I took a photo of my little daughter, dressed in pink Icelandic sweater and cap, standing in front of the marker, and one of my son with his father behind him on the edge of the falls. Seeing these places again, I feel the bittersweetness of nostalgia and melancholy at the passing of time wash over me.
On the way back. I stop for a bit at Thingvellir Lake to sip some hot tea from a thermos cup and nibble on my lamb sandwich as I look out on this placid deep blue lake in the harsh hills, and the grass and tiny wildflowers at my feet, soaking in the serenity of nature and her healing power. I know that I will return here again another year, and that I will be yet again changed and the same.
The first time I visited Iceland, I was almost 30 and accompanied by my husband and two children, then 18 months and 5 and a half years old. We were on an Icelandic Airlines layover, and in those few days, I fell for the country’s geological charms. This time I am returning alone, my children grown, my marriage a roiling sea, hoping that this island’s wild beauty might soothe my confused and desolate heart.
My first stop after arrival is the Blue Lagoon, a man-made pool of mineral-rich milky blue water, located in the dark, lunar-like hills near the international airport at Keflavik. The sensation of soaking up to my neck in warm water as the cool summer breeze ruffles my hair is exquisite. The sensual delight deepens into profound relaxation as one of the swimsuit-clad masseuses kneads my tired shoulder muscles, while I lie on a floating mattress.
The stress of the flight having melted away, I continue driving the rental car into downtown Reykjavik, to the hostel on a quiet street where I have booked a room. A basement room as it turns out, with casement windows and white stucco walls. The colorful timber houses in this part of town remind me of the houses my children used to make from Lego blocks. I vividly remember walking through a similar neighborhood on another misty summer evening with my young family. Then as now, clouds scuttled across the sky and the sound of seagulls pierced the air. Hoping to distract myself from the swell of melancholy, I walk along the pedestrian-only main shopping street, stopping to browse in a bookstore. Upstairs, I find a café with deliciously moist cakes, fruit teas and strong coffee, and magazines to peruse in both English and Icelandic. Most of the books on the second floor are in English, Iceland’s second language, a good many of them imported from England. Although several of the dozens of British cookbooks look tempting, the prices are on the high side. I do, however, buy a small book of gorgeous photographs of the island as a souvenir.
By this time, I’m ravenous. On that first trip, we ate at the Hard Rock Café, which had just opened a Reykjavik branch, where I had a plate of grilled salmon that tasted amazingly fresh, as though it had just been caught. I have eaten quite a few salmon over the years, but that was perhaps the best, the freshest. Tonight, I pass a quaint restaurant with puffin on the menu and go inside for a lackadaisical lobster dinner. (Puffins are too cute to eat if there are other options.) Next trip, I will go straight for the Italian restaurant and order spaghetti Bolognese.
Despite the jetlag, I sleep most of the night. Like most lodgings in Scandinavia, the hostel offers a hearty breakfast buffet of cold cereals, yogurt, boiled eggs and sandwich fixings: breads, cheeses, pickled fish, ham, and sliced cucumbers, tomatoes and bell peppers, along with strong coffee, black tea, milk and orange juice. I toast a slice of rye bread, spread orange marmalade on one side, top it with mild cheese and cucumber slices and eat it between sips of tea. The sky is bright but cloudy, and I wish that I had brought a warmer sweater. If I decide that I need one, at least I am in the right place to purchase one; sweaters seems to be one of the country’s major products, judging from the plethora available in the shops on the main street.
The first time I came to Iceland, I was the only one in the family who didn’t get an Icelandic sweater. Instead, I was cold, rationalizing my choice not to take care of myself by telling myself that I wouldn’t have any use for it back in Los Angeles. Later back home, I had to cajole the kids to put on their itchy woolen pullovers and caps to pose for that year’s Christmas card photo.
After breakfast, I stretch my legs with another stroll around downtown, then drive northeast out of town towards an area that tour operators have named, “The Golden Circle.” Not that this place is teeming with tourists. In less than an hour of leaving the capital, I am in a landscape with few signs of human habitation. There are no billboards, no electrical towers or telephone poles, no factories, farms or houses, no barbed wire fences, no sheep. Only the mountain rising to my left, the road beneath me and the occasional passing car. The only other sign of life is the odd Icelandic horse, singly or in pairs. Short enough to qualify as ponies but stout enough to carry an armed Viking, these animals have a unique gait, called a tolt. Since my first trip, I have secretly dreamed of taking a pony trek into the island’s glacial interior, but the only move I’ve made in that direction was one summer’s worth of riding lessons, nearly a decade ago now.
