Venice, September 2001
Dear Friends and Family:
It’s just after 10:30 pm on a Saturday night as I sit down to dinner in a café on the main street in Venice. Even though the island is a pedestrian mall with no cars, trucks or motorcycles, it is not very quiet. Some streets, or rather “calle” which must mean alley, are no larger than the width of a small umbrella. I find it difficult to spend a week-end alone in such a romantic city but it’s a wonderful place to explore and the benefits of being almost in the right time zone—and not nodding off in meetings—are hard to underestimate.
From the questions that people ask my waiter and the quizzical looks they give their maps, it seems that at any given time at least a quarter of tourists must be lost. From here we are are less than 100 meters from Piazza San Marco (St. Mark's Square), the center of all tourist activity in Venice. And yet there are tourists who don’t realize that that the square is just one street, one bridge and two more little streets away. Perhaps the tourist authorities should issue a GPS to every tourist who comes to Venice and they could plot their way electronically.
This morning after a long breakfast and a quick check of my email, I started this morning at the Biennale Art Exhibition. It’s rather like a World’s Fair for contemporary art--except that the exhibition does not include any countries from Africa and only the developed countries from Asia (so South Korea but not North Korea). One enterprising artist created a sculpture from the form letters written to countries not represented at the Biennale. “Excellency,” he started as he wrote the UN representative for each country. “I noted that your country has not been invited to present an exhibition at the Biennale. One of our artists, Michael Lemieux, would be pleased to represent your country in exchange for citizenship to your country. Please advise requirements for citizenship and your country’s limitations on dual citizenship.” (It seems that M. Lemieux is currently a citizen of France.) However the exhibit did not include any responses to the letter. One can only imagine, “We would like to thank you for your kind offer but regret that we do not sell citizenship to our country, or at least not at such a nominal price…”
In general, I am not a fan of most contemporary art but I liked several exhibitions at the Biennale. One exhibit showed a glass floor that looked as if it were supported by pebbles. On closer inspection, one could see that the “pebbles” were actually clay figures each with its hands raised to support the glass ceiling above. “What have we come to?” was the name of the exhibit. It was prepared by Do-Ho Suh, a Korean living in New York.
As I sit here at this restaurant, there a 40-something woman who speaks in a hoarse voice, claims to come from New York, and complains that she also couldn’t find the "Saint Marco Square" this afternoon. It makes me feel that there are still others whose sense of direction is worse than mine.(I usually try to explain to friends, with only some exaggeration, that I can get lost in my own bathroom.)
This afternoon after two hours at the Biennale, I decided that spending some time outside would help my jet-lag recovery. After careful study of the ferry route map, I figured out that I could sit on the ferry, go past my stop and do a full tour before I returned. Ninety minutes later I found that I had visited all of the Grand Canal, the yacht mooring areas, the landings for the cruise ships, train station, the regional car-park and the smoke-belching power plants but had not yet returned to my starting point. Just as I was beginning to distrust my recall of the ferry map, I found that we had returned to Piazza San Marco. I knew that the Square is close to my hotel. But alas, the ferry then turned around and started to retrace its steps away from the Square. Rather than spend another 90 minutes coming back and found a ferry in the reverse direction back to San Marco. Then the problem was to figure out which ferries would go further.
I had decided to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Museum a little further along the canal. A friend of one of my friends had recommended a nice pensione in the same area as the Guggenheim and I wanted to see both.
I got off the ferry at the stop that described the Guggenheim and found myself walking through little walkways and following American-style signs indicating the correct direction to the museum. A handsome man with blond hair was passing and stopped me. “I know that person,” he said to his friends. Peter Smith-Jones was the editor for a paper I wrote in 1995. Peter had helped me find my way, developing a consistent theme for the paper and helping me find confidence in my ability to express complex ideas. He’s a 50-something beatnik with a ponytail and a winning smile. I explained to Peter that I was on a stop-over to Zagreb and to his stunned friends, I noted the obvious—that I also work for an international organization. With that, Peter was off and I found the museum.
While the museum is filled with Picassos and Klees and other famous artists, I was most interested in the gardens and the terrace—and a quote from Peggy Guggenheim typed onto one of the exhibits. Apparently her daughter had died suddenly. Peggy Guggenheim wrote about how her daughter had also been her mother, her friend and her confidant. Peggy Guggenheim seemed as if she might have been an interesting person and I bought a copy of her auto-biography (“Diary of an Art Addict”) to give me something to read apart from my official reports during my trip.
I finally found the pensione my friend had recommended. When I asked for copies of the brochure and an indication of how far in advance I should made a reservation, the clerk replied seven or eight months. “Seven or eight months,” I replied. “I hardly can be sure of my schedule seven or eight weeks ahead.” “Oh well,” he replied. I suppose they don’t have too many international officials passing on route to another place. Still it’s very nice and not particularly expensive (at about $110 per night for a single). I would be pleased to pass it on if you think you may want a recommendation on Venice hotels.
It turns out the NY woman with the hoarse voice was also called Sue. “Sue, Sue, Sue,” they were yelling as these ten men (and three women) came walking down the street. “Have a nice night,” they wished Sue and so I wish you.
