Went
out to the end of the world yesterday.
Cabo Sao Vincente, a few miles on beyond Sagres in the Algarve. The cliffs are a sheer drop down for
what must have been four or five hundred feet. Below, in the caves the water has worn away over the
eons the waves crash into emptiness, foam rising to spray, over and over. Looking out to the sea and doing one’s
best to imagine the Portuguese explorers setting off for the edge of the world
you stare and stare at the vast blue water and consider the fabric of all the
sea’s motion. Then one has to look
across, 悬崖峭壁[1]
There was a second point that provided a view back to the
lighthouse. No path, we had to
amble across a rough lava-like stone, slowly. And I went and sat by the cliff side and just listened to
the sea and the hissing and tried to think about nothing. I’d have probably driven forty minutes to see the furthest
most point of Eurasia, even if it were mud flats or an industrial park. But a red light house above frightening,
sheer cliffs . . . that’ll do.
And this is temporal, for right now I’m driving over the
Hudson River , on the George Washington Bridge and I was trying, in vein, alas,
to point out the “Little Red Lighthouse” to my daughters. “Remember that book?” “Totally.” “I love that book.”
“Where is it?” “Little
brother, turn on your lights!”
“It’s down there to the right.”
“No. Remember, its’ on the
left.” Since I was five
years old and searched for it myself the fact that the lighthouse is so
illusive and tough to confront always makes the story that much more compelling.
My eyes are sore and I’ve just swapped in a new pair of
contacts. But somehow they are
still sore. I read for hours and
hours on the flight over through bad lighting and good. I managed to finish the Venter book
about Portugal’s colonial wars in Africa.
Its compiled recently years after his reporting in the field but no
solid summary of all that transpired since then was provided. Rather, it’s him in the field. This is
fascinating and lively, but incomplete.
What happened after Salazar?
Now we’re driving up the Henry Hudson Parkway. I’m typing in the back seat and my dad
is characteristically driving aggressively. This is combining with the hard curves and post seven hour
flight malaise to cultivate a bit of carsickness. But its nothing compared to these drives across the mine
infested roads of Angola, sitting back to back staring out at the jungle
expecting an ambush, at any moment. I’ll have to look up what happened to
Portugal after they finally threw in the towel on colonial Africa. Now, as
then, none of these countries, Guinea Bissau, Angola or Mozambique nearly ever
appear in the news. I once got
very close to seeing the first of them.
Someday.
Driving along the coast up to Sagres and out to the point yesterday
we had on such a lovely album by yet another gent I’d never been familiar
with. The trumpet player Lee
Harper was born in LeJuene, North Carolina in 1945 and died sixty five years
later in Motzart’s home of Salzburg, Austria. I synched up a few of his albums but this one entitled Puget
Sound from 2010 is particularly tasteful.
The title track breathes knowingly. We had it on for the drive up to Sao
Vincente after a big seafood lunch of sea bream and octopus. Man, a sea bream not only tastes good,
but it is one big fish. They had
two out in a glass case in front and they are imposing sea creatures, which I
would make way for, were I to be pressed to do so. I can’t recall how it was I found Mr. Hamilton. Not that he’d care but he’s all about
Atlantic cliffs and big red fish, in my mind, forever forward.
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