Pianos for Peace in Palermo with Puccini

Woke up to begin the homeward journey with the news of another mass shooting in Munich, the very place we were flying to first before turning west to San Francisco. This the new world we have to learn to live with. Fear and disaster around every corner, no safe place and so much worse than earthquakes, tornados, tsunamis because it is our own human failings, both cultural and personal, that have created it. But still life must go on and as jazz pianist Kenny Barron said when he arrived in Munich, “If we don’t play, the terrorists win.” On with the show.

We were heading to the gate in Palermo Airport when I heard the sound of a kid fooling around on a piano. I’ve seen—and played pianos— in airports in Portland and Toronto and isn’t that a great idea? Ran over there and watched the 5-year old explore up and down the keyboard, following his interesting thinking (left hand goes down, right hand goes up), but secretly itching to play myself. Considered sitting down for a duet and probably should have, but selfishly just wanted him to finish so I could play. He did a few minutes later and I sat down to this Yamaha baby grand and played a version of Tea for Two. At the end, enthusiastic unexpected applause from the waiting passengers in the area and whether or no, I was in it for the 45 minutes I had until boarding. (And just for the record, continued applause at the end of each number. Palace Hotel patrons, take note!)

Between four decades of The San Francisco School daily singing time and eight years of playing at The Jewish Home, there was no lack of repertoire and I went from song to song, with attention to variety in style. From Ragtime to Swing tunes to be-bop to classical and even a little folk—Santa Lucia in honor of Italy and variations on The Itsy Bitsy Spider for a little boy dancing around nearby.

About halfway through it, an airport worker plopped down a ragged two pages of the aria with accompaniment Nessun Dorma from Puccini’s Turandot and gave me rapid-fire directions in Italian as to what to do. I jumped in and he started singing and mostly we landed together and wasn’t that a fine moment, two strangers with few words in common meeting serendipitously at an airport in Sicily and filling the air with such glorious sounds and stirring the hearts of the listening passerbys who otherwise would be reading about the Munich shooting on their i-Phone.

If living well is the best revenge, if increasing the available supply of love and beauty is one of the few ways to survive the holocaust of random and purposeful terrorism, why, let’s keep feeding it with pianos in every airport, in the parks (as they were in Golden Gate Park last year and again this month), in the shopping malls and for goodness sakes, in the schools. I vow to sit down and play at each and every one I see and if you want to do a duet, sing a song, dance or just snap your fingers along, you are most welcome.

Pianos for Peace. A fine idea whose time has come.

I Heart Sicily

It’s the last night of five weeks away and I’m seeing my first sunset over water. The town of Terrasini outside of Palermo, a place my wife visited with her parents in 1999. On a whim, we decided to see if we could find the villa they rented. We couldn’t, but realized that there is a lovely sand beach here and it’s five minutes from the airport. We were not excited about finding our reserved B&B in the hustle and bustle of downtown Palermo and having to look for parking and then drive 20 miles the next morning to the airport. So when I saw a sign for Palm Beach Hotel, I followed it and arrived at a lovely spot on water’s edge. We asked if they had a room—they did— and if they could call the Palermo place to to see if we could cancel without us being charged—they could. Call, that is.

Such a helpful and friendly desk clerk who called and then hung up shaking her head, “No, they will have to charge you” and added, “He was a strange man.” “Oh, well, “ I said, “it was worth a try.” Before leaving, we used their bathrooms and when we came out, she rushed up and said, “He just called back! They can cancel without charging!” So we booked a room with a  sea view, headed to the perfect beach and took one more refreshing dip in the Mediterranean waters. Lovely.

What to say about Sicily? No signs beyond one Godfather Bus Tour we saw that this was the birthplace of the organization that has caused so much grief and corruption in the world. (Don’t want to name them in case they’re reading this!). On the contrary, it seems to be a place of great peace and tranquility, great beauty, good food, good beaches, monuments of antiguity next to pretty good Wifi. If you are considering a trip, what might you expect?

If Sicily asked, I would recommend more screened windows and ceiling fans, but the Hotels, B & B’s and Air B & B’s were almost all wonderful, clean, tile floors, great showers, air conditioning, firm beds and mostly in the $65 range. Sometimes the food is surprisingly cheap—for example, an excellent Margarita pizza that can feed two for $5 (and this with 10% or less tipping!) Beers for $2.50. The gelatos and granitas are devilishly tantalizing, the caponata appetizers and grilled vegetables both delicious and for those who like fish (I don’t), plenty of it and fresh. Two McDonald's that I saw and no Starbucks. 

The beaches we found first were almost all rocky (bring some water footwear or sturdy flip-flops), but then we found some great sand ones as well. The sun is relentless at all times (at least in July) and rarely a cloud cover. Bring hats, sunscreen and rent umbrellas at the beach (mostly $10 to rent two chairs and an umbrella). Night temperatures are pleasant, not a San Francisco cool and we ate just about every meal outdoors.