Sue
Saturday, September 1, 2001
Wednesday, August 8, 2001
Georgia before the Rose Revolution
Tbilisi, August 2001
Dear Family and Friends:
Greetings from Tbilisi, Georgia.
The temperatures are still 95 to 100 but it’s a desert heat and very dry. The hotel has airconditioning but few of the government offices do. I sit wearing a silk skirt, short sleeve cotton blouse, and mules (open toe and open back shoes)and still I perspire during the meetings. When we visited last May, the government was playing hardball with the (privatized) electricity distribution company, refusing to pay its power bill until the power company paid its taxes. The power company, which is managed by an American firm AES, cut off power to the government buildings and my counterparts could no longer make photocopies or outgoing telephone calls. The international lending institutions have a large program for Georgia and refused to disburse part of the loan until the government increased collection of taxes to the agreed upon targets. To do so, Georgia’s President called on the local mafia—or so goes the rumor—and told them to pay their taxes on the smuggled cigarettes and petrol. In the interests of the country, apparently they did so.The lenders released the funds and government offices could again do their jobs. Such is the world of developing countries in 2001.
It seems that the President is keeping the country together by the force of his personality and will. Apparently after our trip in May, one of the army battalions marched on Tbilisi. The staff had not been paid salaries in some months and they decided to take matters into their own hands. Apparently after the meeting with the President, they laid their down their arms, so to speak, and left Tbilisi.
Even more serious is the recent death of a young TV journalist, who apparently comes from the Georgian elite. Giorgi Sanaia was preparing TV programs talking about corruption in the government. Last week he was murdered in his Tbilisi apartment in what appeared to be a contract killing. He was declared a national hero by the Parliament and the main streets of Tbilisi were closed for his funeral. That evening an estimated 50,000 people participated in a candelight vigil. President Shevarnadze has asked the FBI to send in a team to investigate. According to the local press, the FBI team will come from Ankara, Turkey—even though Moscow is closer and the otherwise logical choice.
I wanted to tell you also about my travels today. The Georgian rules of hospitality are apparently very strict. Even in these dog days of summer, they were obliged to invite us for a big meal, known as a supra. We drove four hours today to the base of their internationally known ski resort, known as Bakuriani. On the way we stopped at Brojoni, from which at least three different Georgian companies take their sulfur bubling waters, all under the trademark name of Brojoni. I walked on the bridge that was constructed for Stalin’s train stop visit there in 1952 and felt that I could almost hear his words talking about the glory of the new Communist state that had been created. The wooden boards had seen better days and as I walked I put hand over hand onto the steel railing to ensure that if the boards gave way, I would not find myself swimming in the rapids below.
The best part of the trip was the drive there and then back. I asked for the front passenger seat so that I could see what was happening along the road. But the real story was on the road. We had a Jeep SUV (sports utility vehicle) that carried seven people comfortably. It had government license plates with AAA as the initial numbers. And it had police lights and a siren. The traffice flowed at different speeds. Some Soviet-style Ladas were heading for the coast. The grain harvesters were workign their way to the next field. The 18-wheel tractor-trailers were travellign between Baku in Azerabaijan and Turkey. The business tycoons in their new BMWs were in a hurry whereever they were going. And then there was us, VIPs with police sirens. Our Georgian driver was trying to drive at 90 kmh—there appears to be no speed limit—and wanted all other cars to get out of the way. Rather than honking twice, which is already obnoxious enough, he put on the siren to advise the other cars that we were about to pass. One car didn’t move over quickly enough and the relatively polite siren was turned into a wail, as if we were speeding through on some matter of national urgency.
Behind us was the other car in our caravan. They were driving a Volga, the car that was once reserved only for the Russian political elite. But lacking the police siren, they had trouble keeping up with us. When I asked our hosts, why a government agency would need a police car, they replied that it was clearly necessary for VIPs like us.
So we drove through small towns where we were avoiding not only the cows and bulls meandering across the road, but also the chicken, the ducks and the pigs and piglets. All seem to be unsupervised with no owners in sight.
So this evening as I sit by the hotel pool, I reflect on my last two weeks here. This pool seems to be the Beverly Hills Hotel pool for Tbilisi as the tycoons take their cell phone calls and talk with the women whose bodies seem to the result of plastic surgery and very careful dieting. Even this evening, when all have gone home and I am alone with my computer and the mosquitos that want to eat my screen, I can feel their spirits and hear their voices. But tomorrow I must do some serious writing.
Sue
Dear Family and Friends:
Greetings from Tbilisi, Georgia.
The temperatures are still 95 to 100 but it’s a desert heat and very dry. The hotel has airconditioning but few of the government offices do. I sit wearing a silk skirt, short sleeve cotton blouse, and mules (open toe and open back shoes)and still I perspire during the meetings. When we visited last May, the government was playing hardball with the (privatized) electricity distribution company, refusing to pay its power bill until the power company paid its taxes. The power company, which is managed by an American firm AES, cut off power to the government buildings and my counterparts could no longer make photocopies or outgoing telephone calls. The international lending institutions have a large program for Georgia and refused to disburse part of the loan until the government increased collection of taxes to the agreed upon targets. To do so, Georgia’s President called on the local mafia—or so goes the rumor—and told them to pay their taxes on the smuggled cigarettes and petrol. In the interests of the country, apparently they did so.The lenders released the funds and government offices could again do their jobs. Such is the world of developing countries in 2001.
