The Little Street of Unbearable Cuteness

Late in the afternoon of our first full day in Tokyo, having seen how big and modern Tokyo can be, we headed to a small district that retains much of the texture of pre-WWII Tokyo–smaller houses, narrower streets, no high rises. And its own pedestrian shopping street.

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It is . . . the Little Street of Unbearable Cuteness. And a notable feature of this street is . . . cats!

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On the signs . . . cats!

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Prominent among the merchandise . . . cats!

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On the rooftops . . . cats!

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In the windows . . . cats!

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Wait a minute! Let’s look at that last one again!

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Is that, “No cat, no life”?

And yet, and yet, we saw no live cats on the Little Street of Unbearable Cuteness.

Positano, my home town

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Okay, actually Positano is not my home town. I live in Newton, Massachusetts, USA. But for a week this year–May 3 through May 10–it became the home town of my husband Dan and me, our children Margot, Adam, and Clair, and our friends Steve and Susie, when we rented a gorgeous villa with the view you see above.

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Our last full day in Positano after a busy week going one place or another, we spent at home. For visualization purposes, I have outline this home in red in the picture above. The corner room with the Juliet balcony is our bedroom. The next two windows each belong to a separate bedroom, and the fourth bedroom, with a private balcony is around the corner. Below, a broad terrace opens up from the living and dining areas. This terrace has an area for sunbathing and a covered area with a table that’s great for breakfast, lunch, and snacks while enjoying the sea breezes. Below the terrace sweeps an extensive garden, and below that, vistas of the sea, where we can watch the ferries going up and down the coast and out to Capri.

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This villa, like many in Positano, can be accessed only on foot, along a narrow pedestrian street punctuated with stairways.

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Finally, on our last day here, I walked down the 375 stairs (okay, that’s probably an exaggeration) to our local beach, the smaller of Positano’s two beaches. There’s one very attractive hotel and restaurant, and the opportunity to rent beach chairs and umbrellas.

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Myself, I chose to follow the path that from here winds around the cliffs to the larger beach at the town center. 

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From here, I walked farther north, to the far end of Positano’s main commercial tourist area, where the views looking back at the town were–like everything about Positano–charming.

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Views near Golden Grove – the Southeast Light

I would have thought that after some twenty-five years of having a home on Block Island there wouldn’t be much of the touristy stuff left that we haven’t done at least once anyway. But the other day, on the drive around the southern part of the island, my friend Ellen and I stopped at the Southeast Light.

Block Island Southeast Light

And–here’s the new part–we went in. There’s a gift shop in the ground floor of the light tower. As I peered admiringly up at the handsome circular stairs…

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…I became aware that a tour of the tower was about to get started. So of course I signed up. How could I not? This is exactly the kind of tower a person (well, me) wants to climb. The circular stair is graceful and elegant.

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The views from the top are expansive.

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And–best of all–there’s an actual functioning Fresnel lens! A moment’s diversion here. Fresnel lenses are arrangements whereby the arcs of the lens divert the light from a source so that instead of shining all around it’s focused in one direction. This makes the light source much brighter, so that it can be seen from farther away. I couldn’t get far enough away to take a complete picture of the entire lens, but here’s one of the Fresnel lens that used to operate at San Diego.

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The Block Island Southeast Light operates a green light that blinks every five seconds. I can stand right next to it and look at it without any pain or afterimages–and yet it can be seen eighteen miles out to sea. The light is inside a Type 1 Fresnel lens (large), of which there are only eleven or twelve still operating on the coasts of the United States.

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These two pictures are looking directly at the lens; here’s looking up from below:

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What the tour of the Southeast Light does not cover are the living quarters for two families that are part of the structure. This might be made into a B&B sometime in the future. What fun!

 

What I know about the olive trees of Puglia

Almost as soon as we entered Puglia (or Apulia, as it is known in English) from Campagna, we noticed two things: the landscape, while still beautiful, had gotten flatter–and it was filled with grape vines and olive trees.

And some of those olive trees looked really, really old. “How old,” I asked Dan, “do you think those trees are?”

“I’d guess really old,” he said. “Maybe two or three hundred years.”

The charming and peaceful Masseria Salinola in Ostuni, where we are staying, has some of these old trees on its property, so I asked our host Daniele how old the trees are.

“These here,” he said, “are at least one thousand two hundred, or maybe two thousand years old. But the oldest trees in Puglia are three thousand years old, maybe more.” It is very strange, as I write this, looking at a tree that was probably a young sapling when Jesus was alive.

Ancient olive tree

“Did you know,” Daniele continued, “That Italy produces the most olive oil of any place in the world? And forty percent of Italy’s olive oil comes from Puglia.”

Olive trees self-seed when left wild. If you think about it, this is not surprising. That pit inside the olive is, after all, a seed. All it takes is the right terrain and the right climate, and both of them are right here in Puglia. The original people of this region harvested the olives from the trees wherever they happened to grow. But the Romans, when they arrived in the region, did what the Romans seemed to naturally do–they arranged the trees in rows.

