travel

It’s leap day! The calendar’s rare, four year occurrance. The last ferry has left Ile du Frioul. Rene and I are seated at the at the end of the quai, where we have the whole restaurant to ourselves. The manager or, I presume, the family that runs place just kicked up the volume on the jazz, to which he’d been humming to a few moments ago, and I am inspired to write.

I had a good idea as to what I would appreciate on this near-deserted island of 150 odd inhabitants. The idea of Rene and I being together, away from the city, with time to take stock of her experiences over the past month appealed to me.

Getting to the island was no joy. Rene and I hauled our luggage though the streets like immigrants and waited at the end of a long line of tourists hoping that we would not have to wait for the next ferry. I slept halfway through the passage and woke up only after most the other passengers had already departed to the Chateau Def of Alexander Dumas fame.

We walk down the pier, past a long line of varied, personal seagoing crafts. The studio is absolutely cramped. Rene and I have dinner of camembert and prosciutto and baguette. Afterward, Rene persuades me to insert a Golden Girls DVD into the laptop, while I curl up on the couch next to her and sleep.

And sleep we do, with gusto and in abundance. We wake up in the morning, and it’s Noon. After breakfast, we pack up our bags and, with Alfredo in tow, head out to explore the east end of the island. We walk towards the abandoned hospital on the hill, and as we follow the windy roads, then paths, the details of the clear ocean water and the many private, pebbled beaches emerge.

Rene has her iPhone out and is using it as a divining rod to uncover any free wifi zone that the island might choose to present. Sadly, all wireless zones that she finds are secure and private, locked against any tourist who might be in need of email.

We arrive at our destination, a hospital which, in its day, served as quarantine facility to safeguard the city of Marceille against epidemic, and peering though gates at every entrance meant to keep the place off limits into what, to me, seems like a dusty movie set for an unimagined genre, what one might describe as a neo-classical western.

But really, at every direction, the lure of the view inward to the walled buildings is more an excuse to discover different outward views of the full expanse of the coast of Marseille or the changing light and shadows on the Chateau Def midway cross the bay.

Early on in our walk, the batteries in my camera fail, impressing upon me, at this beginning point in my trip, the need to keep a backup set of alkalines handy. Rene comments that it’s fair play, that she should be without wireless, and that I should be without the ability to take photos. This point is soon underscored in a way which I will soon convey.

After a picnic lunch on the hillside overlooking a hidden cove, we meander back to town. I comment to Rene how I like the scale of this island, how in under an hour you can be out in nature where your focus sharpens on unexpected details, like the numerous tiny bleached sea-bones littering the high cliffs and how your imagination seeks to reconcile how they made their way to where they now rest. There is an urgency to spending these few days on the island, devoid of television and radio, of cell phone and internet. An urgency of falling back onto our own thoughts and our own time together, to discuss and refine our thinking, to evaluate and plan the coming weeks… and then some.

Taking the back way up the hill to our apartment, I stop next to the caserne (the firehouse) and what appears to be a municipal building whose windows are plastered with flyers and announcements for various island groups and events. I check the door handle and it opens. I can hear people talking and a man enters into the foyer. I try out my best bon jour and ask if he parley vous engles. He gestures, one moment, and another man comes out from the back. He offers us a comfortable, “hello” and I ask if I might ask him if he could tell us if this is a municipal building. He explains that the building is not municipal, in that it is not owned by the city, but that it is a community space in that it is here where all the groups of the island meet. He explains that this is a meeting place for various constituents from residents of Marseille, to residents of Paris who make their second home on the island, to expats from any number of countries (such as Holland which is where he is from). I ask his name, he introduces himself as Berting. We shake hands. He tells me that this meeting space is used for all sorts of groups from bird watchers to hydroponic farmers, from rock climbers to cartologists to politicians who all take their place among the 150 residents of the islands of Frioul. He tells me that the particular group which is now using the space is debating whether to participate in an event about “acting locally and thinking globally”. He explains that some of the members are saying that “they’ve done this before” in years past, but he confides that “you have to continue to represent Frioul”, to keep the islands fresh in people’s minds (we learned last night in the guide book that military and medical use have kept the island mercifully free from poplulation growth and development) and it is likely this obscurity acts as something of a double edged sword that the community groups have to contend with by both raising their profile and self interests on one hand and protecting their unique and isolated way of life on the other. He hands me their latest pamphlet (of which the previous six flyers we saw taped to the window next to the door). We thank him for his time and walk across the vacant lot to the group of apartments we call home.

Berting (Second from the left) and the Association Frioul un Nouveau Regard

Once back in our tiny studio, we settle in for the night. Alfredo is taken for a walk. We take a side trip to the grocery store which is more like a hollowed out store front with a few dozen shelves stocked with the barest essential items an island dweller might want. We pick up two bottles of beer for later on and a package of ham and a baguette for the morning.