In earlier centuries, Icelanders rode their ponies every two years to Thingvellir, a plain that includes the continental divide, for the Althing, the world’s oldest continuous parliament. Not only were laws passed at the Althing but also grievances were aired, cases tried and judgments carried out. As I walk the trail alongside the meadow of Thingvellir National Park, I try to imagine what it must have looked like with crowds of men and women, horses and tents. Off the main walkway, I detour to two small pools where women accused of witchcraft were drowned and pay my respects to these victims.
Not only is this plain a national park and UNESCO World Heritage Site, it is also where the tectonic plates beneath of continents of North America and Europe meet—and slide. No wonder there are so many earthquakes here. Walking under the shadow of the ridge of black rock, I remember one night during that earlier trip when we were staying in a tiny cabin a quarter-mile from the nearest farm-house, off a dirt road between the sea and a dormant volcano, and how I was too afraid to light the propane heater after an earthquake visibly shook the bunk beds. That night I understood intuitively how Icelanders could still believe in magic.
Leaving Thingvellir, I drive towards Geysir, the geological wonder after which all others geysers are named. In a field pocked with bubbling hot pots, Geysir sends a burst of hot water into the air at regular intervals. Nearby is Gullfoss, a huge double waterfall. On this cloudy summer day, there are a couple of dozen visitors wandering the path between these two, eating ice cream or a lamb sandwich (slices of lamb on soft flatbread, this is Icelandic fast food) bought at the kiosk. Inside the visitor’s center, another ten or 12 people browse the racks of Icelandic woolens or the shelves of books and tchotchkes.
On my first trip here, there was no visitor center and, on that late August day at the very end of the tourist season, no other tourists. Having been to Niagara Falls with its masses of visitors, shops and tour boats, I was stunned by the contrast. Not only were there no other people, stores, or boat rides, there wasn’t even a guardrail between the dirt path that ended in a rocky shelf and the edge of the falls. It was just the four of us and the roar of the falling water. There was a lone marker, a stone plinth with a engraving of Sigríður Tómasdóttir, a local woman who in the 1920s fought to save the falls from being dammed for hydropower. I took a photo of my little daughter, dressed in pink Icelandic sweater and cap, standing in front of the marker, and one of my son with his father behind him on the edge of the falls. Seeing these places again, I feel the bittersweetness of nostalgia and melancholy at the passing of time wash over me.
On the way back. I stop for a bit at Thingvellir Lake to sip some hot tea from a thermos cup and nibble on my lamb sandwich as I look out on this placid deep blue lake in the harsh hills, and the grass and tiny wildflowers at my feet, soaking in the serenity of nature and her healing power. I know that I will return here again another year, and that I will be yet again changed and the same.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
A Weekend in the City of Angels
Los Angeles is a city that many love to hate. If only it didn’t have so many people, so many cars, so much traffic, so much pollution. Whatever happened to the valley filled with orange groves, where the beautiful were discovered in soda fountains and transformed into stars? And yet this polygot city of angels still draws the young, filled with dreams of making their creative mark on the silver screen, as well as the ambitious poor from south of the border and beyond, hoping to make a better life.
What I love about Los Angeles is the visual creativity that permeates this metropolis from the major fine arts museums (LA County Museum of Art, the L.A. MOMA, the Norton Simon in Pasadena, the Getty in west L.A. and Malibu, to name a few) to the quirky vintage stores and hip fashion and interior design shops of Robertson Blvd., Los Feliz and Melrose Avenues, and the graceful Spanish-style stucco bungalows and apartment complexes that dot the city.
Now that my daughter lives in L.A., I manage to spend a weekend there every few months. The best time to visit is in the winter when the air looks the clearest and it is even possible to see the hills that ring the valley.
Arriving on a Friday night, I suggest dinner at Cha Cha Cha’s, a West Hollywood restaurant with Caribbean-inspired food (coconut shrimp, jerk chicken, vegetable-filled sopapillas). Over a margarita, corn tortilla ships, fresh salsa or guacamole, we catch up while taking in the festive surroundings: statues of saints, strings of Christmas lights, punched tin star-shaped lanterns, and floral-patterned vinyl tablecloths in a riot of colors.
This city has endless possibilities for night life, but one of my favorites is the rooftop garden bar at the Standard Hotel downtown, where classic movies like “Cool Hand Luke” are projected on the walls and the dance floor is tiny but lively. If the crowd seems too much, there are small pods, complete with waterbed mattresses, to escape to. Downstairs is a coffee shop that is worth at least a look-see for the 1960s décor.
