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 |   ON THE WRITE PATH: travel journal for Around-the-World in 2015, 16, 18. |
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For there are many paths.  A tlog. A travel blog. A keeping-track of my trials, er.. travels. February 26, 2015 until ... June 18,2015. January 12, 2016 until February 15, 2016. November 13 to 30 2018 ... 2019, 2020: Taiwain. I went nowhere in 2021. 2022: Portugal, Thailand. Will include: Hawai'i, Japan, Australia, South Africa, Untied Arab Emirates, Portugal, Norway, Ireland and... (2015) ... Norway and Estonia (2016), México (2018), Taiwan, Balkans, Baltics, Turkey, Costa Rica, Nicaragua. Vi får se.  "Where I have traveled, stayed and visited. Over 181 places."     |
| "Yellow pansies newly planted, small red roses bloom. Sun casts my shadow on the square where youth strolls, where old age sags. Warm rays caress all who pass. Soft chatter and the horns of traffic muted by maple; birch and linden yellowing. Orange fruit wrinkles, clings to the ginkgo. " 20.october.2016 Beograd. Sent to Ann Bodle-Nash in Washington. "Intonations fill silences, echoes from the dome above those who stand erect in witness (of) this moment. Women cover their hair and the thirble swings, tinkling. One voice chants above the buzz of the chorus of 4 men. This open space circumnavigated by fragrance, prayers perfuming the centuries. All is still; icons never move." Beograd 20.october.2016 sent to Denise Bartlett and Charlotte Holley in Texas. |
| RAMBLINGS Whoosh of air when the train is moving and doors stay open. Discomforting, quiet in the 8 seat cabin. The restrooms disgusting (dirty, hole straight to the tracks below). Slow train to Bucharest. Clouds finally parting lighting the countryside, late autumnal, desolate. 29.octombrie.2016. On the way to Bucharest from Brasov. Race, religion, nationality are human constructs. None are necessary. 28.octombrie.2016. You blinded me with your blaze of blue eyes when I first met you. I didn't mind. Being sunburnt was well worth the price; your voice a salve to old wounds. 28.octombrie.2016 Darkness envelops the cave. Light glistens off gold and silver, crystal chandeliers. Here prayers are spare offerings under iconic visions that glare down on me. The marble floor and carpets echo silence, a rustling of papers, an open-closing door. This red pad protects posteriors from carved wood chairs. The sign of the cross, the kiss, quick comings and goings and those that linger mute, unseen. White lilies and chrysanthemums. One sneeze and I leave before another embarrasses me. 25-27 octombrie.2016. Probably Brasov. Wait wearing on this wet day of delays. A taste of french fries and cheese, of bean and pork soup, of listening to the report... one hour behind now two. Chatter in a language I try to understand. Merci means thank-you. Da means yes. A crossroad of culture sitting around me... so unaware of anything beyond the rain, the late late train. Then on the train, wagon 4 seat 95, a compartment for 6... we exchange a few words, a few gestures. Little works but we're on our way... slowly... falling further behind. 25.octombrie.2016. In the train station in Sighisoara on the way to Brasov. 5 pm and the square gets empty. A man enters, cigarette to mouth, lemonade in hand. no breeze follows the wake of a bird on high. It's cooling under puffy sky. Frost will soon kill the plants snuggling in cracks by unattended walls... but the geraniums will blaze red behind lace curtains. If one waits one notices the covered stairway to the church, the elk antlers jutting from a corner. The eyes of the hooves stare down at us. laughter. movement. A city-out-of-season seeks to sleep. 25.octombrie.2016. Sighisoara, main square in the citadela. Yellow aspen quakes; green willows weep; I love you. How many clichés fit into a life sentence of emptiness, fill it up with the taste of cornpuffs, the sound of buses. What must we learn; what can we know. Old catacombs told me nothing today. Tomorrow? Another city, more sights to see. I'd see your face engraved on sky, your voice lifting with the birds... but I remain deaf but never dumb. I'd share these hills that turn rust in October as trees tire in dimming light. I wish to remember you as brilliant colors: red blood, calm blue and sunny yellow. If we could touch... my coming Winter would gladly wait for Spring. 25.octombrie.2016. Sighisoara. While chestnuts fall from autumnal trees, I sit on the grave of Wilhelm Gunne to stare at stones engraven long ago now embracing the hill that would slough without them. I catch my breath to watch wings float by. All passes through the coming Winter; not all revives come Spring. Orange and golden yellow leaves strewn over Saxons whose sons have abandoned this place. Yet, flowers cry out that some remain. The city below: jangle of traffic, a barking dog. Here the centuries wash our memories of the wars of living, and leave only peace. 25.octombrie.2016. Sighisoara in the cemetery. Two boys playing. Medias... some get off and some get on. Teenagers and music fills the wagon, then moves. We sit as the sun warms the day, our way to Sighisoara is slow, a tempo of former times in a train as old as us or older. Graffiti , trash, livened by a culture of joy and laughter, unrestrained by rules. The calm when the conductor passes. They still want to play. They dance. Then get off. Quiet except for the rails. I get up get rid of trash, take a pee—a meagre watering for whatever struggles to grow between the tracks. 24.octombrie.2016. Medias between Sibiu and Sighisoara. © Kåre Enga 894 |
