Spectator Life

“You are Kevin?” “Pardon?” Embarking on a solo week driving around Mallorca, then losing my drivers license in transit? Not my finest hour. A fairytale wedding near the citrus grove-laden seaside town of Sollér brought me to the largest island of the Baleriacs. A chest infection, some big deadlines and three hotels to review an hour’s drive south of the venue inspired me to hire a car, so I could pootle around at my own pace. I realized my problem in Barcelona, waiting for my connecting flight. Paying for a coffee, I spotted my license was missing. I’d booked via OMIO (a journey planning site that pulls together trains, planes, ferries and coaches — I love that thing), which I quickly consulted to confirm the dearth of public transport on the island.

On Joe Biden’s first day in Lithuania, he skipped the opening dinner of world leaders at the NATO summit and made a beeline from the airport to his suite at the opulent Kempinski Hotel for a plate of spaghetti bolognese and some quality sack time. My introduction to the country a couple of weeks later involved no fanfare, but was far more memorable. I woke up in the 700-year-old Jaunpils Castle, in a fantastic, out-of-the-way place, lost to my teenage son in an archery competition there and then drove south on winding country roads to northern Lithuania’s Hill of Crosses, a place that better symbolizes the victory of faith over communism than any other. The Baltic countries — Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia — are often lumped together.

Brussels is the source of all evil to many of those who supported Brexit, and even for Americans. “What’s a good Christian boy like you doing in Satan’s den?” was the question of an Austin friend when I told him work had brought me to the capital city of the European Union. To its critics, Brussels is the bastion of the worst sort of Big Government, with the European Commission and Parliament issuing diktats to more than 500 million people across twenty-seven nations. But while the city is “full of nets” with which to trap you, as described by another friend who worked here on human rights legislation, it’s also a city of “hope.” Brussels has a rich comic book culture. There are the intrepid reporter Tintin and his sidekick Snowy.

Planning a foreign trip is a bit like watching a trailer for a film. The research is a preview of coming attractions. I almost never made it to San Antonio de Areco, a charming country town about seventy miles northwest of Buenos Aires, because it seemed extravagantly expensive and complicated to visit. But trailers can be misleading, perseverance is a virtue, and Areco, as the locals call it, turned out to be the highlight of my visit to Argentina last summer. With just a week to spend in the world’s eighth largest country by land area, my plan was to spend four days in Buenos Aires and three in a small town, a place I hoped would give us an idea of what the country’s gaucho heartland is about.

Forget Barcelona. Say sayonara to San Fran. And so long, London. Post-Covid, Lisbon has become a hub for the creative, hungry and cosmopolitan. A throng of new restaurants, wine bars and buzzy co-working spots has formed a playground for the young and ambitious.  They’re squeezing every last drop out of their free time, too, joining the tourists in thumping nightclubs before escaping to beautiful  beaches. But plenty of weekend visitors don’t know (or have time to discover) that the city is flanked by bucolic countryside, dotted with world-class hotels and agriturismos. A forty-minute drive can take you to pristine white sands, enchanting pine forests, retro beachfronts and sprawling national parks. Next time you’re in town, tack a road trip onto your city break.

Sunrise in Johannesburg, blazing a brighter red than I can recall seeing before. The orb seems unnaturally huge; burning my retina as it flashes through the thick canopy of leaves covering the largest manmade park in the world.  I’m looking out over the Koppies (“small hill” in Afrikaans) at one of Joburg’s most spectacular views, from Melville suburb’s highest point. Albeit, from behind a laptop. I’ve got a second coffee on the go at Pablo Guest House while attempting to carve out an itinerary for this last-minute jaunt. I’d jumped on a plane from Cape Town with Ashlee, a friend who grew up here. Her father lives in a looming school house stuffed with antiques, which she has the grand job of sorting through and selling on.

Much is said, chiefly by Americans used to Amtrak, about continental Europe’s wonderful train system, though just how wonderful depends on where you want to go. On a recent journey from Southampton, where we had disembarked early morning from the Queen Mary, to The Hague where we missed our evening dinner reservations at the Hotel des Indes, I made certain discoveries. One was that The Hague, seat of the Dutch government, home to the king and queen, venue of the World Court and other august institutions of world government, is now off-line: i.e. it is not on the high-speed rail network that links up London, Paris, Brussels and Amsterdam. This seems curious and, in a way, charming.

Blazing sunshine. Endless traffic. Horns honking. Wine bars heaving. Trance music blasting. Street hawkers calling. Coastal wind (called the "Cape Doctor" by locals) whistling. Grit in one eye, the other looking over my shoulder. Hair flying in every direction. To explore central Cape Town is to be gut-punched: by an evolving backdrop of sublime nature and the complexity of the human condition. To visit the city’s world-class restaurants, concept stores and co-working sites is to share a street with the sick, hungry and homeless. Look up, and you’re hypnotized by the monolithic mountains beyond; a brief distraction from the painfully obvious disparity. From some angles it feels like the Mother City is being wrapped in a tight hug.