As we get ready to head out for dinner, Rene translates Berting’s pamphlet aloud. It’s amazing. It’s a work of public relations that is both outlandish and indulgent to an almost ridiculous degree. It’s a philosophical and poetic tract about how the island is isolated and how, by extension, visitors to the island become isolated and are thrown back onto themselves for answers. I find this amazing in that it hits the nail on the head about why I thought it would be good for both of us to spend time on the island in the first place.

As a postscript, in an appropriate gesture, the island further communicates its desire to isolate us from our accustomed comforts through blowing a fuse and eliminating, save for a single light above the bathroom mirror, that is all the power we have left in our apartment. We laugh at the irony of this, and for the last hour of the evening look to each other and to ourselves for laughter and conversation and personal truth.

Flying on British Airways, you have to get used to a slightly parallel universe when it comes to language. carry on luggage is hand bag etc. But after that, everything was efficient and polite. I rang for assistance a few times during the flight, and I swear, it was right out of “are you being served”. I sat next to Tim, who was traveling home from seeing a friend near Oracle, Arizona, just outside of Tucson. He was friendly and we chatted briefly over the course of the nine hour flight. The first part of which, I slept. The next part I edited the last, half-dozen remaining conference notes and read the interview with the author at the end of Francine Prose’s reading like a writer.

At the Heathrow terminal, I picked up 30 pounds to pay for the shuttle bus to Gatwick. The clerk was nice and he gave me a coupon for a free cup of coffee at Starbucks.

Waiting for the bus, there was an Italian who kept asking people if this was the shuttle to Gatwick. It looked like his nervousness could complicate the simplest exchange. I kept a wide berth. I was typing away some last minute notes on my palm TX when a businessman commented on the setup. He said t was ingenious, and how, due to its weight, he left his laptop at home. We made good time between airports. Passing by parcel after parcel of fields dotted with cattle.

Arriving at Gatwick, I checked my bag and went through security. Leaving the security area was like opening up onto the Emerald city of airport shopping. Entranced by the electronics, I scraped together enough in American dollars, the few pounds I had remaining, and some additional change to purchase a usb / car adaptor for the Palm. There was also a Roxy/Quicksilver store and so I deliberated between half a dozen shirts to give as a gift, for Rene. Later, at the Starbucks, enjoying my free cup of socially responsible coffee, I dropped who knows what on a five minute wifi connection and shot off the five blog posts that I had polished up on the plane, bringing closure to my Los Angeles trip and letting me pass guilt free, my responsibities lifted, into another adventure.

During the last two hour flight, I read a bit more from Francine Prose and fiddled with the new accessories for my gadget, putting on a fresh screen protector and struggling with a leather carrying case that I deemed completely useless.

At one point, my cabin mate was scribbling into a spiral notebook. His writing looked strangely ordered and I thought? Could it be? Is this poetry? Oh my, I am sitting next to a writer who is going home to Marseille. I was careful not to interrupt him, but during the last half hour of the trip, I asked him if he was a writer and he seemed surprised. No, he was a network architect for an oil company, KBR, and he travels around the world setting up computer networking systems. In this case, the network will go up quickly, last for half a year, then get taken down. We chatted some more. I showed him one of my poems, which he liked, and by this time the plane had landed so we filed out of the plane and out into the terminal to pick up our bags.

Entering the waiting area for arrivals, I saw Rene – picked her out first thing out of the crowd. She snapped a few photos and we kissed, so good to finally close the circuit between us. Alfredo didn’t recognize me at first, but in a moment and a half the lightbulb went off and he started wiggling and shaking happily.

We walked out to the bus and, picking up our tickets, I ran into Dudley again and asked him if he would take our picture. Waiting for the bus to come, Rene tells me how she made it onto the Marketplace Morning Report by voicing a story about price fixing in Paris. She turned it around quickly, going upstairs and covering herself under a blanket at record the spot. She did two takes with her digital recorder and sent the files along to Marketplace unedited. She said, she even added a bit of the signature Marketplace panache by closing with “how do you say ouch in French”

We arrived at the metro station which was a brightly lit glass structure with tall trees growing within. Rene told me how, in a recent political race, a candidate for office said that the first thing he would do, if elected, would be to extend the hours of the metro. Not to be upstaged, the incumbent enacted this change himself, so we were able to board the subway at 10 pm, when just a week later, we would have had to take a taxi.

At the port of Marseille, Rene shows me the blank expanse of space where the fish market would set up fresh each morning. She showed me the wireless cafe where her friend spent three and a half hours trying to get the files off her laptop.

I lugged my luggage behind me, the wheels clattering on the corrugated sidewalk. We stopped at an Irish pub, but the kitchen was already closed. We stopped at a middle eastern restaurant, but at first the guy would not let us in with a dog. He admonished Rene about keeping Alfredo on the leash and not letting him run around. Then, after lingering over the menu and picking at a few spicy olives, we asked if we could have a kibi appetizer and split a plate of assorted specialties. The waiter said that there was no sharing. At this point, Rene had had enough and politely said that, thanks but not thanks, we would be leaving.