The olive oil of Puglia is good beyond all reason. As are the olives. We’d love to take some home…if only we weren’t already laden with some five bottles of wine… more liquid than we can really carry onto the plane, and only two days left to drink some of it down…

At the top of the world in Munnar

Yes, it was our own choice to eschew the standard tourist fare and instead hire a four-wheel drive vehicle to take us to Kolukkumalai Tea Estate, allegedly the highest tea plantation in the world. But after about thirty-seven hours of bouncing around on rocky and rutted terrain that only loosely resembled a road, we were beginning to wonder whether this was a good idea.

Actually, I have slightly exaggerated the amount of time it took.

Also, you have seen pictures of the scenery along this road, and you’ve learned all about how they make the tea at the Kolukkumalai factory, so I’m sure you’ll agree that this excursion was in fact a very good idea.

We stopped for some photos at the entrance to Kolukkumalai Estate, with stunning vistas of the mountains on both sides of the–dare I call it?–road.

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I have this uneasy feeling that the haze, even in this remote mountainous area, may be at least partly smog. I hope I am wrong about this, because the place is truly beautiful.

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Tea processing in Munnar

I’m sure you’ve been wondering how tea gets from those lush green mountainsides into your teabag in your steaming and delicious cup of tea. Well, wonder no more. You have questions, I have answers. I even have answers to questions you didn’t know you had.

First, the tea is picked. At a distance, you might hardly even notice the pickers in the, er, fields? of tea.

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The pickers are literally trimming the “tiny little tea leaves” from the growing edges of the plants, and they make their circuit of the plantation every ten days or so. Which completely explains why the landscape has that magical and completely groomed look.

The implement used for this task is a large set of shears with a collection box attached.

med IMG_3886After the tea leaves are clipped and collected, they are brought to the factory.

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I don’t really understand the tea factory. Yes, I was there. Yes, I took pictures. Yes, I listened to the explanations. But I was so fascinated by the antequated beauty of the machinery and the timelessness of the process that I couldn’t take in the words. So here’s what I know, and if words fail me from time to time, I hope you will enjoy the pictures of what I saw.

Freshly picked tea leaves are brought first to a room where they are spread out in large troughs to wither, which is one of perhaps many stages of different kinds of drying.

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After the leaves are withered enough, they are rolled, which causes them to lose their green color and become a kind of coppery red. I think this solid old “Britannia” machine is for rolling.

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Then the tea leaves are subjected to a process of “fermentation,” the term used for oxidation. The tea must be kept cool for this process. It is therefore spread out on a “bacteria free” cement floor. Fermentation takes maybe two to three hours. At the end of this time the tea begins to smell like tea. (Which is delicious!)

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The tea is then further dried, removing its remaining moisture to stop the fermentation process. The speed of the drying machine is the critical component that determines the production rate of the factory.

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After drying, the tea is sifted through a machine with different size meshes that extract any remaining fibers and grade the tea according to size (the smallest leaves are the best).

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All of the output of this factory is earmarked for Saudi Arabia. Except, that is, for the small amount they sell to tourists right at the factory either in bulk or in a refreshing cup of tea.

 

The backwaters of Kerala – at work

Still moored by the small village, we woke the next morning around dawn. The houseboat that had been moored next to us on the right was already gone, and the village was full of activity. To our left, two people prepared to go out fishing. A boy and his grandmother, I thought at the time, but it could equally well have been his mother.

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They are late. All those dots in the lake in the background are fishing boats, already out there and fishing. The sun is barely up.

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Meanwhile, the mother is taking care of the laundry, and colorful clothing blossoms on the line.

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To our right, across the space where our neighbor houseboat used to be, some men have begun working, unloading a boatload of–muck from some canal or riverway they were trying to clear? fill for some swampy area they were trying to turn into a field? or both? They have exquisite balance, walking along the rail of the boat and then across narrow boards to the shore.

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I like the cooperative work of these men, and of the fishermen in Varkala, and I feel sad for the woman washing her lonely laundry.

But our crew has been hard at work too, and it’s time for us to leave. A delicious and plentiful breakfast awaits us as we head out across the lake where the fishermen are still hard at work, and back down the waterways to Alappuzha.

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The backwaters of Kerala – the people

In the stunning green world of Kerala’s backwaters, the people with their bright homes and clothing stand out like jewels–especially the women. We couldn’t make real contact, motoring by on our houseboat, but we could watch them on their way from, well, somewhere to somewhere else, threading the narrow path between canal and rice paddy.

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…or hanging out by their houses. 

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From our lazy houseboat perspective, even the buildings themselves clustered in their small villages or strung out along the canal have a certain charm.

sm DSC00290  sm DSC00286  sm DSC00311 sm DSC00312 sm DSC00313When we docked near a village for the night, Dan and I went out for a walk. On land. Something a little different. And here, as elsewhere in Kerala, I was approached by children. Elsewhere in India, they are likely to be beggars. But not in Kerala. Kerala has virtually no beggars, and certainly not the children. What these children wanted was simply to make my acquaintance, and maybe practice a little English.

