Thurs Aug 20

After a multiple year absence caused by the felt need to distance ourselves after having sold Knoll House, in early summer we decided to return to Lund, though only for a brief visit.

The lengthy and expensive journey began at the SLO airport where we learned that its first leg, to San Francisco, was indefinitely delayed. We were rerouted to LA, where the flight to Vancouver was also delayed, threatening a missed connection to the last leg from Vancouver to Powell River.  Despite the spectacular views from the small Pacific Coastal plane, rather than eager, I was apprehensive about how we’d be received at our destination. I decided to elevate my mood with microdoses of a gummy for the rest of the trip. Upon arrival we connected amiably with the car rental agent who knows Tai and Theo. Things warmed up further during a delicious meal at the Indian restaurant across from the Mill, including a can of Zunga beer brewed down the street.

We couldnt meet Sandy, the editor of the Barnacle as planned because she was just recovering from a bad fall which left her hospitalized and recuperating far south of town.

The pricey AirBandB rental cabin perched on a cliff above Lund delivered its promise of elegance, privacy, a hot tub, magnificent views and a 138 step staircase down to the water.

Fri Aug 21

In the morning we met Peter and Margaret at Nancy’s and went to the Water Taxi dock to buy tickets for the crossing to Savary where Peter had invited us to visit Towagh and family at their vacation home and to bring along a lunch.

The Land land taxi, a rickety pickup truck driven by a very friendly local, John Oliver. met us at the dock. During the bumpy ride through the ever more prestigious and densely settled island he tells of being in a Sun Valley Idaho bar several years ago and mentioning Savary to a friend, when a guy sitting next to them piped up: “I know Savary, I grew up in Lund and my parents own a place with a view of the Island.” We all explode!  Had to be Joe Marx.

Despite his characteristic reserve, Towagh welcomed us warmly to his place perched on cliff on the north shore surrounded by tall trees and no neighbors in sight with splendid views of Desolation Sound and the Coast Range

It was a part of the Island I’d never been to, as grand as the South Beach area, but more secluded. He introduced us to his second wife Rebekah, their two young daughters, Rose and Grace, and his visiting father in law Robert.

There was another house under construction at the back of the lot across the road and a nice driftwood archway and stone path leading across the lawn to a balcony on top of the cliff at head of a stylish staircase which I later took down to the beach for a refreshing swim.

From the shore I saw Knoll House across the strait.

We’ve been acquainted with Towagh since his home birth at Peter’s tiny cabin up Baggi Road in about 1975.

and attended his wedding in Tofino 20 years ago.

One of the Lund hippy kids in Joe’s cohort, his grandfather was another German Jewish refugee whose path of escape across the Pyrenees Peter retraced with him on an arduous backpacking trip. Keeping the Tla’amin name given by his parents, he studied native cultures at McGill university and subsequently developed computer programs and other instruments to facilitate First Nations’ documentation of former settlement crucial to the ongoing success of their landclaims with federal and provincial governments and of his growing business enterprise:  https://kwusen.ca/towagh-behr.

For much of the afternoon he alternated describing this work to us with responding patiently to the insistent demands of his daughters.

Rose, the older one, about 7, kept occupied painting designs on the pailfuls of shells gathered on the beach.

I expressed my appreciation for her artwork with an offer of 5 dollars to buy one, but instead of being thrilled she countered with 10 and we eventually reached a bargain of 8. I told her that at home in California we have two ceramic pots thrown by her grandmother Carol at Cranberry Pottery 40 years ago on prominent display in our living room.

After returning to the mainland we retreated to our gorgeous cabin for a nap.  Afterwards I descended the artful stairway here down the rock cliff to the rock beach for another swim in the cove.

Out in the water I realized that before the construction of the luxurious houses surrounding it at the top it had been a booming ground for logs harvested from the Lund peninsula I’d watched in operation with fascinated horror in 2006.

Back to the cabin after a soak in the hot tub, Jan told me she’d spoken on the phone to Malerie who was now living with her new husband, Brian, on an adjacent rocky knoll.  We were to come over immediately.

Malerie introduced us as the first people she met in Powell River in 1970 through Oscar Green, the emigre Arizona real estate agent, at the Salal pickers’ warehouse in Wildwood. Bryan was manager of the Mill that dominated the areas economy for a hundred years, now shut down. I leapt into sharing recollections of my traumatic 1972-3 winter work stint there on the flume, the green chain, the block loader and as pulp tester.