Minutes after, while crossing a side street, Rene and Alfredo are almost struck by a speeding vespa. I shout, Hey and she pauses just in time to be missed. I continue to drag my valise through the streets. Hip, young Europeans are out for the evening. They’re all heading into the port while Rene and I are heading into the outlying neighborhood.

Nearing the apartment, I heft my suitcase up onto my shoulder and ascend a long flight of steps. Midway, Rene stops to take a picture of a sign on a shisha bar which had closed due to the new anti-smoking laws in France. Still a few blocks further…

Finally, Rene leads us to a worn wood door, more like a splinter in the city’s skin, and we enter into a slender hallway. Rene goes in first and I can hear the sound of people laughing and carrying on. It’s a party. And I am welcomed in. We shake hands, Cati, Olivier, David, a woman and her daughter, and another couple. Rene and I are given a glass and rich red wine is poured. We all toast, which Rene exclaims is “To Togetherness!” There is much speaking in French, I simply relax and take it in.

Little later on in the evening, I pull out of my bag, a gift for Cati. She pulls out the sweater and trys it on. She is so excited! I take a photo of her and Olivier and Rene. Cati tries to explain the connection that she felt when Rene contacted her about making arrangements to come to Marseille. This explanation trails off… Cati’s emotion takes over, the words seem to fail.

Afterward, we all go into the kitchen where we are served spread of spicy red peppers, prosciutto and cheese, and bread. We pour around another bottle of wine and we find that David is a stand up comic, a director, and a set designer, and that he has a play that is being performed here in the city.

David talks about how he stayed for two months in a very small apartment. The girl makes a great joke how you could go to the bathroom and shower at the same time, which is just wrong. I respond with the story of how, before I met Rene, I lived without air conditioning and how my house was barren, and how after Rene moved in, all that changed. I tell them how my house now has a woman’s touch, and how we have this cupboard from Mexico which was expensive, and how my dad did not understand how we could find such a rickety thing of value. I tell them how there is a salt and pepper shaker of Snow White and Dopey and how Snow White is bending down to getting kiss the top of Dopey’s head.

The dishes are cleared from the table and we all file out for the night. It is good for Rene and I to be, once again, in the same bed.

On this, the second day of their journey, John and Rene agree to take in the Pinball Hall of Fame. They arrive at this ordinary storefront, in this nondescript strip mall, along Tropicana boulevard. Upon opening the doors, they are entranced by Williams, Gottlieb and Bally machines of the 1960′s variety. Brightly painted, Bowling Queen and Sure Shot pinball machines with mid-century stereotypes soon make way to more psychedelic designs, then to designs based on comic characters, then ultimately to movie themed machines from the eighties and early nineties. John muses that it’s like seeing the full span of an industry, from cradle to grave.

Rene singles out some novel early precursors to the pinball. The pair play one game where the nickel that you place into the machine actually acts as the pinball. They also play a head-to-head match where their catapulting a ball into numbered slots advances some horses around a track. In an exciting finish, John takes the cup by two lengths.

Several of the notable machines have index cards printed on them, with quirky, hand-written descriptions describing the artists and designers, the serial numbers and year of production. John recalls some great machines from his past… Captain Fantastic with Elton John is featured, right out of the 70′s rock opera, Tommy.

There’s even a Kiss machine, featuring the masked metal band of John’s youth. John is reminded of weeknights as a pizza chef at his second job, Pizza Pub, where Jeff Levitan would hold court. Jeff was a resident pinball expert, and John recalls several tricks of the trade that Jeff had passed on during the many hours he spent lording over the table back in Tucson on 22nd street in the early eighties.

Rene gravitated to her favorites too! Super Mario Brothers and The Simpson’s held a particular place in her heart. But also there were some rare and unlikely surprises of the early video game variety. In addition to seeing the early Pong (or Paddle Ball, as this one knock-off was called), Paperboy was one particular video game which Rene had fond remembrances and a remarkable ability. She navigated a badly animated bicycle through the aerial perspective of a suburban neighborhood throwing newspapers onto lawns with skill – all the time avoiding oncoming cars and other obstacles. John is impressed by Rene’s abilities and her unpretentious embrace of this most common of sports.

Rene rounds out the experience by deciding she likes the later, more complicated multi-ball pinball machines. She plunks in a few additional quarters into the Creature from the Blue Lagoon in 3D machine (part of the Universal Monsters series). At one point, the ball gets stuck, and they glance around to capture the attention of the proprietor, a grizzled, pony-tailed, ex-hippie, silently and patiently inspecting the insides of a vintage Gottlieb machine. It’s clear that this guy has more patience for pinball machines than he does for people. But after a bit of pleading, John is able to enlist the manager’s begrudging and dour assistance.

Rene takes in a few parting plays on The Simpson’s machine and the couple make their way out onto the ordinary, Las Vegas sidewalk to board a public bus back to the hotel.