The yellow ‘Meadow Lark’ is a Zen-like sculpture in basswood wood with oil paint that I purchased in my old friend Susan Kelley’s Kelley Roy Gallery in Wynwood, Miami on my last trip.

The American sculptor, Henry Lautz, has based his designs on the ancient ‘mound builders’ of West Florida.

The namesake cultural trait of the mound builders was the building of mounds and other earthworks. These burial and ceremonial structures were typically flat-topped pyramids or platform mounds, but also included rounded cones and a variety of other forms. The early earthworks built in Louisiana c. 3400 BCE are the only ones known to be built by a hunter-gatherer culture.

Lautz works with these shapes, reducing and abstracting their forms and adding colour that strengthens the connection.

So, what was once an object of a particular place and time becomes a combination of form, and colour and line that resonates in a new place and time . . . . in Michael’s apartment in Sydney Australia.

 

 

 

To read Artist’s Statement, and his personal commentary on “Meadow Lark” in particular,

C

Click here

 

Said Paul O’Donnell commenting on my eccentricity last weekend, it’s better I be the way I am and enjoying life, than waking up each morning with only depressive thoughts on my mind. So I’m using that dispensation to continue along my merry path.

Glenda, Wayne and new Mauritian chef Akim at La Croix Café in Potts Point are having no part of my suggestion that a spot of colour ‘for effect’ be added to my plate of Warm Duck Salad at lunchtime today.

They are more than confident that I will soon be so mesmerised by the delicious, slow-cooked, melt-in–the-mouth duck leg that I’ll get over any thought of ‘colourful decoration’. They didn’t really laugh (well, not out loud), when I suggested a couple of marigold petals.

I’m assured that any addition to the plate would simply spoil the delicate flavours. And delicate they are. Perfectly cooked puy lentils, rocket, witlof, pickled green chillies with walnut dressing all make for an exceptional taste sensation.

I savour the salad just the way it is, and gladly settle for the symphony of autumn colours on my plate.

A wonderful start to Autumn that is just arriving here in Sydney.
 

 
 
 

I’m not exactly sitting ‘home alone’ sitting pins into a world map to mark the cities I’ve visited. But it is a pastime I started a couple of years ago. And recently, I noticed friends on Facebook using the app.

So here is my update – right up to the moment I got bored with it all.

Please don’t ask how many hours I invested/wasted in this pursuit!

Sitting at lunch in the Dining Room of the brand-spanking-new Park Hyatt Hotel on Sydney Harbour, my dear, deaf, 92 year-old aunt asks me with raised voice, “What are you doing wearing that old coat? It looks tired!”

Showing her the Giorgio Armani label and explaining my comfort in wearing such an ‘unstructured’ style of jacket falls on deaf ears (literally!). I’d also freshly shaved for the occasion. Almost ignoring that I’d spoken, she says, “Why not give the coat to Vinnie’s, (St Vincent de Paul op. shop)? You must have been wearing it for years!
 

 

Then the fashionably-attired waitress, (whom aunty notices and comments favourably upon), comes to the table. Pouring a glass of complimentary chardonnay to the standard halfway mark, dear aunt tells her in authoritative tones, “Keep pouring!”

The grey day matches the colour palette of the photos I take. This in turn resembles somewhat the muted colours in the stylishly refurbished dining room of the Park Hyatt. 

Across the water, the iconic Sydney Opera House sits with sails reaching for the clouds.
 

 

An hour from Sydney by air – but alighting in the regional city of Dubbo, west of Sydney, I find myself in another world. A mix of late 19th century grand buildings that once housed Post Office, Banks and Assurance companies, and a string of ‘$2 stores’ and small retailers line the tree-shaded main street.
 

 
The sandstone, Victorian-era, railway station and station master’s house stand royally at the end of town, with iron awnings painted in wide red and white stripes, a carry-over from even earlier days when striped awnings were made of canvas.

I’m ‘on visitation’ for the weekend with a good priest friend, Father Paul, who is currently Administrator of three outback parishes even further west. He has been anxious for me to see his handiwork in a small cottage in Narromine that he’s renovated by hand, and now calls home. And a good opportunity for me to learn a bit more about life in the bush.

Narromine is a rich little agricultural area on the Macquarie River, known for its citrus and flowers. Further west is Trangie on the Goan Waterhole – with wheat and cotton crops, cattle and wool growing. Peak Hill was an old open-cut gold-mining town and this petered out, wool and wheat became the mainstay of the local economy.
 

