Patrick Egan's Blog, page 3

look homeward, sailor

[Photo is mine.]

“O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.”

~~Thomas Wolfe. Look Homeward, Angel.

I’m not a ghost, not yet anyway, but I’ve come back. Back to my hometown of Owego. I have things to do. Getting the new enhanced driver’s license is on the top of my to-do list. I’m getting cynical these days. We live in uncertain times. Our movements, once freely taken, are now becoming as suspect as if we are asking to travel to Area 51, or that hollow mountain out west somewhere, that is the place where ginormous computers are watching us go here and there. If Amazon and Facebook can know where we are, and what we just looked at on a shelf in a Walmart in Toledo, than really any techie can know everything about us.

I can’t buy a pair of socks without an application.

But, I digress.

It’s early on a Saturday morning. The spring weather is chilling me through my jacket as I pick up a bottle of water at the CVS and cut across the Court House Square, passing the Gazebo on my left. I stop and look around. I recognize all this. I grew up in this town, walking the streets, sitting beside the river, and…

As I cross the street and stand with my hands on the large bell, I feel the years slip away from me and I am brought back to my youth. The trees around me are the same ones I leaned against, back in the day. There’s the front door of the Court House. Behind me is the Baker Fireman Fountain. My brother once dated a descendant of this brave firefighter. I cross Court Street and pass the parking lot beside the Clerk’s office. (There is an early settler buried near this spot. I used to know where, but I’ve been away too long to remember.) I look over at the Funeral Home that sits next to the Dunkin’ coffee place. I was a childhood friend with the son of the one-time owner. I’m something of a frequent visitor to that Funeral Home. Once, in the early ’70s, I was in town for a weekend. I had just started out on my career as a teacher at a school near Wilkes-Barre. I remember it was biting cold that weekend. On Saturday morning, my mother said: “Do you know who died?”

“No,” I said.

“The father of your girlfriend, Mary Alice.”

“Oh?” (I pretended I wasn’t interested because she had broken up with me a few winters earlier.)

Out of respect for Mary and her losing a parent, I made the walk down Front Street to Esty & Monroe. I recall wearing a faux leather jacket that was useless against the cold. I went in the front door and into the room where the viewing was taking place. Mary came across and greeted me. After standing by the coffin, she said: “Come here.”

“Do you know who this is?” she asked her mother.

“Yes, it’s Danny Egan.”

(I didn’t think her mother ever met my brother, but I tell this to make a point. In Owego, I’m very often confused with two people. My brother, Dan and my long-time friend, Greg Stella. That’s my lot in life, I guess.

I said farewell to both of my parents and my best friend in the rooms of that funeral home.

I’m a little boy again as I stand near the impressive Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Monument that greets visitors who approach Owego from the Court Street Bridge. The granite is from Barre, VT. It stands fifty feet above the grassy square. A flag bearer stands at the top. At the base of the column are four squat cannons, most likely mortar types or siege cannons. Heavy and black, they sit in the four corners of the pedestal. I used to climb on them when I was a boy. I rode them like fat cast-iron horses. And then I would study the two figures that stood lower on the column.

One is a soldier. He is facing west–there must be something symbolic about the positions of the two figures, but I am not aware of it. The soldier’s twin is the sailor. He is facing east. And he is my protector, a guardian angel, a bodyguard and a friend, if I ever need one.

I don’t think I have ever returned to my hometown without checking in with the sailor. I left him nameless in my own personal narrative of my life because I want him to be something of a shape-shifter. He is ageless, but he must understand the emotions of a sad teenager, the daring and extravagant middle-aged man, and the melancholic wanderings of a man approaching his last adventures. I look to him to be there for me when everyone else has forgotten me.

[The Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Monument. Photo credit: Wendy Post.]

Why is the sailor facing east? I mention above the possible symbolism. But, what I feel is not symbolism. It’s clear and obvious to me. He is looking down Front Street, not on the look out for an approaching army (or a gunboat cruising down the Susquehanna). No. He is watching a house at the far end. He’s keeping an eye on 420 Front.

He’s keeping watch…

He’s seeing a little boy going to his first day of First Grade. On a day when the leaves are starting to turn and the sidewalk is wet from the morning dampness. He hears crying.

Five years pass. He’s looking at a boy walking toward St. Patrick’s School. He’s carrying a coat hanger with a cassock and surplice. He is on his way to assist in a mass by Fr. O’Brien or Fr. Reagan.

Five more years go by when the sailor, holding his binoculars to his eyes, watches the same boy walk toward the village center. His hair is well dabbed with Brylcreem. English Leather scent is heavy as he walks toward a date, a movie, sitting in the Cookie Jar (or was it The Sugar Bowl?).

Only three years later, a car is seen pulling out of the driveway of 420 Front St. The boy (a young man now), is off to college where many things will happen to him, good and bad. He will lose the little girl from third grade that he found so interesting. He would come back, but he would be different.

And the sailor continues to look down Front Street. He will do that until the earth shakes and the monument topples–hopefully never–but nothing lasts forever.

I walk away from where I spent the last hour lost in reverie. So many things to think about in this town where I grew up. Pockets of places where I’ve spent many hours thinking. Slate sidewalks on familiar streets that were there are walks still untaken.

I walk to the hotel where my wife is sipping her coffee. So many things to do while I’m here.

I say good-bye to the sailor.

“Keep looking out for me,” I tell him. I walk away, but not before I hear a raspy, gravel-voice.

“I’ll be here.”

I look up. I swear I saw a faint smile as he replaced his binoculars.

“I’ll be back,” I say.

I’ll always come back.

[Details about the Monument are taken from an article in the Owego Pennysaver (July 6, 2024) by Marnie Schrader.]

i went down to the demonstration…

to get my fair share of abuse.

~~Mick Jagger

[At the New York Public Library Main Branch. 42nd St. & 5th Ave. Photo is mine.]