Roads and road signs were fine, we found almost everything just following our noses and decent road signs. Italian drivers feel it their duty to try to pass whoever is in front—especially the trucks—so be prepared for some adventurous moments. Distances are manageable—top to bottom of the island in two hours or so, across in three or four at the most.

I wished I had brought at least a Berlitz Italian language book. Most of the English spoken is shopkeeper’s variety and with mime and gesture and a few key words, everything eventually got communicated. But it would be good to get up to “shopkeeper’s Italian” speed to level the playing field.

Our particular itinerary ended up just right. Near Taormina to the beautiful island of Lipari. Down to Siracusa (next trip, I’d stay in Ortygia right next door), the serendipitous find of Ragusa, the remarkable Villa Casalli in the center, the stunning sites of Agrigento and this quaint town of Terrasini. I’m sure we’ve missed lots of other great things, but if you want a possible itinerary, why, here it is.

My time here marred somewhat from the news back home and I hope I don’t forever associate Sicily with the Trump nightmare. But I suspect when we show him that Americans are better than he thinks, it will all be yesterday’s story and Sicily will remain unsullied in my memory.

And if the worst happens, why, maybe I’ll just move here.

A Visit to the Bikini Girls

The toothpaste I bought in Spain is almost done, my laundry bag is bulging and I’m starting to make lists with deadlines in my little blue book. It’s time to go home.

Of course, the rhythm of travel from beauty to beauty has been its own kind of home and one I’m deeply grateful for. Haven’t had a bad day these five weeks of travel (not counting the luggage fiasco —and I’m STILL trying to find out from Iberia where my 2^nd bag is!!) and Sicily has simply been scrumptious. But today our last full day of travel and then back to three more weeks of teaching before I get to lie down on another beach in Michigan.

So after yesterday’s visit to the horror show of current American politics, back to the storyline of the here and now. The day after the glorious concerts in Ragusa, we headed out to Agrigento via a detour to the interior. The landscape a touch of the Southwest, long vistas and large skies. First stop was Caltagirone to climb the 142 stairs with ceramic tile designs. (We have a more modest version on Noriega St. in the Inner Sunset in San Francisco.) The heat was already kicking up, but welcome patches of shade on the right side that made the ascent possible. It was nice enough, but nothing that need be on anyone’s “must see” list.

But not so our next place—the Villa of Casale outside the town of Piazza Armerina.

This was simply extraordinary. Room after room of exquisite mosaic tiled floors depicting scenes of ancient Roman life. Much about hunting, a section of bringing back wild animals (lions and tigers and elephants and rhinoceri, Oh my!) to Rome for the circus, music competitions, fishing scenes, mythological scenes (including Odysseus and the Cyclops—some of the epic story took place in Sicily) and the highlight, the women’s athletic competitions featuring the “bikini girls.” They’re throwing discus, playing ball, working out with weights and awaiting to be crowned the champion.

All of this viewable from platforms under shaded roofs (what a treat! no sun!). Upon entering, we saw a sign that said, “No photos” and then noticed everyone with their i-Phones snapping away. (Perhaps we misread it and it was no flash photos). I was astounded that people thought to preserve this villa over a 2,000 year span (in the U.S. in the 60’s, it could easily have been slated for redevelopment to build housing projects!). Then found out that it had been buried for eight centuries in a landslide and the mud and earth protected it from damage for over 800 years before it was rediscovered and re-constructed. 62 rooms, 42 floorings cover over 4000 meters, 120 million little pieces of tile using a rainbow of 37 colors, laid by teams of craftsman probably from North Africa (a stone’s throw away) working some 21,000 days. The estimate is that is takes 6 days to complete a square meter of mosaic. Talk about patience and perseverance!

Finally made it to Agrigento, checked in and met friends Jim Owen and Reshma at an upscale hotel restaurant looking out at the extraordinary better-than-Parthenon temple with a blood red full moon rising over another temple. Food pricey and didn’t like mine, but you couldn’t beat the setting. Including a lilting gentle pianist playing light Chopin, Besame Mucho and the theme from The Godfather. Later in the meal, I told him it was my wife’s birthday (not) and asked if I could play a song for her. He graciously let me play Embraceable You and I got some applause and a nice comment from him about how “he liked my touch.” So now I can add to my resume: “Performed in Sicily.”

The next day, we wisely decided to stay indoors during the heat of the day, then ventured out to a beach with actual sand instead of rocks and a living bikini girls cavorting in the refreshing waters. Around sunset, off to the next remarkable bucket-list-worthy tourist site—the Temples of Agrigento on a night tour. A good choice to avoid the merciless sun and the lighting was magical, aided by another full moon rising. I have been to the Parthenon several times, but there’s always construction and scaffolding. Here were the temples in their full glory and majesty, looking out to the Mediterranean Sea and worthy of every superlative you can think of to describe them. You could almost imagine the Bikini Girls playing ball in the courtyards.

Do I really have to go home?

A Zen Koan for Our Time

Do people still know about Zen koans? Those ineffable riddles that a Zen Master gives to a student to solve? (Perhaps the most famous is “Show me the sound of one-hand clapping.”)  The maddening thing is that you can’t solve a koan by logic or by poetry or by a casual gesture. It is designed to drive you to the edge of your known world of ego and self  and require you to leap into the totality of your greater being. In your daily interviews with the Master, you will fail again and again until the Master recognizes your breakthrough.