 
No diddly-di music, but more than enough ‘Green’, Guinness, and Irish Stew in the old weatherboard Royal Hotel, and at the Lions Club St Patrick’s Day Social in the local church hall, in Narromine.
 
 
The quiet of a country town late on a Saturday afternoon is shattered by a roar like a squadron of approaching jet planes – a seemingly never ending flock of screeching cockatoos white, and sulphur-crested against a blue sky comes across the trees – a sure sign of rains for tomorrow.

Now I know – I’m really in the ‘bush’.
 

 

A large turn-out of country folk at the evening Mass at St Augustine’s in Narromine have no trouble finding something green to wear. And my host doesn’t disappoint in his homily by speaking about the enduring influence of the great St Patrick, and finishing with a poetic adaption from St Patrick’s breastplate – a reassuring expression of infinite trust.

At Tara today, in this fateful hour
I bind all heaven, and all its power:
The sun in all its brightness;
The moon and stars in all their whiteness;
And fire with all the strength it hath;
And the power of lightning in its rapid wrath;
The winds in all their swiftness along their path;
The rocks in all their firmness, the hills in all their steepness;
The lakes and seas in all their deepness;
These things, by the help of God’s mighty power and grace,
I place, between myself and all the powers of darkness.
Amen
 

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There’s no keeping ahead of the bloody mosquitoes swarming out of every crevice in Paul’s house here in Narromine in the Central West of New South Wales. They’ve been terrible since the recent flooding rains.

Despite spraying all bare skin with ‘Off’, I don’t count on the ingenuity of the biting insects getting to me in my nightshirt.

You figure it out!

 

 

 

“He’d go the opening of a door” is an old adage describing people with a busy social calendar.

I’m not so social these days, but this video may give you the impression that “I’d go to the Closing of a Door”.

Click on arrow to start this 1-minute video.
 
Thanks to the closed circuit TV in my building, and Terry, I can share this truly ‘stunning’ experience. And before you comment on my state of sobriety, I hasten to inform that I was not drunk!

I may have needed stitches but I ‘soldiered’ on. Now, two weeks later, the wide gash along the top of my eyebrow has finally healed.

In the mid-20th century, young nuns in the local Mercy Convent swam freely in a natural rock pool off Shelley Beach in Cronulla, south of Sydney. It became known by the locals as the nun’s pool.

Now, in the 21st century, “The Nun’s Pool” is also the name of a wonderful contemporary restaurant across the park from this once hallowed swimming spot.

The link and point of interest for me is in more than just the name!

 
 

My soon to be 86 years-old Aunt Monica is one of those nuns, who played like girls in the water of the rock pool in the early 1950’s. Although, on visiting her today in the Stella Maris Convent where she now lives in retirement, she tells me “I never stayed in the rock pool. It was boring. I swam out to sea!”

Young Anthony, the owner of “The Nun’s Pool” is a friend of mine, from his earlier days at the Grand National in Paddington. He always greets me with a welcoming smile and sends me away with cappuccino and homemade cake for Aunty Mon, and also Aunt Bobbie, who lives in the same home.

Father Frank from Berlin came with me for the drive today and we enjoyed a delicious corned beef sandwich with pickled onions, and a wonderful insalata caprese with my favourite oxheart tomatoes. I won’t mention the fig, walnut and cinnamon tart because I am still on my diet.
 

 

The Sardinian white at lunch. slightly cloudy with an orange hue, truly packs a punch!

 
 
 
After Mass at St Mary’s Cathedral where Frank kisses the ring of the Cardinal, we make it to Fratelli Paradiso in Challis Avenue, Potts Point for lunch. As it is Sunday, Frank grants me a dispensation to imbibe, and imbibe we do. I wish I’d stuck to my diet!
The ever-so-lightly battered calamari and simple Insalata Caprese are hard to beat, and how can I deny myself a dip of freshly-baked bread rolls in the dish of olive oil? 

We don’t stop at that, and needless to say, our plans for a drive to the sea. for breath of salt air and a macchiato on our only sunny day this week, are quickly abandoned in favour of an afternoon nap.
 
All the photos from Frank’s Visit – Double click to open in full screen.
 

Hardly a bargain, and not quite the raw prawn – but the raw scampi at Icebergs Dining Room overlooking Bondi Beach today was superb!