I told a few people that we were going to the Hands Off demonstration at Bryant Park. Some commented:

“Be careful.”

“Don’t take a backpack. Not the thing at a demonstration.”

On the #7 train to Fifth Avenue, I was unsure of how it was going to go. This was not the first major demonstration I’ve attended. We marched up Fifth to protest the WMD lies of the Bush administration. I was at the massive anti-war rally in Washington in the early ’70s. So, what was waiting up the stairs?

Was I going to get my fair share of abuse?

It was a drizzling rain. The umbrellas were open, closed and then opened again. Mariam and I found a place to stand and watch. I was still hurting from foot surgery, so walking any great distance was not going to happen. Instead, we marched a little but mostly wandered around Bryant Park, reading the signs and taking pictures.

And I took time to look into people’s eyes.

What I saw was mostly sadness. Sadness and despair. And confusion, sorrow, anxiety, concern, anger, resentment and too many other emotions to catalogue here. People are worried, but not just for themselves, but for the country. The world as we once knew it, has been awash in racism, hate, retribution, illegal actions and terrifying speculation.

[A man. A sign. At least he is smiling. Photo is mine.]

There are so many things that worry me you know. I thought I was going to spend my golden years being happy and calm instead of morose and filled with unease. The flouting of the Constitution is terrifying. A third term for trump? How did we get here? The absurd has become the norm. The reasonable people who still believe in the rule of law, are gobsmacked.

I could go on for hours, but I’m exhausted. Not from going to the demonstration, but from the high level of anxiety (an overused word) that has left me weary.

I know I have friends, in my hometown and elsewhere, that will not agree with my political statements, but that’s the way, I guess, that it has to remain.

Here are a few photos from April 4 in Manhattan:

[Photo is mine.]

[Photo is mine.]

[Photo is mine.]

[Photo is mine.]

I saved my favorite photo to close this post. I walked close to her. She spoke to no one, didn’t smile–I assume she didn’t feel there was anything to smile about–she had no umbrella, I saw no friend standing close. She stood quite alone. Look at her face. Study her eyes. She’s remembering something.

But she had 10,000 friends that day. People who were thinking her thoughts and feeling lost, just like her…

…and just like me.

[Photo was taken by me. I wish it wasn’t. I wish I didn’t have to be there. Or watch her stand in the drizzle.]

It is truly heartbreaking to watch all these concerned people with their grievances. But it is especially dismaying to watch the children carry signs that read: IT’S MY FUTURE TOO.

Imagine, a child having such uncertain thoughts about what her future will be.

Just imagine.

Peter, Lenny & pat’s big adventure

[The route. The dark blue line. Disregard the time notation. Source: Google Maps.]

“I remember it was up hill all the way.”

~~ Lenny Schmidt

“There is a cow outside of our tent.”

~~ Patrick Egan

Oh, the exuberance of youth! The innocence of the young! The pure and wild wind in our hair and the open road before us!

This is the story of three boys, who, on the very threshold of their teenage years, undertook a daunting expedition into the vast unknown regions of Northeastern Pennsylvania. Read on, dear followers, and when you are finished, close your eyes and recall the adventures, large and small, that you yourself undertook when you were young–and full of spirit and brimming with a courage that no one could take away from you. Only a hand full of people outside of the beat generation had heard of Jack Kerouac, but, having re-read On The Road recently, he was us and we were him. The call of the open road, a new adventure around every corner. I still have that wanderlust. Lenny does too. It was, in some small way, a defining moment in our childhood. A rite of passage? Coming of age? A step closer to manhood?

Speaking for myself, the answer would be a resounding YES to all of that.

I remember how it started, or at least how I think it started. The date was sometime in early April, 1960…

Our back porch at 420 Front St. was often a place where my friends would gather and make plans about the immediate future.

“What do you wanna do today, Lenny?”

“I dunno, Pat. How about you Pete?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. What about you guys?”

After an hour or two of trading ideas, someone suggested that we might take a bike trip during the upcoming Spring break.

“How about my grandma’s house in Pennsylvania,” said Pat.

That pretty much closed the case. We all agreed that it was a doable undertaking. I knew the route well because we (the Egan family) made frequent trips to visit my grandma and grandpa’s house in Lake Winola, not too far from Scranton.

So we had a plan. an adventure was calling us, and we needed to make a list. I love lists. I remember typing it out on my mother’s Smith & Corona. There is a copy of that buried in my files, somewhere. It read, if my memory is accurate, something like this:

TENT-SLEEPING BAGS-EXTRA SHIRTS-FLASHLIGHTS-FOOD-MATCHES-HATS

And all this was supposed to be tied onto our bikes, somehow. I don’t have to remind my readers that in 1960, kids like us didn’t have Trek 21-speed touring bikes with pannier bags and iPhone mounts. No GPS screens to guide us. I had an Esso Oil Co. Pennsylvania road map stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans. No, we didn’t have any of these devices, back in the day. But we had Schwinn bikes. The go-to vehicle for all kids in the 1950s. The tires were wide and the handlebars were strong. And the plastic tassels that hung from the hand grips were totally without equal, to us.

We packed our camping stuff, greased and oiled our Schwinn’s, and set a date. Now here is where an attempt is made to tell you the story of our trip, but there are problems. As far as I know, none of us kept journals/diaries, (I know I didn’t) making a reconstruction of these events a little dicey. I mean it has been (if my head math is accurate) about sixty-five years since Pete Gillette, Lenny Schmidt and Patrick Egan stood beside bikes and said our farewells.

