Au Canada

I am back on my continent and I am sad. I don't know what to do. 

I left Europe last week, bidding farewell to the beautiful city of Vannes. It was time to go home. Unable to face my country yet, I have arrived in one of my favorite places, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Halifax is a mixture of grit and beauty, a place which has always welcomed the bereft from the survivors of the Titanic to stranded flyers on 9/11. And once again, I am in a liminal zone, neither here nor there, home or abroad, and being rather than doing.

Sam

Rosie

I am staying with my dear friend Ann and her lovely partner Glynis, along with two formidable British shorthair cats, Sam and Rosie. These cats provide the perfect salve for the anxious heart. While here, I've enjoyed the traditional welcome I've always received from Canadians, this time seasoned with their commiserations and pity. 

I know I am delaying the inevitable, gazing at soft, foggy vistas and eating lobster with reckless abandon. It makes me momentarily happy, but, like Christmas vacation, I know it can't last. And I miss my homeland too. I rack my brains to come up with something, anything I could do to bring about change. It's hard enough to think of waiting until the mid-term elections and hoping for the best, but unbearable when one considers that there may never be another fair, free election again. What we thought was true about our country and who we were as Americans changes from moment to moment. Was it ever what we thought? 

Our system of checks and balances, now apparently defunct, was designed by 18th-century gentlemen and we Americans naively relied on the ideals of this long-dead group. As Google's handy AI-generated text informs me: 

In the 18th century, a gentleman was defined by a combination of social standing, character, and behavior. While good birth and wealth were factors, a gentleman's true essence lay in his manners, education, and adherence to a code of honor. He was expected to be cultured, courteous, and well-educated, with a strong sense of integrity and a focus on emotional moderation. 

Their ideals seem to have pretty much gone the way of the dodo. There are certainly few of that stamp left in government and perhaps even in the population. There are many brave voices and dedicated protesters. But I wonder, as does D. Earl Stephens, retired managing editor of the military's daily newspaper, Stars and Stripes, whether we are at a point where the military will be asked to attack not only our neighbors but even bear arms against their fellow citizens.

My uneasiness is far worse than before I left on my European adventure. I suspect that's by design, as I hear more and more stories about US citizens being questioned and worse as they re-enter the country, having their phones confiscated and social media posts analyzed. The powers that be want us off-balance and nervous because it's harder to take action, if action there is. 

The beauty of writing a blog post is knowing that it's not an essay. I don't have to come to a conclusion. That is a good thing because I don't have one. I think I will go pet a cat.

In a quandary

 It has been longer than I anticipated since I wrote in this blog -- almost ten days -- which is not to say that nothing has been happening. I have been immersed in France for the first time, surrounded by remarkable beauty and moving historical sites, eating amazing food, walking more than I am used to, and, I confess, becoming overwhelmed by the experience.

Writing of this sort often becomes confessional. I am not only overwhelmed but on edge as well. Up until now, I have been insulated from having to negotiate a different culture and language. England, I can handle very well, and Ryan and Ryan took very good care of me in Athens. France is different, though.

I spent a fair amount of time relearning French before I left home, but I discover daily that my efforts were insufficient. In Lyon, France's third largest city, I would begin to speak French when I entered a restaurant or store, but was soon rescued by some nice person who would continue our conversation in English. In Nantes, the sixth largest, this was less often the case, but a linguistic collaboration between native and visitor usually saved the day. Today in Vannes, 115th on the population ranking list, I am often adrift on a sea of two-way incomprehension. Add to that my deplorable sense of direction and inability to read a map, and you find me watching men race model boats on a pond, Etang du Duc, instead of touring my intended destination, the Archaeological Museum. (Note: Happily, I discovered that this small body of water was once the site of a quarry whose stones were used for the construction of the earlier Gallo-Roman city, back when Vannes was called Dariorithum, so my need to pore over the past was partially fulfilled.)

Vannes is precisely the kind of town I've been looking for in the quest to re-settle. It's conveniently located on a railway line, full of quaint houses and historical sites, flat enough to give it a great old-lady walkability score, relaxed, and packed both with amenities and opportunities to explore nature. The people are nice, though much more reserved than in Lyon or Nantes. If I ask a question, they answer kindly--but in fast French, which leaves me tearing along behind in hopes of understanding something. The problem is that I only have one more day to explore here before I head to Paris and my flight home via Nova Scotia. I like what I see, but it's not enough...I will have to come back.

And here's the rub--and possibly what's really making me uneasy: returning to Portland will mean a reassessment of what I left behind in the U.S. There's no avoiding it. Will it be as bad as I recall? How will the uncertainties of each potential life weigh up against each other? Will it be fight or flight? Home or abroad? I thought I knew, and yet...

I've been watching with deep admiration Bernie Sanders' and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez' Oligarchy Tour. I want to be like them, but I am not like them. At least, I don't think I am. I have been searching for a new home, but I find I am also searching for my soul and the possibilities that lie therein.