One of my favorite classic koans:

“You have a hot iron ball in your throat that you can neither swallow nor spit out. What do you do?”

Ah, there’s an unsolvable riddle for our time. The circus of the Republican National Convention is in town.  The lions are loosed from their cage and the men with the whip are trying to turn our fear into votes. The clowns are running around screaming “Fire!” and it’s not very funny. The freaks have moved from the sideshow to center stage. No tickets necessary—just flick on the TV. This is hard stuff to swallow.

But neither can we casually spit it out, turn off the TV and go on with our lives as if nothing is at stake. A recent Facebook post shows the parallels with Hitler’s rise to power and it’s real and we know where that led. It’s not the time to casually suggest “I’m just not into politics” or hold some high moral ground and say, “Hilary is no different from Trump and since Bernie didn’t win, I’m not voting.”

So the hot iron ball burns in our throat. The fear and negativity start to seep into our soul. The hopelessness and helplessness start to eat away and corrode our sense of positivity and possibility. The anger and the outrage start to feel numb from the next news report. Our capacity to care and feel and act starts to calcify. It’s not a happy state. What to do?

In a recent essay titled “Political Poison and Collective Trauma,” Michael Meade notes:

“When faced with great obstacles and tragic loss the human soul either grows greater and seeks unity, or becomes smaller and ferments divisions. There are moments in an individual life, in the life of a country, and in the life of religions that become existential crises that challenge us to find that which is most deeply human and unifying in life. For, it is the totality of a person, of a country or a group that must awaken and the deepest ideals of humanity that must be recalled and be served. We are not simply in a political battle or a clash of civilizations; rather we are in a struggle for the heart of humanity and for the soul of the world.”

Though not the simple answer a Zen master would approve, it is in us growing larger that the pain of that hot iron ball can be endured and made smaller. Whatever we are already doing to serve unity and raise human thought and feeling, let us do it more and more often and with greater intensity and passion. Our hands can sign petitions, write essays, reach out to friends and strangers, play piano or drums or guitar. Our voices can ask questions and speak out and talk with our frightened relatives on the other side of the country, and sing, sing, sing. Our hearts can close the doors when they need a moment of peace and protection and find and create safe spaces to open again and wider.

Well, silly of me to give answers, the whole point of the koan is for each to find his or her own answer (no book of “Solutions to Zen Koans”), stop looking to leaders with easy non-answers, stop waiting for someone else to solve it. That hot iron ball is burning all of us and remember, if you think you can spit it out, it will come back hotter. If you swallow it, it will burn you out and hollow you out and you will be a mere ghost of a human being. What will you do?

Like I said, a collective Zen koan for our time. Good luck!

Life As a Nobody

Ah, to be a Nobody! To come into a town where no one knows you and you know no one. Just a stranger passing through, a pair of legs with two eyes and a camera, a dreamer dreaming with a pen and journal in hand. You are not in any of the photos (no selfies), just the eye you see with. And if you are writing well, as did the ancient haiku poets, you are not wholly present in your writing either, just reporting what you see and hear without too many adjectives of I-statements.

This such a delicious freedom! No pre-arranged self to live up to or feel confined by, no pressure to be known or to know anyone else. You’re in this world, but also apart, just observing, just reporting, just enjoying the cool breeze in the shade. No tangled relationships, no “we’ve got to talk” heavy conversations, no big or little dramas. You’re just a stranger passing through.

And if you tire of the game, there’s always (well, almost always) the thin thread of wifi to tug on if you want to be a somebody again. But for now, enjoy the freedom to spring the traps of all the selves you’ve created and work so hard to sustain. Just wander, anonymous, free, no one in particular partaking of whatever the world presents to you. Do it while you can!

Because soon, you’ve have to return to being somebody specific. (Lily Tomlin: “I always wanted to be somebody, but I guess I should have been more specific.”) The one crafted from all the selves you tried on that didn’t fit until you found the one that did. Your little corner of creation from which to know the world and give back to the world. If things have gone well, this fellow also gives back pleasure, someone you’re mostly happy to hang out with, someone who feels useful and occasionally needed and once in a while, absolutely necessary for the occasion. Always a work-in-progress, always the tinge of regret that I, for example, will never play piano as well as that 14-year old last night or write the best-selling book that lies on people’s nightstand, but at the end of the day, happy to be able to play piano at all, to write the books I’ve written (and this blog), to have given children and adults some happiness in workshops making music. That’s a guy I can live with and anyway, do I have a choice?

But no matter how well we get along, we will need a break from each other and I believe that that is what vacation is for. Give that guy a break, wander the world as nobody in particular and feel how you will return to the somebody refreshed, rejuvenated, renewed. That’s the gift Sicily has given me this past week and one I have so happily received. And hope to for the next four days before I’m standing in front of the class again with something that people expect me to do and say. May it be so!