Jan turned the conversation to them. They met at a dementia caregiver support group which she led and he attended for seven years during his beloved wife’s tragic decline.  Years after her death they met again and eventually married.  Jan and I were shocked by the first part of the story which mirrored that of another couple in the neighborhood and our own growing concerns.  Then there was catch up on both sides about our children and grandchildren. After three hours of animated talk, little food and lots of wine, we departed. For the first time in memory Jan was missing her her purse. and it took us all to find it under the couch where she’d sat.

Saturday August 22

I got up early to continue a lengthy search for permissions for the few images in the Shakespeare essay I sent off to the editor. It turned out that this will be impossible to afford because the huge academic publisher, Nature/Springer went from non-profit to commercial, eliminating the opportunity for writers to have Fair Use access for copyrighted material.

Jan emailed Frank Chapman about her intent to return the rebozo she brought along that his mother Barbara wove for her in the ‘70’s.  He replied regretting his absence but with hope to see us next year. We drove down through the Redwood forest planted by his father Warren anyway, and met the caretaker Hailey Pence, granddaughter of Carol and Wally,  and daughter of Karma, contemporary and friend of Joe’s.

After a short walk to their beaver pond we headed up to Knoll House, the trees noticeably taller than 3 years ago. We were welcomed with warm hugs by all four family members and repeated gratitude for the picture history of Knoll house I sent them after the transition.

Peter and Ronnie, Tai’s parents arrived and Theo served a great pancake brunch to us hungry guests.

They reported that the property transaction in collaboration with the neighbor has worked out smoothly. Tai told us about her new full time job, working remotely from the woods as a consultant for companies and non-profits developing re-use programs. Theo said he still likes his job working with addicts in town which provides a flexible schedule and low demand. He showed us his artwork in the cabin and his house renovations which involved a new addition for Wilder’s room and a combination of two tiny bedrooms into one for Renwyn. I walk down to the bluff where the grasses and mosses are dry and the view remains unobstructed.

After three hours, Jan and I went back to the cabin for a nap.  I swam again. Then we went to the Lund café for dinner where we were seated at a table with a friendly couple from the Netherlands.

Sunday August 23

I dropped Jan off at Lund where she met Karl in the grocery store and caught up on the last 40 years since seeing him, including the details of Stan’s recent death at Galley Bay.

I drove up to Chapman’s Road and met Peter B. for a familiar, easy hike to Hurtado Point. Then back to Lund to meet Jan and go briefly to Tidelands Gallery in Finn Bay to visit with Prashant, the artist, writer, musician, and world traveller, in his little studio.

We agreed to return to shop after the lunch planned in Wildwood with Peter, Margaret and Juliet. We drove to Wildwood, shmoozed over food and drink under a grand Tlaamin wood carving.

Juliet told us that the crazy three story log house that she and Steve lived in and that she sold after he died was recently used as the location for the upcoming feature film of Eden Express, Mark Vonnegut’s 1975 memoir of life at the commune up Powell Lake that descended from Utopian aspiration to clinical madness, a book that I found profound enough to teach in my 1976-77 Canadian lit classes at Malaspina College.

After completing the purchase back at Tidelands, we retreated for a last nap and swim and took up the invitation to see Ronnie’s incredibly expanded gardens at the Malaspina farm and then joined her and Peter at the Lund pub for dinner, along with Juliet and Sherry whom we’d been trying to arrange to see earlier.

Tai showed up with Wilder and Renwen for a last goodbye.  As we were about to leave the pub, a striking man came over to say hello to Peter, who introduced him as Evan Adams, a physician colleague now living in Lund.

Our brief chat landed on his memory of hitting someone with his lunch bucket on a bus as a little kid. Jan asked if that was the bus of the Lund Farm Day Camp in 1974. Yes! he said.

Two young men came over and he said they have to go.

After they left, Peter told us that they are two of six sons he’s adopted, that he’s gay, that he’s Chief Medical Officer of the First Nations Health Authority and a movie star, among others of Smoke Signals, a quirky and moving 1990 film that I still remember.

August 24

Sitting in the PR airport during a three hour delay the next morning I find a pictures documenting the bus story and of Evan as a 7-year old in the water at Sliammon Lake.

I email them to him and he immediately replies:

Yes, that is me. And the jumper is my sister, Maureen. We are 7 & 8 years
old. Amazing!
It was really great to meet you & Jan again – 52 years later!  I really did find the camp life-changing, seeing (frankly & plainly) white people care about us and our outcomes and treating us like regular kids – it made a difference. And, of course, it was really fun and reinforced our First Nations viewpoints on nature, balance, spirit, and being on the land.

Finally, at that time, my family was still recovering from the death of my
older sister, and the camp really helped us adjust. (My sister, Maureen,
who is a year older than me, was also at the camp, along with Marlane,
Elsie‘s daughter.)