Part 1- The first day…

{All the directions and route numbers are taken from recent maps. Much has changed over the years.}

There was no Southern Tier Expressway in those days so we crossed the Susquehanna over the Court Street Bridge and headed east on the old Route 17 toward Apalachin. There we picked up Route 41 and peddled south, passing South Apalachin and Little Meadows, PA. At the state line, the route changed to PA 858. About five miles into PA, we came to a junction. I’m unclear about whether we continued on through Friendsville and onto Turrell Corners, or simply stayed on 858 to a junction near Rushville. In either case, we picked up PA 267. (I’m thinking we did the latter). At some point we stopped to eat the (probably) egg salad sandwiches someones mother had prepared and packed. With no Poland Springs, we carried Army Surplus canteens, in Olive Drab canvas, attached to our belts or slung over our necks. Our fluid intake was supplemented, I’m sure, by the occasional Pepsi. The weather was on our side because in the few surviving photos, I see no heavy coats, just regular hoodies, without any brands or rock band logos.

[Lenny Schmidt stands at the PA/NY state line. Photo is mine.]

I am looking at a PA state topographic map (DeLorme Atlas & Gazetteer). I trace the 858 route with my finger and see that it mainly follows valleys, along streams and pastures. That’s why I don’t recollect any problems with hills until the final push to Grandma’s house.

[Peter Gillette (R) and Leonard Schmidt at a Pennsylvania state line marker. Note the bike in the left background. Photo is mine.]

Part 2- Later that same day…

I’m thinking. How far did we go that first day? I’ve racked my hippocampus while preparing this post and I simply cannot retrieve any memory of camping more than one night. One would think that I would remember something like that, but no. So, again, how far did we go? When did we lose our youthful energy, that was boundless then, and look for a place to pitch our tent?

I contacted Lenny to confirm certain details about the trip (and to inform him that I was finally going to do justice to what we did). These days, he divides his time between Owego and Leesburg, Florida. He recalled some things and I recalled some and most of the time, we agreed. We both had the ‘big picture’, but spans of time, however one measures it, often lead to lapses in remembering the little picture.

This much I do remember:

We made it to Meshoppen. I just checked MapQuest and found that that would be a 45.1 mile first day. The tiny icon of a tiny person on a tiny bicycle at the edge of the map informed me that that distance would take 4.0 hours. I think that’s an accurate figure. We started in Owego in mid-morning, we took numerous rest stops for photos and a long lunch break. That 4.0 hour time was not our reality. We had bikes with one speed. You didn’t read that wrong. One speed! And the brakes? That required one to push down on the back foot. Hard. 15 years later, I came to own a 12-speed Gitane that actually had brake pads. On many rides on that Gitane, I often would cruise along and ask myself: Did I really ride for two days on a Schwinn?

But I digress.

Meshoppen. I think there was an ice cream cone stop on our schedule. Maybe not. But probably.

It was approaching dinner time when we pulled out of that little village and the geography changed abruptly. We were now on route 6. And there was a hill facing us. A big hill. Time to look for a place to camp. We spotted a pasture just off the road on the left. Cows and a small pond. I knocked on the door of what looked like the house of the farmer who owned the pasture across the road.

“Mister, do you mind if we camp down by the pond tonight?”

He looked at me, then Lenny and Pete and then squinted as he looked toward his pond. He looked back at me and said:

“Just don’t bother the cows, son. Hear me?”

“We won’t.”

We dragged our bikes over a fence and through the pasture, avoiding the curious brown piles that we didn’t see before. We were not big city kids, like those guys from Binghamton or Endicott. No, we were Owego’s best. We knew what those brown piles in the pasture were. And we stayed clear.

We pitched a small two person ‘pup’ tent. Built a small fire and heated up a big can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I may be wrong about that dinner but if it wasn’t Dinty Moore, it was something very similar.

[The only known photograph of the campsite just outside of Meshoppen. The angle of the bright sunlight indicates to me that it is the morning of the second day. Pete on the right and just behind the tent rope, is Lenny. Is that a box of cereal? Is that a price tag on the tent? Where are the cows? Photo is mine.]

Part 3- The second and final day…

There we were, fresh and fed after a night in a pasture with cows mooing all around us. Back on the bikes, we were faced with a long uphill slog that took us to Tunkhannock. From there, it was across a small creek and along the Susquehanna until Osterhout. Then another five miles, uphill again, but we didn’t worry. We caught sight of Lake Winola through the trees. Half way around the lake was a large white three story house. Waiting inside that house was my grandmother, Mary Hotchko and her husband, George. Actually, grandpa was likely in his garden tending to his grafted apple trees and potato mounds.

While we waited for my parents to come down from Owego to retrieve us, we had the best chicken soup on the planet. I know because my grandma made it, and it had been simmering for at least two days.

This was not a Dinty Moore meal.

Part 4- The aftermath…

One sweet afternoon in Owego, NY, in mid-April, a few weeks following the return of our heroic travelers, a 12-year old boy walked down Front St and turned right on Lake St. He was nervous because he didn’t know how he would be received by the secretary at the front desk of the Owego Gazette. But he had a story to tell. A few minutes later, he was sitting at the desk of the editor (or one of the reporters) and told him a tale of how three local boys peddled their bikes 60+ miles into Pennsylvania to grandmas house.

I was very uncertain about what would happen next. I didn’t have to wait long, a few days later, this hit the newsstands:

[The article, in part. I had a copy of this for decades but was unable to find it for this post. Thanks to Jen Chapman of the Tioga County Historical Society for locating this in the archives.]

That’s the story, dear readers, of how, at least in 1960, adventure still did call to us in our youth. Not so long ago, I read about a 16-year old boy who sailed alone around the world. Very impressive for sure. But for me and my friends, it was totally awesome. We do things when we are young. Sometimes crazy things, silly things, and sometimes unsafe things. Most of these events are forgotten to make way for new experiences, new undertakings. But, certain memories etch themselves, indelibly, into our souls. For me, this was one of those tiny bits of life that will stay with me.

Once again, speaking only for myself, I realize that we only covered a few dozen miles. Not a lot when you stop and think about it. But, on another level, we did travel a long distance. Much longer than a mere map will inform you. We looked and acted the same when we got back to Owego, but we weren’t the same.

Not totally.

