A calm before the storm settles over the bay on Upolu, Samoa.
The air was heavy, oppressive. Dark clouds rose above a steel horizon. The humid air made it hard to breathe. I took a shower that morning, but never dried off, still dripping. The clear ocean called to me, but a storm was coming. I could feel it in the quiet slowness. No one was in the water. Most of the locals were resting on mats in their fales. A Samoan home, or fale, is mostly built with bamboo and thatch, allowing maximum airflow. The air was not moving.
Storm clouds bloom over Upolu Island, Samoa.
I watched them come, the dark clouds. The weight of wet-hot weather pushing, pushing down on my chest, holding me in place as I watched them grow, the clouds. I wanted to lie down and not move, sleep until the dark dream dispersed.
When the rains came, it was sudden, as if the ocean moved onshore. The sky was water. The air was liquid. The drops were waves, crashing to earth. The sound rose and swelled, drowning all other sounds.
Then, quiet.
Talofa lava–a young boy waves in greeting.
The rains ceased. Clouds moved on, a pleasant breeze chasing them. The sun emerged from hiding. Children were the first to awaken, laughing and playing in streams winding back to sea. Steam rose above fluorescent flora. The world sparkled with brilliant color.
Rain and mountains make for spectacular waterfalls in Samoa.
I witnessed a transformation of the island, Samoa, sea, sky, land. What I didn’t see, couldn’t see then, was the change Samoa wrought in my heart, not until I left that place.
I have not been back, yet, I long to return, to reconcile the man I am with man I hope to be, in paradise.
Namu’a Island, Samoa, just a short swim away.
Gentle breezes blow through swaying palms in Samoan paradise.
Rain and mountains make for spectacular waterfalls in Samoa.
A woman walks home on a rural Samoan road.
Waterfalls and rain are never far away on Upolu, Samoa.
Samoan wildflower
Samoan wildflower
Samoan wildflower
Giant electric green ferns thrive in the Samoan forests.
Samoan wildflower
Lush vegetation of many colors grow in the Samoan jungle.
Lush vegetation of many colors grow in the Samoan jungle.
Tapa cloth designs create a homey warmth in the Samoan fale.
Rain drops bead on leafy green vegetation in Samoa.
Beautiful flowers grow wild in Samoa.
Coconuts grow wild on Upolu, Samoa.
A boy watches warily, before taking a swim in the ocean.
Samoan boy.
Samoan children pose for the camera.
Brothers, Samoa.
Fresh from a swim in the sea, a Samoan boy leans against his house.
Talofa lava–a young boy waves in greeting.
Coral reefs protect palm-lined sandy beaches on the island of Upolu, Samoa.
Lava flows bear witness to Samoa’s violent geological past.
Drift wood and lava adorn many Samoan beaches.
Put your feet in Samoan sand. You may not want to take them out.
Bench seats.
Perhaps in need of paint, the wooden canoe is still seaworthy.
Samoan canoe.
Hand carved canoes point the way for Samoan mariners.
Samoan Canoes.
Palm trees protect aging canoes from the sun and rain.
Known for centuries as great mariners, Samoan still navigate the seas in wooden canoes.
Peaceful bay in Upolu, Samoa.
Lava Lavas and sandals are formal attire in Samoa.
Storm clouds bloom over Upolu Island, Samoa.
Trade winds push fluffy clouds over coconut palms in Samoa.
A calm before the storm settles over the bay on Upolu, Samoa.
When I showed him this picture, he laughed and laughed. So did his buddies.
Just before sunset, we stopped on the banks of the Lubumbashi river in the DR Congo. Families were washing clothes and bathing in the river. It was hot, and humid. When I pulled out my camera, I was surrounded by children, laughing, dancing and posing. We did not speak the same language, in words. But, the joy of the children was contagious. In a land so different from my own, we shared a laugh, and a smile.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
A wooden cane and stone steps provide respite when carrying the weight of the world in Istanbul.
He sat on steps outside a mosque in Istanbul, worry lines carving canyons in his forehead. Perhaps the proximity to God, and a wooden cane will keep the weight of worldly cares from crushing him. Perhaps a silent prayer will reach to heaven or a moment in tower shadows will heal his heart. I can not say.
Crowds ascended sacred steps as the old man remained.
I watched with him as long as I could, hoping for relief, praying that, perhaps, he, too, could go home.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
Stylishly dressed in a green leopard print, this young girl has just one dress.
She was taller than the boys she played with. Her green leopard-print dress fluttered in a breeze of fluid motion. A dirt street in Kinshasa had become an earthy futbol stadium; I, the paparazzi, she, the star. When she kicked a well-worn ball through a makeshift goal, her teammates cheered. As the game resumed, she turned and looked at me, wary. Our eyes met. She seemed to hold a world of experience behind questioning eyes. I smiled. A small boy kicked the ball. I took her picture. She darted away, leopard dress clinging to her graceful form.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
Before my eyes could adjust, the smell was upon me–pungent and powerful. My eyes were stinging with scents I did not recognize. Inside the ancient spice bazaar, crowds were swirling, the noise was disorienting. Shop keepers smiled and nodded at weathered women. Women scowled back in negotiation. Shouting began as a wave that crested and broke over exotic shops in the tidal rhythm of the ancient spice trade.
Islam is the most populous major religion in Turkey. Although no longer required, many women still wear the burka in public.
I raised my camera to capture the confusion and she froze. Perhaps she thought her burka made her invisible. Amidst the current of chaos she had been invisible. I would not have noticed the androgynous shape among the many shapes in motion. It was in that moment of pause that our eyes met. Her eyes were all I could see. Sights and sounds and people were swirling about us and I could see her eyes.
Sadness.
I think that’s what I felt. I’m not sure if that’s what I saw.