Saturday morning, we head to the closest Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a local chain that makes the best honey bran muffins. To drink, I like the green tea ice blend, a creamy concoction made with matcha, the concentrated green tea used in the Japanese tea ceremony. Or, if I’m off caffeine, I might have a tea latte with herbal Swedish berry tea. For brunch, we might go to Toast, a trendy place with delicious huevos rancheros (corn tortilla topped with beans, salsa and fried eggs). I find it sad and slightly ridiculous that so many of the patrons waiting to be seated have the same blonde hair, flawless tans, and surgically-enhanced busts. Other times, we opt for the organic and very French Figaro Bistro, for steamed mussels with French fries or a frisée salad with poached egg and a bowl of café au lait or a mimosa. I love browsing the fashion and interior design boutiques in the same neighborhood as Toast as well as the vintage clothing store next to Figaro. On my last vintage shopping spree., I found a Versace wrap dress for $119 for my daughter and a $14 cropped ladylike jacket in a lovely shade of blue with white top stitching for me. The latter perfectly matched the blue and white “Question Everything” button I found in the nearby independent Skylight Books, one of the best bookstores anywhere.
A trip to Los Angeles wouldn't be complete without at least a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean so in the afternoon we drive to Santa Monica, stopping first at the cupcake bakery Sprinkles for an afternoon pick-me-up. It might not be a quick stop, since there is often a line going out the door, but it will definitely be worth the wait for one of their red velvet cupcakes with vanilla icing, a Southern specialty, or any of the other dozen-plus flavors.
After we’ve on the beach or browsed the shops on Main Street in Santa Monica, I might suggest dinner at Raw, which serves vegan raw or “living” food. The term “raw” in this context means either uncooked or not heated above 118 degrees F., the temperature at which the food’s “living” enzymes die. Raw cuisine encompasses much more than green salads, gazpachos and fruit smoothies. Think Mexican pizza, pumpkin tortellini, spring rolls, cheesecake, apple pie, all made from such raw ingredients as nuts, seeds, sprouted grains, and coconuts, as well as fruits and vegetables, transformed by the low-heat of the dehydrator into reasonable facsimiles of the real thing. My favorite dish is the faux eel sushi, which has the same crunchy, meaty texture and salty flavor as the original. The chocolate parfait, made from coconut and raw cacao is also scrumptious.
Wandering around the farmer’s market is a fun way to spend Sunday morning. I like to check out the tables heaped with fresh produce and flowers and the booths with take-out food and drinks. We might try a strawberry lemonade or a bottle of sugarcane juice or a plate of Korean barbeque. Half a dozen or more artisans sell their wares as well, from handmade soaps to summer dresses to one-of-a-kind boxes and bags decoupaged with images ranging from Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits to Maxfield Parrish’s ethereal youths.
Sunday afternoon is a great time to explore the Getty, which now has two locations, the remodeled original Getty Villa in Malibu with the ancient Greek, Roman, and Etruscan art collection and the Frank Gehry-designed Getty Center on the west side of Los Angeles, housing European art from the Middle Ages to the present. The former (which is free to enter but requires advance reservations) is the home of one of my all-time favorite pieces of art: a 4th century Sicilian sculpture of Aphrodite (Venus to the Romans). Here in Los Angeles, a city permeated by a culture exalting youth and beauty, one might expect the usual image of the goddess as girlishly coy and scantily-clad. But instead, this majestic sculpture of Aphrodite, with one foot forward, her arms raised and her loose robes billowing, stands as an apt reminder of the awesome power of beauty, sexual desire, and love in human life, a power as unpredictable as that of the nearby Pacific Ocean.
A last glimpse back at Aphrodite, then the ocean, the freeway, the airport and then home again.
What I love about Los Angeles is the visual creativity that permeates this metropolis from the major fine arts museums (LA County Museum of Art, the L.A. MOMA, the Norton Simon in Pasadena, the Getty in west L.A. and Malibu, to name a few) to the quirky vintage stores and hip fashion and interior design shops of Robertson Blvd., Los Feliz and Melrose Avenues, and the graceful Spanish-style stucco bungalows and apartment complexes that dot the city.
Now that my daughter lives in L.A., I manage to spend a weekend there every few months. The best time to visit is in the winter when the air looks the clearest and it is even possible to see the hills that ring the valley.
Arriving on a Friday night, I suggest dinner at Cha Cha Cha’s, a West Hollywood restaurant with Caribbean-inspired food (coconut shrimp, jerk chicken, vegetable-filled sopapillas). Over a margarita, corn tortilla ships, fresh salsa or guacamole, we catch up while taking in the festive surroundings: statues of saints, strings of Christmas lights, punched tin star-shaped lanterns, and floral-patterned vinyl tablecloths in a riot of colors.