It seems that the President is keeping the country together by the force of his personality and will. Apparently after our trip in May, one of the army battalions marched on Tbilisi. The staff had not been paid salaries in some months and they decided to take matters into their own hands. Apparently after the meeting with the President, they laid their down their arms, so to speak, and left Tbilisi.
Even more serious is the recent death of a young TV journalist, who apparently comes from the Georgian elite. Giorgi Sanaia was preparing TV programs talking about corruption in the government. Last week he was murdered in his Tbilisi apartment in what appeared to be a contract killing. He was declared a national hero by the Parliament and the main streets of Tbilisi were closed for his funeral. That evening an estimated 50,000 people participated in a candelight vigil. President Shevarnadze has asked the FBI to send in a team to investigate. According to the local press, the FBI team will come from Ankara, Turkey—even though Moscow is closer and the otherwise logical choice.
I wanted to tell you also about my travels today. The Georgian rules of hospitality are apparently very strict. Even in these dog days of summer, they were obliged to invite us for a big meal, known as a supra. We drove four hours today to the base of their internationally known ski resort, known as Bakuriani. On the way we stopped at Brojoni, from which at least three different Georgian companies take their sulfur bubling waters, all under the trademark name of Brojoni. I walked on the bridge that was constructed for Stalin’s train stop visit there in 1952 and felt that I could almost hear his words talking about the glory of the new Communist state that had been created. The wooden boards had seen better days and as I walked I put hand over hand onto the steel railing to ensure that if the boards gave way, I would not find myself swimming in the rapids below.
The best part of the trip was the drive there and then back. I asked for the front passenger seat so that I could see what was happening along the road. But the real story was on the road. We had a Jeep SUV (sports utility vehicle) that carried seven people comfortably. It had government license plates with AAA as the initial numbers. And it had police lights and a siren. The traffice flowed at different speeds. Some Soviet-style Ladas were heading for the coast. The grain harvesters were workign their way to the next field. The 18-wheel tractor-trailers were travellign between Baku in Azerabaijan and Turkey. The business tycoons in their new BMWs were in a hurry whereever they were going. And then there was us, VIPs with police sirens. Our Georgian driver was trying to drive at 90 kmh—there appears to be no speed limit—and wanted all other cars to get out of the way. Rather than honking twice, which is already obnoxious enough, he put on the siren to advise the other cars that we were about to pass. One car didn’t move over quickly enough and the relatively polite siren was turned into a wail, as if we were speeding through on some matter of national urgency.
Behind us was the other car in our caravan. They were driving a Volga, the car that was once reserved only for the Russian political elite. But lacking the police siren, they had trouble keeping up with us. When I asked our hosts, why a government agency would need a police car, they replied that it was clearly necessary for VIPs like us.
So we drove through small towns where we were avoiding not only the cows and bulls meandering across the road, but also the chicken, the ducks and the pigs and piglets. All seem to be unsupervised with no owners in sight.
So this evening as I sit by the hotel pool, I reflect on my last two weeks here. This pool seems to be the Beverly Hills Hotel pool for Tbilisi as the tycoons take their cell phone calls and talk with the women whose bodies seem to the result of plastic surgery and very careful dieting. Even this evening, when all have gone home and I am alone with my computer and the mosquitos that want to eat my screen, I can feel their spirits and hear their voices. But tomorrow I must do some serious writing.
Sue
Monday, January 1, 2001
Dancing to the Ends of the Earth
Post-Script
La Jolla, January 2009
Dear Family and Friends,
This is not my video but it expresses how I feel about travels to the ends of the earth. Matt Harding was a game programmer, who set out to dance (the same dance) in as many parts of the world as possible, and then to include others who wanted to dance with him. He was not always successful--look at the guard in the Demilitarized Zone of North Korea--but he still kept on dancing.
Wishing you a very happy year, traveling (and dancing) in whatever parts of the world pique your interest.
And to stay healthy so that you can travel and dance (and love), check out the Health Knowledge Finder (look to the left side of the page) where you can find the answer to almost any health question.
Safe travels,
Sue
La Jolla, January 2009
Dear Family and Friends,
This is not my video but it expresses how I feel about travels to the ends of the earth. Matt Harding was a game programmer, who set out to dance (the same dance) in as many parts of the world as possible, and then to include others who wanted to dance with him. He was not always successful--look at the guard in the Demilitarized Zone of North Korea--but he still kept on dancing.
Wishing you a very happy year, traveling (and dancing) in whatever parts of the world pique your interest.
And to stay healthy so that you can travel and dance (and love), check out the Health Knowledge Finder (look to the left side of the page) where you can find the answer to almost any health question.
Safe travels,
Sue
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