Sadly, of the three of us that rode off that spring day, only Lenny and I are left to tell the story. Pete Gillette, so much of a friend to us, passed away in the last few years.

This is for you, Pete, and for all those who follow the call…

[Photo source: Google search.]

To keep you from being homesick

[The found photograph. By unknown photographer, probably my father.]

The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect, and as for that object, it depends upon chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves die.

~~Marcel Proust

I bought a new desk to write on. I’m not sitting at it writing this; I’m sitting at our dining room table where my laptop lives pretty much all the time. The new desk is quite a bit bigger than the old one, which is great for me to spread out and do whatever it is that I do. To make room for the new item, I had to go through the chaos of the space adjacent to my writing chair. The first task was to empty the desk drawer. I cannot tell you how much stuff I had in there. An unopened set of dice, about five erasers, and numerous fountain pens. I haven’t been able to get some of them to write the way I like to write. The exception is my fine point LAMY. I like it.

There were copies of obits for family and friends. A publicity brochure from the school where I taught for eleven years. It features eager students, desperate to learn science. My back is to the camera, but I know it’s me. I remember that shirt. A small key linked to a large key, a coil of sturdy string, tied up like a mountain climbing rope. Two small mini-biners and a photo. As I was boxing all that stuff, I put the photo to one side.

I needed a break so I sat back in my chair and picked up the small photo again. Why was it glued to a piece of cardboard? I turned it over and there was a short handwritten note…in my mother’s hand. It read:

To keep you from being homesick.

Love, Mom

“The Homestead”

Wow. I haven’t seen this picture in years, decades even. I studied it carefully. It was a little hard to see as it was quite underexposed. I flipped it over again, and again…reading the short note.

I fell into a nostalgic moment. Always trying to fight the constant flood of memories that I often get when I stop to think about the years that have passed. I’ve always been prone to thinking about my youth, Owego, the house..the homestead, my brothers, parents, friends, the backyard. I’ve written about those memories often, on Facebook group pages like Memories of Owego. One of my most popular blogs dealt with the difficulties that I had to deal with when I handed the keys to 420 Front St. to a woman named Lauren. It was one of the hardest things I had to do as an adult. Not the hardest…but it was right up there. The blog’s title was This Old House. Look it up.

The note was undated so I looked closer at the tree. Judging by its size, I would date the photo to sometime in the late ’60s, when I was attending college in Louisiana.

To keep me from being homesick…it was almost laughable. Almost a joke. Of course I was homesick. No photo was going to keep me from feeling so cut off from home, friends, family, and the house, as I was in the mid-sixties.

I appreciate that my mom understood that part of me. That I would feel empty, just a little empty, so far away.

So far away from the homestead…

[The found photograph. Date: ca. late 1960s. Photo was likely taken by my father.]

[The reverse side of the found photo. Photo is mine.]

[Photo of the “Homestead” at 420 Front St. Owego, NY. Taken ca. 2020. Photo is mine.]

I won’t frame my mother’s photo. I’ll just prop it against a book next to my new desk. That way, I can pick it up and read the note. And think about how things were once simpler and more innocent. A needed island of gentle memories in a world of harshness and incivility.

Is Our Destiny Foretold?

[Is this the world we want? Image source: Google search.]

We cannot change what we are not aware of, and once we are aware, we cannot help but change.

~~Sheryl Sandberg

A year has passed and here I am once again laying in bed with my heavily bandaged right foot propped on a dark red cushy pillow. I stare out my bedroom window at the empty patio. Leafless and nearly monochromatic despite my insistence on a mild tan sandy color paint of the masonry against back wall. A few weeks ago, I took a photo just after a light snowfall.

[After a snowfall. Early February, 2025. Photo is mine.]

This time around, I’m again in a low funk of post-op blues. Why did I just get my foot operated on again? The first surgery was supposed to help me. It didn’t. Now it’s time for a reboot (no pun intended). But what’s on my mind now is something I have never before had to contend with. Not the state of my foot, but the state of the country I am living in.

I won’t bore you, my loving readers, with a history of political philosophy. I’m not someone with an agenda, except the agenda of wanting to see evidence of something everyone should be seeking: Social Justice.

Those who study history can see parallels of past events, coming around again to bite us. I grew up in a time of growing social progress; civil rights, women’s rights, legalization of weed, gay marriage and LGBTQ+ rights. They were issues that came along, were accepted and we moved on to new freedoms and rights. Those who were left behind were beginning to find a place of acceptance in our society. There was a hope for a bright future.

But…but, it all seems to be washing away in a deluge of presidential executive orders that roll back the positive social gains.

With the pardon of the January 6 rioters, the very idea of patriotism has been mangled and turned on it’s head. Just this morning I read a news account of one of the pardoned rioters following a former capital police officer into a hotel lobby and calling him a coward!

There is no honor left. There is no respect for the rule of law anymore.

“The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.” I’ve heard that phrase for many years, but the reality of it today is beyond understanding. The accumulation of wealth has become obscene. The amount of money Mr. Zuckerberg spends on the security for his pets could fund a small hospital for six months. If you don’t believe me on any of this, just look it up. But do it soon because misinformation and false news is creeping rapidly into our lives on so many levels. And you never know what’s true and what isn’t.

So, on February 28, there is a movement (it’s on social media and other outlets) calling for Americans to halt purchases, on-line and in person, as a protest to highlight the power of our monetized lives. I will not be buying anything on Amazon especially. It’s been a great service during the pandemic but it’s time to support the local vendors. If I need a book, and I always do, I will order it from The Corner Bookstore on Madison Avenue. It’s a little more inconvenient, but it’s worth the extra effort.

And I will continue to refer to the body of water west of Florida as the Gulf of Mexico. I can’t think of anything more absurd than the name change ordered by Trump.

I’m asking my readers to join in sending a message to the mega-corporations that we are more than consumers. We are not willing to be seen as $$$’s.