“Hello,” they say.

I smile–I can’t help it!–and they smile back. “How are you?” they ask.

“I’m fine,” I reply. “How are you?”

“I am fine. What’s your name?”

So I tell them, and I learn theirs, and sometimes we get as far as, “How old are you?” (That would be me asking them, not the other way around. They probably don’t know numbers bigger than, say, ten.)

“May I take your picture?” I might ask, or they might ask it, in words or in gestures, these bright, shining children. “Please, take my picture.”

So I do.

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The backwaters of Kerala

I don’t remember when I first heard about Kerala. It was years ago. I learned that it had the highest literacy rate of all Indian states–over 90% for both men and women–and the greatest religious diversity and tolerance, with large minority populations of Moslems and Christians. There had also been, I learned, a significant Jewish presence in Kerala from the destruction of the second temple until well into the twentieth century–and that all minorities lived in peace in Kerala. For years I wanted to visit a state in India with such impressive diversity, education, and tolerance.

Also, I knew that Kerala has been a center of the spice trade for thousands of years and is also famous for its tea. The best black peppercorns–Tellicherry peppers–come from Kerala. However, when I mention Kerala to friends and acquaintances in the USA, if they’d heard of Kerala at all, they did not mention any of these things. What they were curious about was:

Were Dan and I going to stay on a houseboat?

I’d never heard of such a thing, but research revealed that traveling the backwaters of Kerala in a houseboat was, in fact, the number one tourist attraction in Kerala. Who knew?!

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You just don’t know what you’re missing until you’ve plied the miles of intertwined canals and rivers and lakes in a boat woven of wicker. And Alappuzha, the center of this remarkable tourist attraction, is filled with dozens, if not hundreds, of such houseboats, all waiting to take you on this unforgettable excursion.

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As for us, well, if we were going to take this trip, we wanted a certain amount of luxury. Air conditioning, the ability to close up against mosquitoes, and a private bathroom were requirements. The Pickadly Royal Suite Honeymoon Luxury Houseboat filled the bill–and more besides. Forget the mere private bathroom. We had an entire dedicated private houseboat, complete with a full-time crew of three–a captain, an engineer, and a chef. The food was some of the best we had in Kerala, where all the food was phenomenal. We departed the dock in Alappuzha promptly at noon and almost immediately entered an enchanted world.

Kerala backwater scenery

We, and several dozen other houseboats that all offered overnight trips that depart the dock promptly at noon.

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Do not confuse these whimsical yet luxurious vessels with the houseboats that started this whole craze years ago, the ones on which some of the residents of this enchanting region actually live.

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Actually, many types of boats ply these waters.

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The scenery is idyllic.

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Next post: More about the people.

 

Varkala – the endless sea

I ended my trip but began the Indian blog posts, with Varanasi. Time to backtrack now, almost to the beginning. The first stop on the trip was in Kerala–Thiruvananthapuram (a name that I am inordinately fond of, having gone to great lengths to memorize it, but you can call it Trivandrum for short). I’m going to skip Thiruvananthapuram, but I may backtrack here later; I have some pretty neat pictures of a wonderful wooden palace two hours deep into Tamil Nadu but still part of Kerala. But somehow I sense you’re probably pretty tired of architectural wonders.

So let’s skip that for now. Let’s go to the beach.

We arrived early in Varkala, about 10:30 in the morning. We understood that our room would probably not be ready. This was fine. We were happy just to sit near the ocean with nothing to do.

We did not expect to find a serious game of tug-of-war going on just on the other side of our hotel. Wonderful, I thought, that the hotel was organizing games for the guests. But… there was something odd about this particular game. For one thing, where were the women? The children?

Varkala tug of war

Come to that, where were the tourists?

This was no game. This was, it turned out, the local fishermen earning their daily keep. There were two heavy ropes, each being pulled by some ten or twelve men.

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As the rope came in, the group on the rock wall moved closer and closer to the one on the beach.

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They coiled the rope behind them. At the end of the rope was the end of a very large net, and this too they gathered behind them.

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Now both groups, close together, pulled in earnest.

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A man riding a kind of a–surfboard?–helped guide in the far edge of the net.

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As the net was pulled in, the catch became visible–an abundance of small silver fish.

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The fishermen scooped up most of the fish into a basket.

basket of fish in Varkala

There ensued a heated discussion with a man who, like us tourists, had been only a bystander until this moment. Now emotions ran high.

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You didn’t have to speak Malayam to understand that a negotiation was in process. The buyer turned in disgust to leave. One of the fishermen ran after him. More discussion, calmer this time. A price was agreed. Two men took the basket, following the buyer off the beach. The fishermen divided up their gear and the remaining fish. The catch of the day had been disposed of.

Dan and I checked into our room and then went for a walk along the beach. If they could photoshop reality, they would make it look something like this.

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The sun, as it usually does, set.

sunset in Varkala

We stopped along the way for a drink (a surprisingly good mojito).

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And then later, we had dinner by candlelight on the beach.

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