She raised her hand, translucent against her robes and I took the photograph. We stood there for moments, centuries swirling before us. I could not see beneath her coverings. I had no desire to violate tradition. But in that moment, in her eyes, I could sense a depth of inner life, hidden beneath the burka; hopes, dreams, struggles, desires, hiding in the Misir Carsisi Spice Bazaar, in Istanbul.
Where do you think the White Witch of Narnia got hers?
In the Spice Bazaar in Istanbul I believe it just might be the best quality in the world.
Scented with the aroma of jasmen blossoms, jasmen tea has been a popular drink in the Middle East and Asia for thousands of years.
Sausages anyone?
Saffron, caviar, spices, and of course, sausage.
Before Pfizer began selling little blue pills, the Spice Bazaar was your best source for spicing up your love life.
Your best source for love potion number 9.
Not one of the things I knew Iran was famous for.
The Spice Bazaar, or Misir Carsisi also means Egyptian Bazaar. Misir in Turkish is also mistranslated to mean corn bazaar, although, outside the bazaar you can find some delicious barbecued corn.
Fresh, hot and seasoned with exotic spices, don’t miss the barbecued corn from the street vendors outside the Spice Bazaar.
Islam is the most populous major religion in Turkey. Although no longer required, many women still wear the burka in public.
Venice is beautiful, rain or shine. The sun was warm and the sky was blue for the 90 minutes I spent there. I was fortunate. The weather changes every few hours.
Venice is romantic. If you find yourself in Venice with someone you love, take a Gondola ride. ‘O Sole mio…
Venice is old. Walk the cobblestone streets on stones older than the renaissance. See nightmarish masks on display in the shops. Now worn for carnival, the Medico della Peste mask became a symbol of the ravages of black death from dark ages.
Venice is sinking. Originally built on 117 islands separated by canals, scientist think the fabled city is sinking by approximately 7 inches per century. It may be that you want to get your scuba diving certificate.
Venice is vibrant. Whether you know her as the Queen of the Adriatic, the City of Water, the City of Canals, the City of Masks, the City of Bridges, or the Floating City, the radiant colors of Venice will entice you to stop for a visit, and, perhaps, to stay for few minutes.
The sun was up, but it was still early. Most of the shops were not yet open. Sleepy shopkeepers were drinking coffee in the morning light–steam rising from their mugs. Tourists were beginning to mill about, anxious to find bargains.
I had to catch a plane in two hours.
I often regret not having enough time to spend in beautiful places. Sometimes that regret prevents me from enjoying what I can see. If you only had an hour to spend in one of the world’s most visited and storied cities, what would you do?
Antonio Vivaldi, recognized as one of the greatest baroque composers, was born in Venice in 1678. He attempted, quite successfully, to capture the Four Seasons in four violin concertos. I didn’t have enough time to listen to them.
So, I took my camera and tried to capture the moment.
We weren’t dressed for it, but we couldn’t resist. We had three hours before our flight. Wait in the airport, at LAX?
I don’t think so.
Before the engine of our rental car shut down, my wife was out the door and on the beach. I carefully took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs, grabbed my camera and sauntered after. The sand felt good on my toes, cool and rough.
We have a little saying in our bathroom at home, at home where it’s cold. “If you’re lucky enough to be at the beach, you’re lucky enough.”
I must be very lucky. I married a California girl. Like a rechargeable battery, she draws life from the sun, the sand and the waves. I draw life from her. We don’t live in California anymore, so it’s probably okay that I look like a tourist. I wasn’t born here. I don’t live here. But I did, sort of, adopt this place. I’ve lived here longer than any other place. So, we visit often, to see our children, and, although I don’t feel old, our grandchildren, and, the beach.
I could mark the years of my life in the footsteps on the sand, but I always lose track when the waves wash them away. The feelings remain as the memories flood in and out with the surf. I could come back here and know that I would be welcome.
Life guard tower 42 at Manhattan beach, near Los Angeles.
Beach Volleyball anyone? Near the lifeguard tower at Manhattan Beach.
Maybe not the most green approach to power, the Manhattan B
The longest night of the year. Darkness. Winter. Rain. Snow.
I’m looking for, longing for the light.
A beacon from the City of Lights calls to me.
The Eiffel Tower, built in 1889, pierces the dark of night and illuminates the light of love, by day.
Over 1000 feet high, the Eiffel Tower stood as the tallest structure in the world for nearly 40 years. Originally criticized for his design, Gustave Eiffel created the iconic symbol of France which has become one of the most recognizable and most visited monuments in the world.
Last night, as I shop-vac’d nearly 100 gallons of rainwater from an outside window-well at my house, I thought, for just a moment, that I could see a beacon light piercing the clouds, lighting the way. I was back, back in Paris, standing under the Eiffel Tower, eating nutella crepes. Then, the rain turned to snow and a cold drip ran down my neck. I hate it when that happens.
Even on the longest, darkest night of the year, even in a storm, the Eiffel Tower still lights the famous City of Lights. I guess just I’ll have to look at my pictures.
The City of Light, and liberty.
The Eiffel Tower beams a welcome, across the bridge.
Two boats pass at dusk, on the Seine River.
A vintage rainy day in Paris.
The Eiffel Tower beams a welcome, across the bridge.
The road was rough. The land rover bounced around a corner and there he was, a South African White Rhinoceros, standing guard in the middle of the rutted road. I lurched forward as the guide stopped the vehicle abruptly. The Rhino’s ears twitched. He watched from immovable feet. I held my breath. I could hear a huffing snort and the buzzing of insects.
The guide spoke, “Perhaps we will find another way.”
The land rover jerked in reverse. The Rhino stared at us, unblinking.
They're Calling To Me 