Beneath the paths we walk

I am in the Athens airport waiting for my flight to Lyon. I am almost happy to leave, possibly because some of my expectations weren’t met. Whenever in the past I Googled images of Athens, I found amazing ancient white buildings set against vistas of blue sky, scenes bristling with the classical past – and I did see those, but not without a search. 

Athens, like New York, is full of closely stacked apartments, and it’s not easy to see the sky. Seen from taxis, almost all streets seem to be dark streets; but it’s different when walking. What you see on a walk is daily life, punctuated with loud conversations that seem like arguments but end in laughter. And cats! Athens is rife with feral cats who seem well-nourished and easily accepted in the hearts (and garbage pails) of Athenians.  Every block has its bright boutiques and welcoming restaurants. Even the hole-in-the-wall varieties are remarkable. The other night, my cousin Ryan and his husband Ryan took me to a restaurant they call PoPoPo because the cook and the waitress are always running around saying po-po-po––Greek for a number of emotions from happiness to deep overwhelm. 

Diners start in the kitchen where the cook, a garrulous old guy whose family have owned the place for more than 50 years, shows you what he’s been cooking since morning: giant runner beans in a savory sauce, meatballs, okra, sauteed wild greens, a chickpea soup cooked all day in a clay pot and flavored with lemon. The three of us made our choices, and then the waitress, a cheery, almost toothless Ethiopian, escorted us to the back garden hung with grape vines and edged with lemon trees. Rickety chairs and tables rocked on the stone surface as we took our places. She joked with us about how rich they were –“See how many chairs we have?”—and there were indeed many stacked about. She brought us wine in a small metal pitcher whose edges were scored with dents and cracks—“The cook—he broke his tooth on it!” We laughed our way through a marvelous dinner.

Athenians live. Despite the dark streets, they make their own light. I think this may be because of the streets beneath the streets: the multitudinous vestiges of Greek Civilization–houses, temples, agorae that saw the birth of democracy, philosophy, and the lively arts. History, in the form of hundreds of potential dig sites, provides an effervescence that bubbles up into their world and supports them through the chaos, uncertainty, and relative poverty that beset them in this crazy world. It allows them to hope and to laugh.

My time with Ryan and Ryan was excellent. I hadn't seen my second cousin (Ryan E) since he was in junior high, and he has grown into the promise he showed then: well-versed in the arts, literature, politics, and at ease with his many talents. His partner, Ryan W, is likewise talented and witty, with deep experience in art, music, writing, and editing. There was never a dull conversation. Together we walked the paths beneath the Acropolis and over the site of the house of Proclus. We poured wine into the dirt at the cave-prison where Socrates may have spent his last days before being forced to drink hemlock rather than betray his truth.

The Ryans moved to Europe after the first Trump election because their clear vision and perspicacity issued a warning: they would no longer be safe in the United States. As we now see, they were correct. One of the many things I admire about them, though, is that they have not sunk into the darkness of our times; instead, they celebrate the pleasures of being alive and recognize that, despite everything, art, music, literature, fine food and wine still uplift us and help us to survive. Their podcast and substack at Epicurean Vagabonds help me to weather the times and maintain my serenity. And, through them, I found my joy in Athens.

A fine and private place

After sailing on a ship with over 2000 passengers, taking a train to noisy London and north from there, I am settled in the All Hallows Guesthouse adjacent to St. Julian's church where Julian of Norwich spent the last 40-some years of her life. 

I embarked on this journey to find a home when the place I thought was home failed me. Making a pilgrimage to St. Julian's is one of the few stops I had actually planned in advance. 

I've been studying the times in which Julian lived for the past five years, trying to understand why she made the drastic choice to become an anchorite--walled into a small cell on the side of the church and no way out. She was educated--she wrote the earliest surviving English-language works attributed to a woman--and apparently had the wealth and independence to make such a choice. Granted, she was driven by visions that came to her during an apparent near-death experience, but there are other choices she might have made. 

Anchorites or anchoresses were not uncommon in medieval Europe. Like hermits, they devoted their lives to prayer and lived in solitude, but they were attached, literally, to one place and, importantly, they had two windows: one which opened onto the church and the other out to the world. Unlike hermits, they had contact, but they also had a social purpose: they were available to counsel and comfort anyone who approached their cell. 

Julian lived in horrific times. When she was a child, the black plague swept through Norwich.  Out of a population of approximately 25,000 in 1348, as few as 6,000 survived. This was followed by the Peasants Rebellion, which was put down ruthlessly by Henry le Despenser, the bishop of Norwich, and public executions were rife. Le Despenser was also an avid persecutor of Lollards, heretics who, in addition to other "crimes," wanted the Bible to be translated to English and available to all Christians rather than the educated few who could read Latin. Perhaps this is among the reasons that Julian became a recluse and wrote her Revelations of Divine Love in secret. It was not published until its discovery in 1670 at a convent in France, possibly smuggled out of England at the time of the Reformation. (For more information, this BBC documentary, The Search for the Lost Manuscript of Julian of Norwich, is excellent.) 