My old friend, Fr Frank Scheele from Berlin,had but one request from the menu, Tuna Tartare, a delight he had not forgotten from lunch on his last visit to Australia – at Bondi Italian, a beachside restaurant located at the other end of Bondi Beach. Frank was not to be disappointed here at Icebergs.

I think that my choice of the Raw Tartare Seafood Salad with raw scampi, blue fin tuna and ocean trout may just have won out though!

 

 
 
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My resolve to refrain from vino and sugar has nothing to do with Lent.

My self denial is focussed solely on making a sagging body (more) beautiful.

Enter my old friend, Father Frank straight from Berlin. Like the forbidden fruit, he unveils a tin with a towering Baumkuchen – a sweet German dessert cake, as a special gift. “Cake! Sugar! I am on a self-imposed diet for two months!”

Lent has nought to do with my fasting (and abstinence, I might add), but ever-practical Frank is quick to advise that Sunday is a day for dispensation. So what is a man to do?

Like Eve, I relent, and also have a glass of vino!

 

 

Grand-nephew Jude will be two years-old in a couple of weeks. And earlier this week Bill and Mindy took the little boy for his first day in pre-school.

We hear so often about tears on these occasions, and last Monday was no exception. Indeed tears were shed.

The funny thing is that Jude was as happy as a lark getting to play with children and hone his social skills. It was his father Bill who was in tears!

Quite by accident, I came across a new software for publishing my ‘Books’. (These were the old-fashioned tomes I used to write at the end of a big trip, and email to you.)

I would do this thinking that all the world (or at least my close friends) were reading and enjoying them. However, one day a Swiss friend told me bluntly that he had to be truthful and that he really thought they were boring. Others had suggested more subtly that they were so caught-up with family or other priorities, that they simply didn’t have the time to ‘read a book’.

Having picked myself up from these shattering revelations, I went about looking for means of communication that were more ‘telegraphic’ in nature – almost ‘sound bytes’. I set-about trying to ‘improve’ my photographic inclusions, including captions for some of my friends who grew up with comics, and have never read a book! And, all that lead me to the now famous blog – ‘the M chronicles’. (I know you check on www.mmusg.com frequently so as not to miss even one post!)

 
Here is one of the first of the old ‘books’ that I have uploaded into issuu, the new software. When you click on ‘Expand’ it should open into a full screen.

Shortly, I will add a new tab under ‘Travel Writing’ in the horizontal Menu Bar above, and you can read them all.
 

I need more than a fair resolve to publish a photo of myself looking like this!

Aaarghh!

 
But I’ve been brave enough to do so, as an added motivation to stick with an exercise regimen that I’ve signed up for, from tomorrow!

I have 2½ months before I take off again, and I am determined to put some shape back into that old body – soon to be 70!

 
Report from Day 3 of the Regimen:
Trainer Steve asks while stretching me after the morning work-out that concentrated on my legs, “can you feel that stretch in your quads?”
“Quads! What quads?” says I, feeling absolutely nothing in my foreleg.

The cappuccino after lunch at my favourite Greek Cafe is without my usual home-made, icing-sugar covered almond biscuit, a kourambiedes. That’s a sacrifice!

6th April UPDATE

After 7 weeks of ‘working’ with Steve, my Personal Trainer,
MY WAIST IS DOWN BY 1 ½” but my WEIGHT has remained the same. 
Muscle Mass is up a tad.
BODY FAT has reduced by 8%
STRENGTH on my left side has nearly equalised with the right.
 

 

Staying at the home of my old friend Edmundo in Key Biscayne, there’s been days when I was still in my nightshirt in the afternoon.

There’s a regimen to daily life living under Edmundo’s roof, commencing with a soft knock on my bedroom door at eight each morning, followed by Regina announcing “Coffee’s ready!” Strangely, I always drank a pot of tea, but I rather liked the sing-song sound of her “Coffee’s ready!” call to come out for the full Brazilian breakfast table groaning with sliced exotic fruits, berries, cake, and hot toast for the cheeses. How I’ll miss that!
 

 
It didn’t take any persuading for me to follow Edmundo’s practice of returning to the bed for an hour after breakfast, nor to an afternoon nap after Regina called us to tea at four.