Thank you for the lovely, joyful, progressive hippy spirit you brought!

The time on the Pacific Coastal flight among snow covered mountains to the east and islands below swelled with appreciation and nostalgia–familiar from all those departures and returns from Lund since 1979.

Two weeks before City Farm’s Fifth Annual Sheep Shearing Shindig, the three bred ewes were due to give birth.  Last week, Juniper and Poppy each had two males, and Clover, the oldest, got more  tired but didnt freshen.  Every day (and night) anxiety increased, and it was feared that she and her offspring might not make it.  Yesterday, Kayla and Kate tried for hours to induce labor and by reaching inside Clover to pull the babies out.

Along with Sequoia, the Farm’s Education Director, some friends of Kayla and Kate came by and brought them supper.  I showed up with beer.

When I got up this morning, this text and pictures greeted me:

Though three lambs were expected, it looked as if she only had two.  Fortunately they were ewes. The plan was to bottle feed them and raise them as tame sisters who would take direction and affection and lead the other sheep.

I put together a greeting card for the lambs and their wonderful caretakers and left it in the Farm office on my way to meet Jesse and crew for the first day of work on the Ag-Ec project. Then I came back home to copy the card to this blog. While doing so, this arrived from Kayla:

Our first ever Uber ride was at 4:00 am to SLO airport, driven by the co-owner of a Korean restaurant in Atascadero taking on an extra job to help his daughter pay for medical school.  Jan immediately intuited that it was the restaurant where our family friend Emma worked before going to University in Hawaii.

Also for the first time, we traveled Economy Plus rather than straight Economy. At 83 and 80, for the 24 hour flight we chose comfort over price.

While reading about Lisbon in preparation for the trip I studied the google map to learn the lay of the land and the location of the hotel we’d be staying in for nine days. But I couldnt get oriented.

We were drawn to the Lisboa Hotel 1908 by articles on the web praising it as an architectural masterpiece of Beaux Art/Art Nouveau style built for luxury apartments, later, along with its Morauria neighborhood, falling into decay and then reconstructed  in 2015 with artistic and architectural flair, a center of the district’s new revitalization.

Upon arrival, rattling our rollies across the mosaic of rock pavers we were thrilled by the variety of sights and sounds in the sunlight on the square facing the hotel’s grandiose exterior: tree shaded cafes, bubbling fountains, multicolored, multishaped tiled buildings, a bedraggled old palace, an excavation, a group of school kids on tour, a bunch of  guys just hanging around.

We were welcomed in good English by amiable staffers under the massive wall sculpture of a dragonfly assembled from trash and overlaid by spatters of paint that seemed to allude to the graffiti covering many of the city’s beautiful buildings.

The elevator ride to the room on the third floor extended the art gallery feel of the place, this time with a vertical mural revealed during the ride and keyed on the inside of the window.

The balcony off the small room’s window gave out onto the  Avenida Largo and our first glimpse of Tram 28.

After unpacking and a nap, we roamed the plaza

During dinner at “Infame,” the hotel’s restaurant, the art gallery ambience was reinforced by assemblages on the walls alluding to episodes in Portuguese legend and to the past history of the building as a bordello.

Our 59^th wedding anniversary. After breakfast in Infame we walked through a mixed and somewhat sketchy neighborhood to catch Tram 28 at its terminus, since all the guidebooks warned that this most popular attraction of the City would be hard to board at any later stops.

The trouble was worth it, though it turned out later that we could board at the stop right outside the hotel. Running every 10 minutes and winding the steep tight curves up and down the hills through the oldest sections of the city, its compact wood paneled cars served local commuters as well as tourist joyriders.

We got off at the last stop and made our way down to the historic waterfront whose grand central plaza was preserved since Lisbon’s central role in the European age of exploration and conquest.

From there the tram took us back to Largo Intendende and lunch at Josephine, outside the hotel’s entrance.

After an anniversary siesta, we crossed the street and walked slowly (and sometimes painfully) up the steep hill that rose along the opposite side.

It revealed a cross section of varied neighborhoods of Mouraria in transition.  Elegant buildings, either in decay or restoration,  tiny cafes and shops, pocket parks, arresting murals, steep narrow streets, wide boulevards all within a quarter mile of the hotel.

After a brief rest, I set off again up the mountain on our side of the valley, driven by curiosity and adrenalin up flights of stone stairs to a little park and viewpoint I learned later was the Miradouro Senhora do Monte.

The viewpoint offered a grand panorama and was filled with happy tourists.