~~

I awoke a few mornings ago seeing a soft sunlight play onto the tops of the few books that line my window sill. It made me think of something from the past, an innocence of childhood. I thought of my family, now all gone. It was a bittersweet moment of reverie.

Remember, February 28…hold back your plastic card and pay cash if and when you can.

[You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. Image: Pinterest.]

But, wait! Is our future already written in the wind? Is our destiny foretold? That depends on you, dear reader. Are we, as citizens of this country of our birth, expected to live each day in a state of anxiety? Fearful of what may be around the corner? Unsure that the freedoms we’ve known since birth will follow us to the end of our days?

We all have to make a stand…of some kind.

below the equator X: A farewell to the people of buenos Aires & a new friend

Don’t cry for me, Argentina

The truth is, I never left you

All through my wild days, my mad existence

I kept my promise

Don’t keep your distance

~~Don’t Cry for Me Argentina. Songwriters: Andrew Lloyd Webber & Tim Rice

On an afternoon, sometime close to the first days of December, we sat in our living room in New York City and looked out at a dreary drizzle fall on our patio. Our passports lay on the coffee table.

“You know that we will blink twice and we’ll be right back here in the City and wondering,” I said to Mariam.

“Wondering what?” she responded.

“Wondering where the time went. How it all flew by in a flash.”

“That’s life,” she said, with sympathy.

“I know. That’s the problem.”

Here we are, putting the last bits of our travel items into our luggage. Our passports are out. We have until Friday afternoon to get to the airport and catch the red-eye to JFK. Should be fun. Twelve hours in the air and touching down at 5:00 AM!

Should be fun. And it did all go by in a blink of an eye. Just like I said it would.

What, you might well ask, dear reader, did you get out of such an undertaking…except to finally get below the equator? Oh, that’s the easy part. Telling you about what I liked, loved even, about this amazing city.

Sitting in the back seat of an Uber and seeing all the statuary in all the parks (there are so many parks), I see colonial architecture, grand and beautiful buildings, tree-lined avenues and a seemingly endless city. I look down the side streets. They go on and on, until they fade in the distance. It’s a vast and varied place. Yet it’s smaller that NYC which is 469 sq. mi. in area. BA is a mere 78.3. (2020 data).

The population of NYC is 8.25 million (2023). BA is 3.12 million.

But it’s all quite deceiving. It simply looks much larger.

I am in awe by the number of public parks. A Sunday afternoon will find people enjoying the air and sun in dozens of tree covered spaces.

I discovered the pleasures of an empanada or two for lunch and an Americano with a tad of milk. The people are all friendly, at least the individuals we came in contact with. We made friends in just a matter of days. One young woman in particular. More about her toward the end.

You have read nine previous blog posts about the experiences we’ve had. Places we’ve been and items we bought at hot flea markets and museum gift shops. In most of the cafes we visited, I tried to find interesting people to chat with or to photograph. Here is a gallery of the Faces of Buenos Aires (and Montevideo). I did not get the names, just their permission:

[A server in a cafe. Photo is mine]

[Hostess at the Cafe Tortoni. Photo is mine]

[She sang and danced the tango the afternoon that Mariam danced the tango. Photo is mine]

[Coffee drinker. Photo is mine]

[Woman in traditional dress at the bus station in Montevideo, Uruguay. Photo is mine]

[Marcella. Photo is mine]

[In costume and ready to march in the parade at the Carnival in Montevideo. Photo is mine]

Another hour has passed. We have one more event to attend. Tonight our landlady is taking us to a gay tango show. Now that should be fun.

Now, back to a dear young friend. She is probably the first person we talked to after our arrival. Her name is Marcella. She is the barista at Gusto’s Cafe about three blocks from our apartment. She is from Venezuela and has been here since 2017. She is smart and creative and fluent in English. Our standing order of an Americano and a slice of nut-bread was practically waiting for us even before we decided we were going to stop at Gusto’s. About ten days ago, as we felt the end of our trip creeping up (too fast) on us, I asked her if she would say good-bye.

And she agreed:

[Marcella says good-bye. Video is mine]

Thank you Marcella. We will miss you too. And, thank you to that aura of South America that I found unique, full of spirit and a certain creative energy that I needed…in those chill days of December.

And that’s how I spent January.

below the equator IX: looking for carlos gardel and getting lost in the other cemetery.

[The Entrance Gate. Video is mine]

Only in Buenos Aires can the wealthy and powerful elite keep their status after death.

Argentines are a strange bunch who tend to celebrate their most honored national figures not on the date of their birth, but on the date of their death (after all, they’re nobody when they’re born).

~~ Buenos Aires City Guide (Lonely Planet). 6th edition.

Many cities have many cemeteries. Buenos Aires has essentially two. The most popular, most visited by tourists, and the one that is the final resting place of Argentina’s most famous first lady, Evita, is Recoleta. Then there is the other cemetery, Chacarlita.

Rested and fresh from our brief excursion to Uruguay, here I am, drenched in sweat, on an intensely hot sunny Sunday afternoon, sipping cool water to prevent systemic dehydration, keeping to the shady side of things to avoid periods of blacking out, standing outside the gate of the other cemetery.

That’s just the way I am. I will endure discomfort of nearly all kinds, except snakes and rats and a certain sub-species of millipedes. There is a name for those like me who admire and even appreciate cemeteries. I’m a taphophile. And it’s not illegal or even immoral. Call me morbid, but it’s really all about paying homage to some person you appreciate or to just stand a few feet away from the mortal remains of someone who changed a little bit of history. The latter was the reason I sought out Evita’s mausoleum in Recoleta.

Like Recoleta, Chacarita is a virtual city of stone and statuary. The domed crypts are very impressive. The streets are narrow and lined to the limit with mausoleums. Some of these are new and clean and polished. Others are broken, unkempt, and even…dare I say it…open. One had a tiny stairway that led down at least two stories below street level. You could not not look. You could not help but wonder what is down there.