This city has endless possibilities for night life, but one of my favorites is the rooftop garden bar at the Standard Hotel downtown, where classic movies like “Cool Hand Luke” are projected on the walls and the dance floor is tiny but lively. If the crowd seems too much, there are small pods, complete with waterbed mattresses, to escape to. Downstairs is a coffee shop that is worth at least a look-see for the 1960s décor.
Saturday morning, we head to the closest Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a local chain that makes the best honey bran muffins. To drink, I like the green tea ice blend, a creamy concoction made with matcha, the concentrated green tea used in the Japanese tea ceremony. Or, if I’m off caffeine, I might have a tea latte with herbal Swedish berry tea. For brunch, we might go to Toast, a trendy place with delicious huevos rancheros (corn tortilla topped with beans, salsa and fried eggs). I find it sad and slightly ridiculous that so many of the patrons waiting to be seated have the same blonde hair, flawless tans, and surgically-enhanced busts. Other times, we opt for the organic and very French Figaro Bistro, for steamed mussels with French fries or a frisée salad with poached egg and a bowl of café au lait or a mimosa. I love browsing the fashion and interior design boutiques in the same neighborhood as Toast as well as the vintage clothing store next to Figaro. On my last vintage shopping spree., I found a Versace wrap dress for $119 for my daughter and a $14 cropped ladylike jacket in a lovely shade of blue with white top stitching for me. The latter perfectly matched the blue and white “Question Everything” button I found in the nearby independent Skylight Books, one of the best bookstores anywhere.
A trip to Los Angeles wouldn't be complete without at least a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean so in the afternoon we drive to Santa Monica, stopping first at the cupcake bakery Sprinkles for an afternoon pick-me-up. It might not be a quick stop, since there is often a line going out the door, but it will definitely be worth the wait for one of their red velvet cupcakes with vanilla icing, a Southern specialty, or any of the other dozen-plus flavors.
After we’ve on the beach or browsed the shops on Main Street in Santa Monica, I might suggest dinner at Raw, which serves vegan raw or “living” food. The term “raw” in this context means either uncooked or not heated above 118 degrees F., the temperature at which the food’s “living” enzymes die. Raw cuisine encompasses much more than green salads, gazpachos and fruit smoothies. Think Mexican pizza, pumpkin tortellini, spring rolls, cheesecake, apple pie, all made from such raw ingredients as nuts, seeds, sprouted grains, and coconuts, as well as fruits and vegetables, transformed by the low-heat of the dehydrator into reasonable facsimiles of the real thing. My favorite dish is the faux eel sushi, which has the same crunchy, meaty texture and salty flavor as the original. The chocolate parfait, made from coconut and raw cacao is also scrumptious.
Wandering around the farmer’s market is a fun way to spend Sunday morning. I like to check out the tables heaped with fresh produce and flowers and the booths with take-out food and drinks. We might try a strawberry lemonade or a bottle of sugarcane juice or a plate of Korean barbeque. Half a dozen or more artisans sell their wares as well, from handmade soaps to summer dresses to one-of-a-kind boxes and bags decoupaged with images ranging from Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits to Maxfield Parrish’s ethereal youths.
Sunday afternoon is a great time to explore the Getty, which now has two locations, the remodeled original Getty Villa in Malibu with the ancient Greek, Roman, and Etruscan art collection and the Frank Gehry-designed Getty Center on the west side of Los Angeles, housing European art from the Middle Ages to the present. The former (which is free to enter but requires advance reservations) is the home of one of my all-time favorite pieces of art: a 4th century Sicilian sculpture of Aphrodite (Venus to the Romans). Here in Los Angeles, a city permeated by a culture exalting youth and beauty, one might expect the usual image of the goddess as girlishly coy and scantily-clad. But instead, this majestic sculpture of Aphrodite, with one foot forward, her arms raised and her loose robes billowing, stands as an apt reminder of the awesome power of beauty, sexual desire, and love in human life, a power as unpredictable as that of the nearby Pacific Ocean.
A last glimpse back at Aphrodite, then the ocean, the freeway, the airport and then home again.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Freudian Slip
Seeing other women’s beauty is easy, seeing my own is hard. The reasons are both generic and specific. A culture that worships the perfection of youth. Shaming parents. The body cast that covered my torso from shoulder to hipbone my freshman year of high school. Therapy and affirmations and self-improvement have helped me to reclaim a sense of ease and appreciation for this body, but I still struggle to have the confidence that other women, including my daughter, seem to just naturally possess.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
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