It’s been a nearly seven-hour drive up and down the Atlas Mountains from Marrakech before a roundabout appears at the entrance to Ouarzazate, the Amazigh (Berber) outpost where we might be able to stave off hunger, thirst and fatigue. But first, follow that roundabout — the one featuring a gigantic director’s clipboard. Then turn left and enter the parking lot of the Atlas Studios, known to the outside world as Ouarzawood, the must-see largest studio in the Sahel, just 230 miles from Merzouga: the gateway to the Sahara. Park before a half-dozen faux Egyptian Ka statues — think gigantic copies of King Tut’s tomb — then a gate opens and just beyond lie the sets to a dozen or more popular movies.

Crowds lined up to say au revoir to a Southern California landmark — not Route 66, or the elementary school operating out of the remains of the Ambassador Hotel, where an assassin shot RFK. They were gathering for the month-long funeral of the Disneyland water ride Splash Mountain. Since 1989, visitors have ridden boats up a mountain, past the animatronic Brer Rabbit escaping the briar patch, bumping into Brer Bear and Brer Fox, who kidnap him. As they toss the bunny off a cliff and down a river, the ride’s riverboats fall down the mountain after him. Miraculously, both Brer Rabbit and the log-flume passengers survive. The survival is never explained, but visitors rarely notice because they’re enraptured by the grand finale rendition of “Zip-a-dee-doo-da.

Nestled in the Apennine Mountains due east of Rome is the region of Umbria, a hidden gem at the heart of Italy. It's characterized by lush green countryside, rolling hills carpeted in olive groves and picturesque medieval hilltop towns. The region has the beauty of Tuscany but without the mobs of tourists. Its food is the best Italy has to offer — fresh, traditional, high-quality and spectacularly tasty. The senses, then, are satisfied — but Umbria also harbors a rich religious legacy. Home to some of Catholicism’s most titanic saints — Francis and Clare of Assisi and Benedict of Nursia — and dotted with ancient and medieval churches of great beauty, it's as much a pilgrim’s paradise as it is a tourist’s Italian dream.

“What the f—” “Don’t look directly at it. I’m serious, that thing is cursed.”  My childhood best friend Sofie has just scooped me up from the epicenter of weirdness that is Denver International Airport, one hand on the steering wheel, the other blocking my view of a thirty-five-foot, bright blue fiberglass horse rearing at nothing in particular. I’m sleep-deprived, but I’m not seeing things. “Why are its eyes burning red?” “Not sure. The man who built it died during construction. Blucifer fell on him and severed a main artery.” I’ve no energy left for questions. I’m fresh from nine hours in a tin can sitting next to an effusive new “friend,” insistent on sharing conspiracy theories linked to our destination.

I’d heard that KwaZulu-Natal province in South Africa delivers life-changing memories. Roaming Shaka Zulu’s hunting ground. The Big Five. Bushveld soil on your shoes. Falling asleep to the music of the night, curtains open in anticipation of a burning sunrise. I flew there for a thrilling, once-in-a-lifetime safari experience. And I got it. While sitting on the toilet. It’s a unique frustration, hearing the phone ring out, from the bathroom. My first morning at Thanda Safari transports me back to my teenage years in the 2000s; the last time I had a house phone. “I’m coming!” I shout to no one in particular, having quickly dashed to my digs, post-crack of dawn game drive. “Miss Everett! Oh, thank goodness! You ARE there! You must not leave your room!

Arriving to spend a month in Denver, Colorado, decision-paralysis hit me like a ton of bricks. Almost as hard as the altitude. And the jet lag. I’d dreamed of downing tools come the weekend, hopping in the car to explore different ski towns at the tail end of the season. What a life locals have, so close to some of the best skiing in the world. But with thirty-two resorts, how to choose? And more importantly, get there? Local friends quickly schooled me on the (insane) highway traffic to the mountains and reminded me to check for snow storms up top. Denver weather is famously mercurial during the springtime. “What should I pack?” I’d phoned to quiz my host, surrounded by thermal leggings, bikinis, summer dresses and snow boots. “Everything,” came the reply. Right then.

It’s a better thing to travel hopefully than to arrive, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote back in 1881. I find myself inwardly repeating that line almost every time I venture out to a public event. Whether it’s someone’s phone repeatedly inserting the klaxon-like intro to the Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” into the hushed denouement of a play, or the musical hooliganism of the idiot who chats his way through Paul McCartney singing “Eleanor Rigby” (it’s the Beatles classic we came to hear, mate, not a monologue about your dog’s bowel issues), it seems that narcissistic self-absorption is the rule on these occasions, and an even tenuous grasp of other people’s existence the exception.