We are outside Chacarita, the less famous, less touristy, and, I must say, more user unfriendly of the two places. There is no entrance fee here, which is okay. But as I’ve said before, I don’t mind paying for something as long as the pesos go to upkeep and amenities, (banos). But, my biggest issue is that are no maps here. Travelers like me come to these places seeking out one or more famous graves. This is the map provided:

[Map at entrance. Hard to read and no directions to the famous and notable graves. Photo is mine]

I was in this particular cemetery to visit one grave, no more and no less. Not that I wasn’t interested in the other notable people here, because I was. But at this point in our visit, time was a consideration. It was essential that I find this man’s monument and place a flower among the bouquets that I was sure would adorn the facade. Getting the flower was probably the easiest task I performed. As we neared the main entrance I noticed six or seven kiosks selling flowers (for the families who were visiting a relative). I didn’t want to haul a dozen roses around so I walked past the vendors. I had seen something ahead. It was a splash of color in a waste receptacle. I wasn’t dumpster-diving. What I saw was a perfectly good bunch of violet flowers placed carefully in the bin. I snipped a small bud off and Mariam stored it in her purse.

We were good to go.

The person we were seeking? None other that the famous singer, Carlos Gardel. More on him shortly.

So, after walking to the office, which was closed, I spied an officious woman standing to one side. Using the two words of Spanish that I know I said:

“Carlos Gardel?”

After a minute or two of hand waving to the direction where we just came from, and my writing down what she said, we were off.

She said: “Calle 33”.

I wrote it down.

“Si,” she said.

“Gracias,” I said.

We were off. But after wandering for fifteen minutes along empty streets and finding no Calle 33, I called a halt. We both needed water and some shade. (This cemetery is not nearly as green as Recoleta). A man was walking away. I called out: “Senior? Carlos Gardel?” He shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way.

We walked further. Getting more and more lost. And lost in a cemetery in Argentina was not how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.

We came upon a small section with several hundred in-ground burials. “No, Please,” I said to no one. I saw a couple. Mariam sat down to activate her Travel Pass on her phone. I went up to the couple and they showed me a map on their phone. I saw where we needed to go. I went back to Mariam and said: “I have it.”

Three minutes later, we were lost again. Did the couple say straight on for three streets and up one or down three and over three? I couldn’t remember. They were Argentines after all. A half a block and a man approached asking if we were lost. I said: “Carlos Gardel”.

“Ah, Si,” he said.

Wait. Was this guy a serial killer? American Couple Missing In Argentina Cemetery

His English speaking wife appeared from behind a tree where she had been standing. Not hiding, just catching the shade.

But, this time I was going to be ready. I pulled out my little Moleskin notebook and pencil. I sketched this:

[Note book and photo are mine]

This is nice, but it isn’t very much help at all when you need to locate someone. As I mentioned, I was determined to locate Carlos Gardel. I’ve spoken about him before, but those who scrolled past that part, he is the Frank Sinatra, Elvis, and Englebert Humperdink of Argentina. Handsome and debonair, he is the master of the tango song form. Others may have their favorite, but Carlos is my guy when I want to cry from a woman’s rejection or from her warm and comforting arms. The dance is sensual and the songs are as well. Each one taking you to that place where the heartbroken, lonely, and rejected people go. But, paradoxically, it’s also where the lovers, reconciled now, meet in the shadows of a Banyan tree or beside a wall plastered with posters of Che Guevara.

Carlos had it all. Mariam and I ate our dinner on our terrace on more than one night with his baritone in the near background.

Back to our search for Carlos Gardel’s grave site.

[This monument needs work. Hence the tape barrier. It also needs a forester. Photo is mine]

We walked on. At the corner, just ahead, was a couple. They were looking at something.

“Gotta be it, Mariam,” I said with enthusiasm. The couple left as we approached. And, we were there, finally. But just to be sure, I looked closely at the name, just to be sure.

CARLOS GARDEL

[Approaching Gardel’s grave site. Video is mine]

We sipped some water and stood in the shade. I marveled at how many organizations had found a way to have their own little plaque added to the white marble.

We made it. But we needed to sit down and sip more water in the hard to find shade. I wiped my brow. I haven’t been this wet since I soaked in a Jacuzzi two years ago.

We turned and began to weave our way through the narrow empty streets to the main avenue that encircled the cemetery. I wondered where everyone was, until I realized that it was 90 F and most sane people were sitting in a cool cafe gulping fresh lemonade.

After exiting the grounds I asked the security guard where I might find a nice cafe. He pointed across the street. Other than the word “CAFE”, it was all done silently.

Like a hospital. Like a cemetery.

I had seen Carlos Gardel’s grave. Now I needed to gulp a fresh lemonade.

[Video is mine]

Below the equator VIII: Across the Rio de la plata and onto Montevideo

[The Salvo Palace on Independence Square. Now an office building and apartment complex it was for a time the tallest building in Uruguay. I never saw anyone on the upper terraces; maybe not for tourists? Photo is mine]

Montevideo n. (Portuguese) I Saw A Mountain.

~~Result of my Chrome search.

The Journey and The Arrival ~

Before I tell you, my dear readers, about the pre-dawn Uber ride to the Ferry Terminal in Buenos Aires, before I tell you all about how overly warm it was in the section where we were sitting in the aforementioned ferry for the ninety minute crossing of the Rio de la Plata to Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay, and well before I tell you about the nearly four hour ride to Montevideo in a small coach (with a bathroom!) over a bumpy road…I have to tell you how much I love the Uruguayan national flag.

