More of Florence

For those who just can't get enough armchair traveling.

Morning in Florence. Crossing the famous Ponte Vecchio (bridge). What's it famous for? Hordes of tourists? 

Dozens if diamond and jewelry shops? Beats me. It's pretty run down. Looks like it could collapse any moment.

Spent an hour searching for a bank with an ATM (as opposed to the outrageously expensive Euronet cash machines). No bank, even on the street with Gucci and Tiffany and Hermes. Lots more churches, though.

Thousands of leather good shops, colorful purses and jackets spilling into the streets, to the strong scent of cowhide.

Brand new jeans with plaid flannel patches, anyone?

On the backs of turtles.

Off to the train station, once again tackling the cracked pavement with my wheels. Headed south.

It Happened One Night...414 Steps and a Look at David's Butt

It happened one night in Florence. No, I didn't meet any suave Italian studs at the top of the Duomo.  Though a nattily attired gent with a silk scarf offered advice on catching the airport bus. And smiled again when I disembarked. Too bad he was 20 years younger. Or thereabouts.

What did happen was a rare opportunity to see David's contours--on short notice.

First, a short hop on a turbo prop (yes they still fly them) from Vienna. Landing gear in the wings outside my window. Stepping out to steamy skies, just like a DC summer. Slow going with a rolling suitcase over rough stone-block sidewalks. Check-in at a delightful B&B practically next door to the train station, Tre Gigli. All that was just setting the scene for the main event.

I had arrived. I had one night. What to do? Famous churches? Everywhere you look. Stop in at three or four on the way to anywhere.

Check out the frescoes. The door carvings. The statuary.

When in Florence, one must at least climb the narrow, winding stone staircase to the top of the Duomo bell tower.

Two-way traffic on the two-foot-wide stairs surrounded by solid stone walls.. Congested and claustrophobic and steep. Not for the weak-hearted. But obligatory for most reasonably healthy tourists.

Naturally, a view from the top, 414 steps later, at 82 meters (266 feet).

Next? Da Vinci Museum? Mmmm, maybe. But I see a lot of him in Washington. Michelangelo's David? My first choice, but no such luck; tickets are reserved days in advance. I have only one night. My landlord personally called and begged. They laughed her off.

Still, it can never hurt to ask--my favorite philosophy and one all of my friends and family have heard me espouse. So I strolled on over, checked out the scene (wall-to-wall crowds). And started asking.

Thus, a half hour before closing time, I got in the door with a private tour guide wanting to make a few bucks (or euros), for only double the regular price. Surprise! There is more in the Galleria Dell'Academia than the mammoth statue of Goliath's slayer.

Stradivarius violins and cellos played by the Medici family, and paintings recording the deed. The first pianoforte. Artistic depictions and altar decorations commemorating the life of St. Francis of Assissi.

Unfinished statues started by Michelangelo on commission, abandoned in a rage. He destroyed several others. (His temper is legendary.)

Plaster busts, anyone? By students of the Academy. Some by protégés of Michelangelo.

Finally, the star attraction. David is an old friend. Thirty-three years ago, I visited him in Florence. He hasn't aged much. But something else has changed. I don't remember big crowds!

The star attraction to the fair gender, according to my delightfully witty tour guide, is David's butt. You decide, girlfriends. Front or rear?

Ah, what a night!

From the Danube to the David

I may have died and gone to heaven. I just ate the most delicious, hearty, whole-grain bread I've ever tasted in my life, on the way to Vienna airport.

It surpasses my previous all-time favorite, genuine Irish brown bread (available only in Ireland; not those wimpy imitations in Irish-American pubs).

I will never forget October 2015 in Austria for the world peace conference, time with my guru, and brown bread. 

Onward now for the second leg of my journey: flight to Florence, Italy, where I am only passing through to meet my friend Becky further south. Will pause long enough to drink in the graceful milky curves of Michelangelo's David. 

Yoga: A Path to World Peace

I don't believe in taking ordinary vacations. Just ask Pope, who is always trying to get me to do the usual things (like sailing across the ocean to Cuba...).