On the way down, I passed a fantastically weathered old building, probably what the Hotel 1908 was like before restoration.

Next morning we were eager to reboard Tram 28 and circle around to explore Alfama.  The oldest district of the city, its name comes from the period of Arabic rule from 714 AD to 1147 AD.

Alfama rises on the mountainside from the Tagus estuary in a  network of steep narrow streets which the tram winds through, sometimes inches from the walls on either side.

(photo credit)

At Escolas Gerais, we got off and wandered downhill.

At the bottom we found ourselves at the Museo de Fado, where we learned about the traditions of the splendid music I’d discovered when we first planned the trip and had been  listening regularly to sweeten my morning PT exercises.

This was a crowded, souvenir-shop-dominated part of the downtown where the cruise ship in the harbor had just disgorged its ten thousand passengers.

Traffic was so thick that Tram 28 couldn’t get through to take us back to Mouraria, so we traipsed through crowds to the metro and rode back underground for lunch and nap.

In late afternoon, indulging in a Bolt ride to the mountaintop, I led Jan to the viewpoint just above the hotel I had discovered the previous day.

After gazing at the river and the cathedrals and castles draped over the City’s seven hills, we noticed a little gap in the retaining wall. Somebody walked through it down a steep stairway from which live music was filtering, and we followed.

At the base of the stairs there was an opening in the greenery and a woman came out. In response to our question, she pointed behind her and said, “The Secret Garden.”  We entered and saw  a platform supporting a crowded bar, bandstand and dance floor. Below that hung more terraces looking out over the city.

We elbowed through the joyous crowd to the lowest one and found chairs.  Off to the right I saw people emerging through the greenery. I pushed through and found another bar with a small art gallery where I bought drinks and returned to Jan.

We sat enjoying the atmosphere, the prospect of the city directly below and the surprise of discovery.

On the way out  we danced to the hot band.

We found dinner at a café down a street leading away from the viewpoint to another one, where we watched the sunset over the Atlantic.

Back on the tram 28 again with no itinerary, the weather still radiant, we got off  at the Plaza of the Church of Santa Lucia perched on the Miradoura das Portas do Sol–Viewpoint of the Door of the Sun.

Across the tram track was a museum of decorative arts that interested Jan and appealed to me for its lack of traffic. We mounted the empty staircase of a stately old palace at the top of which sat the canopy of a 17^th century carriage under repair by restorers of antique treasures.

They and their apprentice artisans at school in the museum were absent for the day, and other than a couple of elegant young women attendants, the whole place was deserted.

Among the solemn royal furnishings I was amused by two small paintings of “Friars in a Bordello.”

At the gift shop, everything except a tiny xmas ornament Jan purchased was too expensive.  But at a gallery to the side of the carriage canopy we found a display of student work—original creations applying techniques of the earlier artifacts with a contemporary twist–that were listed with prices.

I couldnt resist asking if the one listed for 150 Euros could be shipped.

The attendant said yes and took my order.

Back at Largo Intendende we crossed the square to the building labelled Casa Independente, a hip arts and dance club of former glory where the music started  at 11:00 p.m., much too late for us.

For dinner we ventured down the street at the back of the square densely occupied by East Indian immigrants. The Bangladeshi restaurant food was disappointing but very inexpensive.

This morning Jan suggested we go to the Gulbenkian Museum and Park, known for its collection of art masterpieces traditional and modern, a facility funded by an Armenian immigrant oil billionaire in gratitude for Portugal’s offer of protection from the Nazis during World War II.

The traditional museum was closed for renovations and the modern one was closed on Sunday, but it was worthwhile to see the spacious modern section of the City where it was located: 20th century buildings, grafitti-free streets, a locked up two story shopping mall with ads for stuff you see in airports.

We entered the park surrounding the buildings under a curved stained wood portico of modern Japanese design.

The garden is immaculately tended, large mature trees of many species just coming into light green translucent leaf, fountains, gracefully curved walkways, inviting benches, only a few people and children quietly strolling.

After an hour we exited the park and stopped at a elegant café where waitresses wore artistic t-shirts,

and then uphill to the Edward VII park,  another contrast to the funky beauties of the old town,  a formal garden extending down to the riverside miles away.

The fountain seemed a bit incongruous.

Within minutes of arriving back at the hotel by Bolt I realized my phone was gone, most likely having fallen from my pocket upon leaving the car. “Where’s my iphone” on the computer told me its location at an address near that point. I dashed back out, looked along the sidewalk and approached every shop and café keeper nearby to try to locate the number.  A tall dishevelled fellow came up and insisted he knew where it was and that I accompany him down the street. I pulled away from him and entered a little halal butcher shop next to the mysterious address, where a young clerk told me that it was behind an adjacent unmarked locked gate. I concluded this was a false lead.