As much as we vowed that my ‘break’ in Miami would be ‘without program’, we ended up ‘out to dinner’ with friends almost every night, mostly in local restaurants. Susan Kelley invited me to her home on Sunset Island as her ‘guest of honour from Australia’ for a wonderful dinner party around the pool. An intriguing guest list included a Syrian Mexican, now a Justice in the US Court System, and an Argentinian painter, who doesn’t let life in a wheelchair slow his energy in the slightest.

(Susan is another case of ‘enduring friendship’. We worked together from my early time in New York in 1975. On mum’s visit to New York a year later, Susan charmed her over afternoon tea on the porch of her Gramercy Park brownstone, and, for a fleeting moment, had mum wishing I had at long last found the ‘ideal woman’).
 

 
Edmundo’s close friend Tere Benach entertained at home with a delicious shrimp gumbo, and cake with guava paste – real Cuban home-style cooking. At the only dinner party at Edmundo’s, Regina excelled, spoiling the Brazilian guests with their favourite ‘o-so-sweet’ passionfruit dessert with freshly shredded grilled coconut. So good, Edmundo’s sweet tooth got the better of him in the middle of the night and he snuck to the refrigerator and polished the rest off.
 
 
I’ve been looking for a suitably sized object to replace Buddha in the black marble niche at the end of my hall in Elizabeth Bay. A Sydney friend suggested I find an old ‘Infant of Prague’ statue while in Brazil, but I never expected that

 

To me, Malibu conjures up memories of my youth; Beach Boys and Surfin’ Safari; movies and errant movie stars. In happily accepting Mike Abraham’s invitation to visit the Getty Italian Villa in Malibu yesterday, I was not expecting to find a museum of priceless Greek and Roman antiquities, all housed in a first-century Roman country-house.

In my travels, I visit so many spectacular ruins with hidden stories of centuries past. I listen carefully to guides’ descriptions trying to imagine how they looked, and to put them into a context of life at the time. I am not so interested in archaeological digs like Pompeii, Axum, or Leptis Magna – mounds of stones representing outer walls, and channels in the dirt don’t resonate. I hear more about sewerage systems in these than anything else. No wonder I’m turned off.
 

 
But, here in Malibu, Paul Getty, son of the oil tycoon, has ‘reimagined’ what was uncovered of an old Roman country house in Herculaneum buried by the eruption of Mt Vesuvius in A.D. 79. He has used architectural details based on elements drawn from other ancient Roman homes in the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum to faithfully recreate the 2,000 year-old Villa dei Papiri here – on a hillside reaching up from Malibu Beach on the Bay of Santa Monica. The site closely resembles its original location next to Mt Vesuvius on the Bay of Naples, right down to the old scented Roman pine trees.

The visit is of interest to me from many perspectives. I feel I am ‘touching’ history. The only thing missing is the people. An integral feature of any Roman home is the gardens, and here Getty has recreated four with plants, bronzes and decorative motifs, as they would have been all that time ago. And of course, there’s the Museum, so well organised and presented that viewing the priceless artefacts from his extensive collection is a breeze.
 

 
My Picasa Web Album here contains a sample of what we viewed. Opening it into full screen allows you to go through the photos one by one. Hopefully the captions will continue my story for me.

Picasa Web Album More photos to be added

“Lobster caught by my own hand”, says Mark as he gently paints the delicate flesh with butter and lemon before placing them flesh down on the BBQ.

How’s that for a boast?
 

The lobster Mark caught by hand when diving in the Northern Channel islands off the California coast - on the BBQ at home

 
This visit with Marsha in LA is testament to yet another ‘enduring friendship’. Way back in 1969, Marsha and I worked together in a start-up tour operation for Amex in Sydney. We’ve remained solid friends ever since – 40+ years! Another guest at dinner is Michael Abraham, whom I have also known for 30 years.

Marsha’s partner, Mark, is an avid diver, spear-fiherman, and chef. I love coming for dinner and seeing what’s on the menu. I’ve heard of Santa Catalina island off the California coast, but the Northern Channel Islands are further north. This is where Mark dives.
 
Mark catches the lobster by hand, and also, while still underwater, prises open scallop shells firmly fused to the seabed rock, removing the delectable buttons of white flesh to bring up to the surface. How delicious, grilled with pineapple and bacon.

 

The diver and the diva - Mark the spear fisherman and chef photographing the delectable fruits de mer before we all dig in (fingers permitted at his table!), with Marsha and Michael A

I’m at breakfast by the pool of The Beverly Hilton Hotel, Los Angeles in Grammy Awards week with distractions a many – there goes my resolve to read the New York Times in the fresh air this morning.
 