This time, I travelled to Vienna, Austria, to participate in a world peace conference at the United Nations.

I often travel for Yoga in Daily Life events. Ours is not an ordinary American-style yoga center a la fitness classes operating under the yoga umbrella. We are an international spiritual and humanitarian organization with a living guru descended from a long line of gurus.

Some of you may remember my journey to the United Nations Sustainable Development Summit, Rio+20, in Rio de Janeiro a few years ago. I accompanied Swami Maheshwarananda, who is my personal guru and the founder of my yoga system, Yoga in Daily Life; at that conference, I supported him with public relations work.

Read about Swami Maheshwarananda's formal title and accomplishments here:

www.yogaindailylife.org/author/biography-swami-maheshwarananda

He is also the founder of a world peace council, and succeeded in lobbying the United Nations in Vienna, Austria to host an NGO (non-governmental organization) conference--the first NGO event held under that roof, apparently, so quite a coup. The conference theme was "Yoga: A Path to Peace," i.e., inner peace leads to outer peace and, on a large scale, can change the world. Official description of the conference here:

http://www.worldpeacecouncil.net/activities/forums-conferences-celebrations/1826-remarkable-peace-gathering-at-the-united-nations-in-vienna

The official event occurred on a Friday. The unofficial conference activities continued over the weekend with a seminar in Strilky, in the Czech Republic, where Swami Maheshwarananda, 800 Yoga in Daily Life practitioners, a few of the conference speakers, and VIPs from India gathered at a large, rambling manor house, undoubtedly of a former aristocrat or lord, now converted into a large, rambling ashram. 

It is a beautiful setting, with apple trees, an organic garden, trees, and dorm rooms in the converted manor house. Yoga and meditation seminars are held here frequently.

At the seminars, Swami Maheshwarananda leads us in practicing meditation and asanas and imparts wisdom, spiritual knowledge, and advice for a happy, healthy life.

On this occasion, we also heard from speakers on the scientific research on yoga and meditation, the global requirements for reducing conflict and achieving peace, and the relationships between religions.  

As the US delegate, I spoke to the audience about the popularity of non-traditional yoga in the United States, its entry into the White House via Michelle Obama, and how yoga practitioners in the US can help to promote peace.

Sunday afternoon many of us returned to Vienna via carpools, and I am now ensconced in the Vienna ashram, discussing the future of the world with Swami Maheshwarananda; practicing asanas with Slovenians, Slovakians, Austrians, and others; and washing dishes.

After four intense days serving my guru, his cause, and his ashrams, practicing yoga and meditation, and rushing around, I claimed a need for a break and today headed out for a few hours to see the glitz and glamour of Vienna.

To my surprise, news of my impending arrival had preceded me, and the city had rolled out the welcome mat.

I went out of my way to see the mighty Danube before heading back to the ashram to again leave the outer world outside and re-immerse in the inner world.

Welcome to London

Ah, Heathrow. Where else can you whittle away half your life connecting to a flight in a different terminal? Not as long this time (1-1/2 hours, including 47 minutes of walking and a 17-minute bus ride) as last time (3-1/2 hours, including a     1-hour wait trapped in an underground lobby waiting for a bus to the other terminal, and TWO security checkpoints after that; throw that Evian you purchased for $3.39 at Dulles right down the drain). 

Ah, Heathrow. Where else can you walk for half an hour without finding a restroom?

Only ten more minutes when you spot this sign! How do the elderly and infirm survive airports?

Heathrow is a shopper's haven--if you want to plunk down big bucks. Where else can you buy diamond earrings and watches between planes? 

Well, maybe Paris or Singapore.

Still an hour to wait after finally wending my winding way to Terminal 3. Try in some Gucci shades, anyone?

Or just find a comfortable spot to rest the knees and ponder the indignities of flying. And massage the black circles left over from a too-brief nap on the overnight flight.

British Airways is a dream compared to US airlines. Leg room, smiling attendants, and a mini toothbrush on every seat. I had a whole row to myself.

But. The armrests don't go up all the way!