When rulers are thrown out of their countries, they cannot expect all that much. Think of Napoleon, first cooling his heels in Elba, then ending his days in the damp-infested confines of Saint Helena. Which is why the former Edward VIII, later the Duke of Windsor, was comparatively fortunate that the Parisian spot in which he found himself living after his abdication in December 1936 was Le Meurice in Paris: then, as now, a hotel that offers not only glitteringly luxurious accommodation to its well-heeled denizens, but a tangible sense of history — its lavishly appointed suites and restaurants exude an atmosphere that’s simultaneously relaxing and conspiratorial. Turn an unexpected corner, and you half-expect to see the ghost of Wallis Simpson, barking orders at some hapless minion.

“There’s no snow. Nothing.” The week after Christmas, 2023. Eager to ski, I’d phoned an old friend living in a French resort at low altitude. I hoped she’d make me feel better about the headlines splashed across the newsstands. “There’s Snowhere To Ski!” “Europe Ski Resorts Close Due To Lack Of Snow.” “Record Warm Winter In Parts Of Europe Forces Closure Of Ski Slopes.” It was true, she sighed. Birds were chirping as if spring had arrived, heavy rain washing away whatever dusting of the white stuff had settled. “You’re going to have to get high”. An admittedly fairweather skier, I usually take aim at European resorts in March. When I’m lucky enough to go, my trips happen to span International Women’s Day.

When I lived in Idaho, people would ask my mother, “Why did she move to Iowa?” Sometimes they’d break into a frenetic rendition of the B-52’s “Private Idaho” or make a potato joke. Otherwise they didn’t really know what to say about the Gem State. Residents are proud of Idaho’s obscurity. They encourage it. Iterations of “Idaho is hideous, don’t come here” are a common tongue-in-cheek caption added to breathtaking social media photos of majestic mountain landscapes and pristine trout streams.

"San Francisco is the only city I can think of that can survive all the things you people are doing to it and still look beautiful,” said Frank Lloyd Wright. You might say the same thing about Marin, the county you enter upon crossing the Golden Gate Bridge from out of the City of Fog, where my mother moved several years ago to be with my stepdad. Arresting in its natural beauty, gratifying in its varied and delicious cuisine, shocking in its exorbitant property values, Marin ranks in the top ten nationally for median household income. My mother’s town, like many around it, has not a little character. There's the old colonial Spanish influence, evidenced in the mission churches and the names of some of the communities: San Rafael, Corte Madera, San Anselmo, San Geronimo.

From the lilting normcore of Sally Rooney’s Normal People to the frenetic genius of poetic, post-(post?) punk band Fontaines D.C., I’m drawn to talented Irish voices of late. Martin McDonagh’s Oscar-nominated tragicomedy, The Banshees of Inisherin, won three Golden Globes, and my heart, to boot. And quite rightly. It’s news to no one that the Irish have always been exceptional storytellers; some stereotypes stick because they are true. Plenty of the finest words ever written hail from the town of the hurdled ford, Baile Átha Cliath, Dublin. This fact was recognized by UNESCO in 2010, when they named it a City of Literature.

When I arrived in East Palestine, Ohio, on Wednesday, the quaint Main Street was a red, white and blue sea of people waiting in chilly, drizzly weather for Donald Trump to arrive. I met up with Brian and Samantha, who live three miles from the site of the Norfolk Southern train derailment. They were acting as Tulsi Gabbard’s tour guide and graciously invited me to tag along. The East Palestine area is a typical rural community. Villages with little more than a volunteer fire department and a basic convenience-style store are scattered across the countryside. People enjoy their space and peace and quiet, but they’re also close-knit and neighborly.

At around eleven in the morning on February 28, 2001, I was standing in front of a mirror in my home in suburban Seattle, adjusting what remained of my hair prior to driving downtown to meet a friend for lunch, when the ground began to shake beneath my feet. The movement lasted about twenty seconds and wasn’t entirely unpleasant, with just the slightest hint of the old days when I was a devotee of Bacchus. After a bit, I checked that the house was all right, looked in on my infant son peacefully asleep in his crib, said goodbye to my wife, started the car and went on my way into the city. It was bedlam out there.

In 2013, I was studying for a Master’s degree in Beirut when a bomb went off in Baghdad. I remember receiving a message from a friend checking in to see if I was all right — even though I was 500 miles away. It can be hard to convey to people back in the United States that violence in the Middle East is not necessarily a part of everyday life. At times — in Iraq in the years following the US invasion, for example — it is. But such attacks are usually a tragic anomaly. All this stands in stark contrast to news about the earthquakes in southern Turkey and northern Syria, which struck last week and killed at least 36,000 people.