Flying
again, this time over the Eurasian landmass on my sister’s birthday from the
Pacific coast on over the Atlantic.
The same journey that once cost Magellan his life, now done in an
afternoon with the kids. Thrilled,
once again, as it always is when you head to somewhere new. Forty-seven years on earth and I’ve
never made it to this corner of the Iberian Peninsula. Lisbon! Imperial, undeniably. A capital bathed in two distinct periods of
unnatural, surreal, extractive abundance, when it was possible to build ornate
cathedrals and then later, fine Rococo puffery. Home to the Celts and the Romans and the Visgoths
and the Burgundians and the Moors and Jewish refugees, and the conquering
crusaders, rabid Inquisitors with their 恨之入骨[1] institution, and bathed in gold to be laid
to waste with a three-pronged jab in 1755 involving a devastating earth quake
and subsequent tsunami and an ultimate conflagration that allowed for the methodical
modern layout I’m about to confront with my girls, for my first time there in Lisbon. Can’t wait.
I was in Reno two days ago. The anticipatory quality before hand was rather different. Now I imagine taking a trolley up to a
castle and getting lost in back alleys considering harbors and all the wealth and knowledge and remarkable diversity that drew back
in to this capital from its far flung empire, the first of its kind to truly
never have the sun set, with a cold glass of dry local wine that has an X or
two in the name resting in my palm, standing on a tile roof garden somewhere,
breathing it all in.
Had a whole lot of flight time in the past few days and I
have made my way through Volume One of “A History of Portugal and the
Portuguese Empire” by A. R. Disney.
We started with the Neolithic man and the Neanderthal and took it all
the way up through Napoleon. On
deck is Volume Two that traces the history of the Portuguese global empire. I can’t wait to finally, systematically
anchor down the relationship between Cape Verde, Guinea Bissau, Mozambique,
Goa, Malacca and Macao. I’ve visited the last three, and will one day make it
to the first half of the former colonial list, but for now let’s consider their
unity and relationship with the colonizer. With that we can try to begin to wrestle
with Brazil. First things
first. On to the imperial
seat. First, however, we’ll have
to make our connection in Frankfurt.
Our plane was late taking off and the connection is tight. Magellan had it worse.
This is the second time in a day that I’ve flown for 10+
hours with Air China. They were
able to adjust the menu slightly, which is appreciated, but the in-flight
screen distractions are the same damn things as the last flight. I know . . . Bartolomeu Dias. But out the left and right of every eye is now the
second view of the same stupid flick I unsuccessfully avoided twenty hours
ago. Fortunately the audio is my own
orchestration and it is wonderful.
I set a few things up on Rdio before I left home. One swirling Hammond Organ player or
another lead me have a listen to the work of someone who’s session they played
on, in this case, the soul, jazz guitar player, Mr. Billy Butler. I’ve got his 1971 recording “Night
Life” on. Now the first song “Blow
For the Crossing” is funky enough to be presumptuous. And I like what he presumes. It would be inappropriate to start dancing up here, somewhere
over Siberia, but this man, born in Philly in 1925 has filled out my
understanding of just what was possible back in that transitory year when
everyone needed to establish their funky chops. I’d like to
play this for two dozen people, loudly, just now. It
probably wouldn’t be appropriate if I yelled “Blow for the Crossing” out loud, the way he does, back here in seat in 56L, just cause I felt like it.
Read my China Daily before we were airborne. Saw some obfuscated version of the fact
that China has decided to move its football field sized oil-rig back from the
contested shoal with Vietnam. I
read an editorial about how the occupy movement in HK’s call for suffrage was ill
considered and incendiary. We read
about how Xi Jinping’s approval ratings are up around 85%. Amazing what you can do when the
media’s the organ of one party.
This was juxtaposed with poor Abe, whose approval ratings are apparently
falling. And, interestingly the Japan
opposition party leader was there in Beijing this week, exploiting Abe’s
weakness. Every day when I toggle to the front page of the New York Times I
half expect to see something irrevocably horrible has transpired. Glad to say that for now we’re still
just muddling through. This is
preferable.
My daughters and I just did a half dozen selfies with our
iPhones. I’ll spare you the
evidence. And Billy Butler
continues to solo, like it matters up my ears. I sure hope our connecting flight isn’t far within the
massive Frankfurt terminal. That,
or its’ delayed. German airport,
but a Portuguese carrier; what do you think my chances are for making my
connecting flight?
We made it.
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