So walk the endless halls of Heathrow, gazing longingly at the door to the World Club Lounge, settling for the crowded waiting room designated for the poor and hungry, wishing mightily for a quiet room and Serta Comfort Rest.

Ah, Heathrow. First leg complete.

A Still Blue Maryland Morning

Climb aboard! Pope has toiled every day to fix and clean and upgrade Echo II. Time to test 'er out on another exciting adventure on Chesapeake Bay.

Two weeks ago, I survived an overnight sail across the bay to meet up and raft up with the Annapolis Sailing Club. Blessings: breeze, not too hot, no rain, few mosquitoes, potluck on shore, friendly crowd.

This week, we headed up the western shore to visit old friends who inhabit an island paradise north of the Bay Bridge.

Conditions were perfect for a gentle sail with Pope's favorite toy--an asymmetrical spinnaker. 

As per our usual pattern, Pope sailed/drove while I napped (or meditated or read or did crossword puzzles or prepared lunch).

We docked at Gibson Island Yacht Squadron, a private club tucked into a cove of the Magotjy River, which has the cleanest facilities on the east coast

Headed up the hill on the lovingly tended island to visit our friends the Hopkins at their impressive estate overlooking the Bay.

After an evening of fun and frolic--actually an amazing dinner and heated discussion about the Republican debate, influenced by too many Planters Punches--stumbled back to the dock to be rocked to sleep.

On waters becalmed by still blue skies, motored out to the Bay and steered for home. A pleasant breeze in the afternoon allowed us to complete the journey under respectable full sail.

To Pope's astonishment, I enjoyed the sail.

A Clear Blue North Carolina Day

It ain't France. It ain't the Bahamas. But, friends, it's a lovely week here in the Outer Banks--warm but dry, with blue skies, drifting clouds, gentle breeze, warmer-than-normal ocean temperature of 79 degrees.

Yesterday I tested my inflatable "boogie board," surfing the waves as they crested over the sandbar 50 yards offshore. Again and again I rode the surf to shore on my bright yellow surface-submarine, exhilarating in each successful run.

Then, as the waves calmed, settled into a comfy beach chair with a good book: "Nineteen Minutes" by Jodi Piccoult.

I am staying in the Barrier Island Station resort in Duck, North Carolina, as I have done almost every September for more than 20 years. There was a lively crowd here until Wednesday, two days after Labor Day, when 90 packed up their SUVs and left. Back to work? Kids back to school? Or just the threat of impending thunderstorms?  In the end, it only rained for a few hours during the night.

Now there's only a smattering of beachgoers, me, two pelicans, and the mighty ocean. A fisherman yesterday mentioned seeing a fin in the water. So today, with few people around and no lifeguard, I skip the swimming, and walk the beach.

It takes me 2 1/2 minutes to walk from the apartment over the sand dunes to the ocean--375 steps. It's 20 minutes to the Corps of Engineers' research pier and back, gripping the sand with each step.

The sand is warm, soft. I revel in the chance to feel wind on my face and walk among willets and sandpipers. Beige, almost-transparent sand crabs scatter like flies on a picnic table when you wave your hand. I search the piles of gravel for whole scallop shells that survived the pounding of the surf. Dig in my toes and let the saltwater wash over them.

Late this afternoon, a troupe of dolphins put on a show. Act I: a dozen or more, feeding offshore, gracefully arcing over the chop, the setting sun glinting off their fins. Occasionally a mad dash across the surface, throwing up spray--predator or prey? Could this be what the fisherman saw?

 

Act II: "splooshing" awkwardly over the sandbar into the deep trough closer to shore. So close. The small crowd of spectators somehow swells--how? Did they hear about it on the radio? 

Act III: a more violent feeding frenzy. Groups of dolphins now, thrashing hard. Broaching the surface in pairs, nipping perhaps, tangling in each other's tails. Competing? 

The curtain falls. Sunset.

 

One more day in this seaside paradise before my return to the hustle and bustle of home. Go gently, mighty ocean. Go gently, and grace other shores.