And here it is:

[Adopted December 18, 1828. Designed by Joaquin Suarez. Image source: Wikipedia]

The sun burst figure is fantastic. We have a piece of outdoor decoration in our patio that has the same smiling face. The white, the blue and the earthy sun is kind on the eyes. The fact that the flag is not flying in one’s face, from every direction, must, I would think, make the banner even more special to a typical Uruguayan. Although I love the whole design, little did I know that the pleasing and innocent sunny face can, in the real world of walking around the city, be quite brutal in its intensity. Yes, it’s hot here. But why Uruguay, one might reasonably ask. The answer is a little complicated but not if you know me and my interests. I have to take you back to my college years…

I went to Northeast Louisiana State College in 1965 and majored in Geology. I wanted so much to be like my older brother, Chris. A true geologist (actually a glaciologist). Several field trips into my freshman year, through the backwoods and bayous of Louisiana and the gritty quarries of east Texas, I began to reconsider my major. We would arrive at a stop. As the others were picking away at an outcrop, finding a crinoid here, and a trilobite there. I stood back and photographed the clouds, the wildflowers, lichens, moss, ferns…and a few interesting minerals. This wasn’t for me. I didn’t care for the Small Details, I wanted to understand the Big Picture. I saw geography as my true calling. And geographers like maps. They look at maps, study them, collect them. I would sit in the library of Owego Free Academy, pull out an atlas and run my finger along the Susquehanna River, the Amazon, the Orinoco, the Nile and the Yukon. I would wonder at the human geography of the people of the Andes, the Alpine valleys of Austria and France, the nomads of Morocco and the stretches of the Gobi and the Sahara Deserts.

The countries in those out-of-the-way places (to us that is, North American-centric) and think about what a house in Argentina would look like. Remember the gauchos? And those countries like Paraguay, Bolivia, Uruguay and Argentina…I had to walk a footpath in those places before I couldn’t. So I am, in a manner of speaking.

But I digress.

The Rio de la Plata (River Plata) is an estuary that is formed by the confluence of the Uruguay and the Parana Rivers. It can be considered a marginal sea, a gulf, or a river. If you decide to consider it a true river (by official Geographical definition), then it is the widest river in the world. At its mouth, it is a jaw-dropping 140 miles across! That’s roughly halfway from New York City to Albany.

[The brown mass is the River Plata. Photo source: NASA Image (Public Domain). The clever mark-up is mine]

With the hot wind rushing over the decks of the ferry, I chose to go outside for about a minute, maybe three. The rest of the time I spent in the well air-conditioned Duty Free shop, sampling the cologne, eyeing the ear buds and searching out the granola bars. The Duty Free and the snack bar on the upper level were open for what seemed about thirty minutes. Back in my seat, too warm to nap, I rubbed my restless legs and yearned for the boat to dock so we could get on the bus and I could at last see the countryside. In Buenos Aires for three weeks caused me to yearn for some open spaces.

Soon, I was happy. Rural Uruguay passed by my window. The hills and cultivated fields reminded me of parts of Texas and in some places, upstate New York. The small towns had shuttered storefronts and many car dealerships. And motorcycle repair shops.

But four hours? All I can say at this point is…I wish I had some Dramamine, fresh cold water and a pillow. However, I did have my ear buds and the WiFi was pretty strong. So I settled in to listen to a few true crime podcasts and a little Dylan, Cohen, Prine and Carlos Gardel to mix things up.

We arrived in the chaos of the bus station in Montevideo. Mariam was hearing nothing she understood (she’s pretty good with her Spanish) because it was a blend of Portuguese and Spanish dialects. We called an Uber and were checking into the Radisson before I could say cafe con leche.

A City Tour~

We decided to take the Hop On/Hop Off bus to get an overall sense of the city. A short walk from the hotel, cutting across a corner of the Victory Plaza was our Hop On spot. As I passed a very large equestrian statue, I was distracted by shouting and a drumming from a building that functioned as the President’s Offices. I came of age in the 1960s and I knew the sound of a demonstration when I heard one. I found out later that it was a Union of some kind demanding cleaner water. Always a great idea, I thought. The way things are shaping up back home, we may be asking for the same thing…but that’s for another time and another blog.

[The protest. Video is mine]

Time to shoot a video or two and then catch our bus.

We climbed the chairs and found the upper deck empty. Front seat, ear buds in, window open. Good to go. But, after ten minutes, the air was pretty close and the Greenhouse Effect was getting intense. You were on a double-decked bus, upstairs? You may ask. Yes and no. The first three rows of seats were under a roof of sorts. So not much air moving there. Toward the end of our trip, we moved to the still empty seats in the back. Ahh. Air.

What follows is a brief video. I spent more time using my GoPro, but I haven’t had the time to upload those files and edit them, so this is all I have using an iPhone. We only de-bussed at the bus station where there was a nice shopping mall and a place to grab my afternoon cafe and a small cookie.

[Thirty seconds of a drive along a street in Montevideo. Video is mine]

The Carnival~

We heard talk and read a few passages about the Montevideo Carnival 2025. It takes place late January and last until early March. And, guess what? Last night (January 23) was the first night! Better still, it played out in the square in front of our hotel.

On the way to a great Korean dinner, I shot these:

Enjoy.

[A dancer warming up for the Big Parade. For some reason my iPhone camera kept find this subject. I have no idea why. Most likely reason is that of all the participants, she simply couldn’t stop moving. She burned off a fair number of calories last night, not that she needed to though. Video is mine]

[Sometimes a guy gets to the point when his parade is over and it’s time to go home and chill. Taken on our way back from dinner. The street party continued until midnight. Video is mine]

Well, we come to the end of our three nights in this lovely Uruguayan city. We return to Argentina tomorrow for the final five days of our extraordinary trip. As I sit and type this (it’s 6:22 PM on 1/24/25), I can hear the music getting started in the plaza below our window. This afternoon, we passed new floats being prepared for another night of revelry. Maybe, just maybe if you tell all your friends to read my posts, then I may edit in additional video at a later date.

Or, maybe I will wait and put the whole empanada in a YouTube post.

Anybody’s guess. I’m still in South America and it’s all reversed down here.