Julian's book could not have been written except in seclusion. She needed time and a place to write. Women's lives in the medieval world did not afford this kind of luxury. She also needed safety, not only to avoid persecution as a heretic but also for the manuscript itself. Julian's visions changed her forever and presented her with the task of sharing what she had experienced with the world, if not during her lifetime when it would certainly have been destroyed, then in the future.

Aside from being a religious work written in English, what made Julian's book so dangerous? It was not the descriptions of the visions themselves,16 vivid revelations of Jesus' crucifixion, but her interpretation of what they revealed. Flying in the face of the Church's teaching on sin, the wrath of God, penitence, the value of suffering, Julian saw only love. 

Julian writes:

He showed me a little thing the size of a hazelnut, in the palm of my hand, and it was as round as a ball. I looked at it with my mind's eye and I thought,

'What can this be?'

 

And the answer came, 'It is all that is made'. I marvelled that it could last, for I thought it might have crumbled to nothing, it was so small.

 

And the answer came into my mind, 'It lasts and ever shall because God loves it'. And all things have being through the love of God.

Again,

I desired many times to know of the Lord's meaning. And fifteen years after and more, I was answered in spiritual understanding, and it was said:

What, do wish to know our Lord's meaning in this thing? Know it and know it well, Love was his meaning.

Who revealed it to you? Love.

What did he reveal to you? Love.

Why does he reveal it to you? Love.

So I was taught that Love is our Lord's meaning. And I saw very certainly in this and in everything that before God made us, he loves us, which love was never abated and never shall be.

I am not a religious person, but If I've learned anything from Julian, it's that we have a duty to live a loving life. Is that possible when constantly confronted with the moral atrocities that hourly spew from Washington? It's easy enough to love in the abstract, but the daily particulars are difficult. I don't want to live in a rage. 

 

The hazards of sailing

We are out in the middle of the Atlantic. Every day around noon, the captain reminds us to set our clocks forward an hour. There are over 2000 passengers on board, each of us losing an hour a day. I picture these as Dali-esque jetsam trailing behind us in the wake of this enormous vessel. It has been several days since my body has been able to approximate what time it is.

Just before I went to bed last night, a friend sent me a link to a UPI article dated April 1 and titled 241 sickened with norovirus on Cunard's Queen Mary 2 flagship liner.  I should have guessed something was up. There is an almost religious dedication to handwashing on the QM2. There are handwashing and sanitizer stations throughout, and no one is allowed to enter the buffet area without washing their hands. Should we attempt to bypass this step, a charming crew member steps in front of us and says, "Kindly wash your hands." Even though the fare is laid out as a buffet, we have to point to what we want and a be-gloved server plops whatever it is on our plates. I assumed this was merely a wise precaution. There was no clue until yesterday that the virus was already rampant before we boarded, having begun on the Caribbean portion of the cruise. 

I decided to sail rather than fly to Europe because I wanted some time in a liminal zone to reflect and write before diving into this adventure. Now all I can think about is washing my hands--and hoping that others are similarly dedicated. I keep an eye on my shipmates. 

It's ironic that I am fleeing the ills of an emergent autocracy and have flung myself into a more immediate danger. As they say, you pull out one gray hair and two more rise up to take its place. 

And so it goes.

At sea

Shortly after the results of the 2024 Presidential Election were announced, I began to pack. Mere moments after the inauguration, US democracy began to deteriorate and has crumbled steadily under the wrecking ball of the Trump administration. Each day brings a new nightmare.

My country is not what I thought it was. If nothing else, Donald Trump has served to reveal it as greedier, more fear-driven, more cruel than I ever thought possible. Trump and his minions have turned over the welcome mat and revealed its hideous underside, replete with centipedes, maggots and mold. Take a look; you'll see what I mean. There's no need to enumerate the sins of this dark breeding ground. A glance at the headlines is enough to send most of us careening to the momentary respite of funny cat videos and fully-fatted ice cream. Always in the background, the question of 1938 Germany echoes: Why didn't they leave when they could?

This afternoon, I boarded the Queen Mary 2 and will spend the next eight days crossing the North Atlantic to Southampton, England. I am escaping to a liminal zone, which I hope will make the break from my birthplace to the lands of my forebears less of a wrench. 

My ancestors crossed the North Atlantic in search of a better life. Now I am doing the same. Like them, I am down in steerage (or what passes for steerage on this luxury liner--I do not think my antecedents found champagne and chocolates upon boarding). Our paths cross over the wreckage of the Titanic, an apt reminder of the unpredictable disasters brought on by hubris.

I am excited and terrified. I am 72 years old. This is not how I envisioned my retirement. But as my father was fond of saying, what is is. And we'll see what comes to pass.