Back at the computer in our room the robot tracked the phone moving from where I left the Bolt out into the suburbs.  It was still in the car.  I repeatedly called my phone with Jan’s. Eventually the driver answered it and said he would bring it to me later.  But as I tracked the phone’s travels all over the map I got more anxious.

Jan convinced me to go to the Lisbon artifact shop facing the square, “A Vida Portuguesa,” to practice “Sardine Therapy” by choosing from the hundreds different packages of fish.

Three hours later, the Bolt driver called her phone at the number I’d left, said he was nearby and asked where should I meet him. Down in the street Jan and I saw him approach, dressed in a priest’s robe and hat. I restrained my impulse to hug him but gave him a 20 Euro reward.

Another blue sky day. we took tram 28 to visit the St. George Castle, the most prominent landmark in the City. From the Miradoura das Portas do Sol overlook we slowly ascended  steep steps to  the  entry.

The spot was occupied by the Phoenicians during the 8th century B.C. and from 4 B.C. was a strategic  Roman stronghold.

We walked along the lower ramparts looking down at features of the City which by now had become recognizable.

I ascended to the upper walls of the citadel feeling shakier than I expected.

from which I could see the lower fortress

and our hotel in the narrow valley below.

We visited the archaelogical museum and excavation on site, where a male peacock courted an indifferent female.

Jan had purchased a two hour sunset tour of the Tagus estuary on a traditional sailing boat scheduled for that evening, but the weather turned unfriendly. Watching the mast rock under sporadic showers most of the other passengers didnt want to proceed.  After a disagreement with the young guide, the boat owner offered credit for another trip when the weather improved.

Jan found a laundromat where we could wash our first week’s worth of clothes.

We reached it up the steep hill on the opposite side of the Largo Intendente valley

which offered a view of Secret Garden tucked under the Miradouro Senhora do Monte.

After lunch I hiked beyond the laundromat to another hilltop area where elegant buildings like  the Goethe Institute

were interspersed among shabby ones

In front of an imposing classical facade I saw a a strange looking monument.

An explanation was posted on Google Maps

Back at he hotel Jan and I prepared to attend a concert at Clube de Fado. Performed in a cellar, supposedly one of the first early 1900’s Fado venues, the music was preceded by a fine fish dinner.

The place was packed and loud, but when the lights went down it got silent. The traditional trio of musicians—vocalist, Portuguese guitarist, Spanish guitarist — took places in a tiny performance space.  The virtuousity, immediacy and power of the first set brought tears to my eyes.  Alas the set was only fifteen minutes long.

The three of them departed, and the lights went up. Twenty minutes later the instrumentalists returned with a young male vocalist.

That set  was followed by an instrumental set highlighting the Portuguese guitar.

Next was a female singer who expressed the traditional Fado blend of beauty and pain

Four more sets were scheduled for that night, but we didn’t have the stamina to wait out the intervals. We paid the reasonable bill—about 65 euros for dinner including a full bottle of wine.  I expressed my gratitude to the musicians during the interval at the bar outside the dining room.

It turned out that the Portuguese guitarist had lived in San Jose California, where he worked at an IT company and played at the City’s Fado clubs.

We traveled by metro and modern tram to Belem, a coastal section of the City which was the departure and arrival point for sixteenth and seventeenth century voyages of exploration and the site of the Jeronimos Monastery, the prime architectural attraction in Lisbon.  But the line to get in and the press of crowds arriving by tour bus turned us away.

We walked along the shoreline past the 170 foot tall monument to the Age of Discovery commissioned by the dictator Salazar.

It glorifies the nation’s seafaring history during the 15^th century and 16th centuries, which provided access to vast wealth, much in the slave trade, and the foundation of worldwide empire.

Returning to our home district of Mouraria, we ate lunch at Shi Mama Alive Dumplings, a modest and very tasty Chinese restaurant across the street from 1908.

The late afternoon weather appeared promising for  the postponed boat ride on the Tagus. We passed through the the restored Art Deco ferry terminal which used to provide the only accessa to the south of the country

before Salazar constructed a bridge resembling San Francisco’s Golden Gate.

The old boat with a crew of three carried about 40 people. It never hoisted sail and ran  powered by its engine, but any disappointment was allayed by recorded Fado music and bottomless cups of white wine.

Overlooked by the St. George Fortress, the Plaza de Comercios we had walked through on our first exploration of the City shone as it must have for the returning explorers.