Below the equator vII: at the acam bistro mariam dances the tango

[The musicians at the Acam Bistro. The piano and the Bandoneon. Both gentlemen can sing, dance and play each other’s instruments. Photo is mine]

**

I love tango, and I used to dance when I was young.

~~Pope Francis

I’m a bad walker but I can dance the tango.

~~Melody Gardot

**

It was a very pleasant Sunday afternoon, cool even. A welcome treat after a few days of brutal 95+F heat and back-soaking humidity. It’s Buenos Aires on a Sunday afternoon, a time when the citizenry leave their apartments and stroll the numerous parks, sit in the shady places and picnic the hours away.

Some people, however, go to other places and do interesting things…like head to a favorite bistro and take part in a casual gathering to celebrate with songs, music and to move about on the dance floor. It may be a waltz but hardly ever a jitterbug. And it almost always involves the tango.

Mariam and I were sitting at a small table with Flor, our landlady, at the Acam Bistro in the San Telmo neighborhood. This was a privilege, because we had been invited to a Milonga, a casual gathering to listen, relax and enjoy the music of Argentina. There were no glitzy showgirls here, no tenors with top hats and tails. Just some guys playing and sending out good vibes and love.

A young woman sat up front, close to the musicians. She was a pretty brunette with a stunning smile. I looked away to the window and watched the trees on the street sway in the wind. I looked back. She was standing in front the pianist. She began to sing.

[The woman got up to sing. Sing from her heart. Video is mine]

After her song, she went back to her seat. But she didn’t sit for long. An elderly gentleman, a quiet man who was sitting near us, sipping a beer alone, got up and asked her to dance. They did a slow tango together. She sat down once again.

I went off to the gents bano. When I returned, the man was talking to Mariam. He went back to his seat.

“What was that about?”, I asked Flor.

“He asked your wife to dance,” she said.

“Mariam,” I said, “are you going to dance?”

“Not on your life,” she said.

I had a thought. Mariam wasn’t going to like my thought, I already knew that. But with gentle encouragement…

“Mariam,” I said, “you have a chance to dance the tango in a bar in Buenos Aires. How often will you get a chance to do that? It’s something you can tell everyone back home.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

“But, Mariam.”

“I can’t hear you.”

But I knew the wheels were turning. After all, she once said she would never climb up onto a camel. And there she was last fall, up on top of a camel.

Flor added some encouragement. I promised lots of ice cream, pistachio.

“I really don’t like ice cream that much,” she said.

So, I was not totally surprised by my brave and adventurous wife when she and the man went to the other end of the room…and danced the tango.

Yes, Mariam danced the tango in a bar in Buenos Aires. That would be in South America. A camel in North Africa and a tango dance in Argentina.

This woman can do anything!

[Mariam dances with the quiet man. Video is mine]

Below the equator vI: Among the thickly rooted trees

[Statuary in the Plaza San Martin de Tours. The park with the thickly rooted trees. Photo is mine]

I was thinking about Ubers as ours clipped along Avenue Pueyrredon on our way to an art museum. I made a list of observations about the car service, comparing the ride here to a similar ride we would be taking in Manhattan. And here is what I was thinking about:

-In every ride we’ve taken, the radio was playing. And it was always music. No Traffic & Transit, All News/All The Time, or a commercial of some kind. I liked that. The music was Argentine and I appreciated the fresh voices, the melody and the sound of Spanish songs. I especially liked the total lack of rap. I just don’t like the genre, the pounding beat and the often harsh tone of the lyrics. That’s me. In addition, the Uber drivers rarely talk to you. The ones that do just want to practice their English. Further, the wait time hardly exceeded seven minutes.

But most of all, I liked the fact that it is a very inexpensive way to get around this truly vast city. Our average cost for a ride was around $5.00 USD. No, that’s not a typo. It’s very affordable.

But, I digress.

Days before, as we approached Parque Carlos Thays, we curved around to the right. That’s when I caught a glimpse of a cluster of trees to my left. I craned my neck to get a better view.

Wow, I thought. Those are some very cool trees. Very cool, indeed.

I made a note of where we were in my little Moleskin book. (I highly recommend these books. Ideal for so many things, historically intended for the traveler.) These trees reminded me of a Eucalyptus tree I saw in Key West. These are absolutely amazing trees in many ways but what mostly strikes you when you see them is the trunk and the top of the root system. There is really no other tree that has a unique lower portion and a soaring, leafy over-story. On the ground, beneath these trees are small brown nut-like pods.

Three days later we Ubered to the small park and set about exploring the flora. We got out of the car and found ourselves on the edge of a large Saturday afternoon Craft Market. It didn’t take me long to find a belt that became the first purchase of the day. There was a cool hat that I bought for Elias, my grandson.

[I thought this would look great on the head of my grandson. It would compliment his awesome dark wavy hair. And it would say to passersby, my grandpa got this for me in South America. Photo is mine]

I looked across the busy street, through the tents of craft sellers, and saw the leaves swaying in the breeze. Earlier, Mariam had googled the park and found it on a map. It was labelled The Thickly Rooted Trees. That was our destination. We made our way past the many items being sold…including this curious item:

[There isn’t a whole lot to be said here. If you’re wondering, we didn’t buy it. Photo is mine]

I heard something to my left as we walked down the sidewalk. Music. Not a blaring radio, but a real one-man band:

[Video is mine]

Then it was on to the park. These are Gomero or Gum trees. And they have developed an interesting trunk. These are the same trees that I stood beside in 2023 in Florida.

This is where I spent an hour, roaming among and stepping into the spaces of the Gum tree.

[The Gum Tree. Video is mine]

So why the fascination with these trees? I look at the video and I think I see something spooky in the scene. The roots seem to crawl out from the soil like fingers of some buried giant trying to escape the earth.

I love these trees…beautiful and eerie…like all good stories. And these trees, this city, the music, the people all have unique stories.

Life is a story.