| Here rest the vampires that never were "Squeaky door; inside, the hush of carpets. Silent footfalls of the devout, the passage of 500 years, yesterday long forgot. Only icons can remember... and they speak not. Not one spot of ceiling, wall or floor rests unadorned. I sit on a cushion... my aching back and butt... In the garden: cold stones cherish engraved names. I replant bulbs left for the dead. My hands covered with dirt... it's for the living I tell myself. For the next soul who will observe from this spot: the flowers that adorn the graves... real or not. Here rest the vampires that never were... asleep in plots. © Kåre Enga [27.octombre.2016, written in St. Nicolas Cathedral (built 1495) in Brasov and sent to Merry Wheeler in Montana] 887 |
| Among the banished "I could live in Schei, like Romanian forefathers, banished beyond the gates, outside of the sights of uptight Saxons, their rule governed guilds, the looming Black Church, the gloom of Baroque architecture and swarms of tourists. I could slurp my soup, dumplings and all, chew my cabbage rolls, inhale potatoes, polenta, pork... be happy! In Brașov I feel hemmed in by mountains, dwarfed by history, a mere footnote soon forgotten. But here, among the banished, where the sky is more open, the square more human-scaled, the food more authentic... I might flourish." © Kåre Enga [28.octombrie.2016, written in Brașov and sent to Teresa Blum in Montana; edited] 861 |
| "Red flowers still bloom in October but I'm wilted from travel. So close to Vienna, no urge to visit. I stay in Bratislava to wander and wonder—why do I do this? I stop in a pub to eat, too late for lunch specials, order plum dumplings. It's not the cost... just frustration of being an hour behind, one euro short. I'm surrounded by Scots, fresh off a lost to Slovakia. Can't understand them; they chatter among themselves. Clueless, I wait for my meal. And wait some more. Alone. Life is for sharing. So I write." © Kåre Enga [12.oktobrá.2016] Written in Bratislava, sent October 13th to Ofelia Brevaldo in Florida. |
| Magic of midnight Magic of midnight, train clacking past cold mist that doesn't wet enough to clear tears or dampen dry shadows under autumn trees still hopeful and green. I put hands in pockets, and gloves reveal secret desires of becoming mittens. Their mission: I will not freeze tonight. Twenty past the hour and traffic calms to a roar. Along the garden paths, dark figures, cigarette lit. Almost deaf, it doesn't matter that they chatter in cadences I cannot catch. The mist caresses me, understands. © Kåre Enga [8.octubre.2016] Sent from Prague to Dirk Lee in Montana, 10.october.2016. |
| Nerves on edge Loud drunks drink thinking it's still Oktoberfest. And so it is. Every day of the year. My nerves can't take it unless I fake it. It'll be quiet enough once home. This month of travel unwinds in Munich: Bavarian splendor, plentiful food, a river wave for surfers, a lit pagoda, an expansive park and enough glitter one forgets about gold. I'm old, too old for Munich. The vibe beats frenetic... better to abandon it to the young. © Kåre Enga [4.november.2016] Sent on a postcard to Kim Barnett Ashby in Houston. 842 |
| 16.October.2016 "When I arrived, I wrote: “getting lost, children playing behind me under willows. A different language, some screams under leaden skies, no rain. A taste of sour cherry sweetens my mouth as I look about… Pest crumbles. Historical facades rebirth in the joy of its offspring.” 10/13 K.E. 3 days in not enough to visit cities like Buda & Pest. Got to see soviet statues, Szant Matias church, the musical fountain. Did lots of walking, little eating. I like the Bella Hostel, would stay here again. Figured out how to use metro/buses, but mostly I walked. Best way to get to know a place! Off to Beograd in the morning. Not halfway through my month long trip yet. Some days I feel old & tired. Have met lots of nice people though. I always do! *star* Hostels? Ack. Prague 7.5 Bratislava 9.5 Budapest 9.5. Y’know … a smile is a wonderful thing to behold … so is competence. Peace, Kåre Sent this from Budapest to Tom in Minnesota. |
| Flight (tentative title) Sweet smell of the toilet; persistent rush of air; music in the ear... It five-thirty a.m. flying over Hamburg and I'm thinking of Patrick. I'm thinking of you. I'm watching Woman in Gold, tears not shed for seventy years, we birth in a channel of air, soon very soon. I walk down the aisle to flex the muscles before flesh separates for old bones. There is peace at ten-thousand meters. We soar over the reichland, still wary of ghosts, spectres that never die. The seat is stiff, the lights dimmed, outside it's still night. I long for orange juice and the intangible suchness of staying alive. ©Kåre Enga [6.oktober.2016... over Germany] |
| "Sunday is closer to Tuesday; Friday is closer to Wednesday; Saturday is Football." Just thoughts about how my week goes. I'm basically bored because I'm boring. Just another way of saying that my life has settled into routines. Tuesday I see Joyce and a writing group meets that evening. Friday I also meet Joyce two days after my Socrates discussion group. Saturday Joyce watches football—because—she's a Montanan and that's what we-all do. I don't have a television so I listened on the radio last night and tried to 'clean' around the kitchen. I could also say Football is wedged between Thursday and Monday. It's capitalized because Football is a season that begins in Summer and mercifully ends in Winter. And it's its own day of the week. A week in Montana: Monday Tuesday Wednesday (really? Are you sure? Is it the weekend yet?) Thursday Friday Football More Football ...and then back to Monday. So—routines engulf me and lull me to sleep. And then I travel to feel alive until I'm exhausted and crying for my own bed and old friends and—it's a vicious cycle. If I am going to Romania I MUST make reservations NOW. Same with New Zealand. The options to Eastern Europe are disappearing in front of my eyes. For NZ it's leave Thanksgiving Day and come back on Christmas. If I don't decide the decision is made for me: stay at home. Unless, unless—there's a cheap flight to Colombia in January. 737 |
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