 

Next to me under the palm trees stands a young music wannabe in t-shirt and cap on-backwards spruiking the successes of his band to a similarly attired tall young Asian (without the cap!), who listens attentively before returning his attentions to an attractive young Malaysian woman. On hearing me ask for more coffee, the Asian queries my accent and strikes up a conversation. This Dominic Lau is a nice guy. I learn that he is a presenter fro E! TV in Hong Kong, and is here for the Grammy’s.
 

 
What role could a Russian woman in pink leotards, black sheer top, and bejewelled necklace (glistening from the sunshine and sweat of her neck), have to do with the Grammy’s? Jewels at breakfast! That’s small potatoes. You should see the diamond watch, and the diamond on her ring finger. A slew of what I take to be Jewish impresarios joins her one after the other and share her breakfast while she unceremoniously smokes a cigarette.
 
I notice other wannabes excitedly giving their pitch to rather overweight older guys sitting alone at tables, whom I presume might influence their careers, for a favour, and then see them off with a “Thanks. I’ll call ya”.
 

This is not an “Only in America” scene, It’s truly, “Only in Hollywood”

 
Copacabana Palace Hotel in Rio had those wonderful phalaenopsis orchids hanging languorously in the shade of the huge canopied ficus elastica tree. Here at The Beverley Hilton,

At four in the morning, rain is peppering the surface of the large swimming pool of the Copacabana Palace while I skirt the perimeter from my room in the Annexe to the Lobby. Trendy young partygoers are still arriving and entering the dark and pounding disco . . . doof, doof! This is the closest I’ve come to Rio’s nightlife in the three days I’ve been here. I’m on my way to the airport for my flights to Lima and Miami.
 

 
Rio, Cidade Maravilhiossa is how the locals like to call their marvellous city.

The experience of arriving by sea has to be my first marvel. Sailing towards Rio de Janeiro, with Christ the Redeemer Statue on one side, Sugarloaf on the other, and the famous beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema in between, is one of those rare ‘Traveller’s Moments’.

Checking in and getting comfortable at Rio’s grand dame of a hotel, the Copacabana Palace is a marvellous surprise. I’m set to enjoy all the hotel has to offer.
 

 

Waiting for my room in the Annexe, how good is a Caesar salad in the shade of a large ficus; white and purple Phalaenopsis orchids on the trunk waving gently in the breeze; while I watch guests lazing on couches by the pool, in varying stages of undress, reading on their iPads and Kindles under blue and white umbrellas!

Stylised grey and white aprons of the waved Brazilian cobble footpaths, on all the staff in white, make such a statement. And my one beer comes with another, in a bucket of ice.

A perfectly sunny day for the trip in the cable tram to the peak of Corcovado Mountain to see the iconic ‘Christ the Redeemer’ statue is uplifting. After riding up through tropical rainforest, I walk the 240 additional steps to reach the statue as my little ‘camino’. This forty-metre high statue is the largest Art Deco statue in the world, and it is now one of the 7 New Wonders of the World.
 
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Beaches and nightlife usually spring to mind when dreaming about the attractions of this exotic destination. Unfortunately my skin doesn’t let me stay out and sunbake as in times of old, nor do I find it easy to stay awake after a good meal to go party. So, my marvellous experiences are a bit closer to home, and probably a little tame to some.

Climbing Sugarloaf is on my must-do list, but before doing so why not stop for lunch at the traditional Colombo Café de Forte at a table under the trees along the wall in this working military fort?

 
 
 
Soaring 40 metres above Corcovado Mountain looking out over the city to the sea, Christ the Redeemer statue has become an icon for Rio de Janeiro and Brazil.

We ride the cable tram through the protected rainforest of the Tijuca National Park for twenty minutes to reach the top. Bromeliads have attached themselves to tree trunks, and tangled vines fall from branches. Colourful heliconia, cassia and ginger bloom in the wild.

I take the 240 additional steps to reach the statue as my little ‘camino’. Christ the Redeemer is the largest Art Deco statue in the world, and it is now one of the 7 New Wonders of the World.

We are blessed with a wonderful day for viewing the statue, but would need to return in the afternoon to get the sun right to take a good photo of Sugarloaf and the famous beaches.
 

 
Judging by the crowds of all nationalities including women in burqas, and many Asians, I really wonder how many visitors still view it with the same religious significance as those who built it in the 1920’s.
 
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