News, Views, and Shmooze....

What a Pitti Palace

Wednesday, March 1

Breakfast is the usual - fruit, cereal, muddy coffee that hasn't improved in taste. Next to us is a foursome of boisterous Germans who must be hard of hearing. Nothing else explains why they're practically shouting, as if they're the only ones in the room. The man closest to me is obese, and, apparently, hasn't showered in the past few days.

The weather is fabulous. We walk to the Accademia, taking streets that are now familiar (we pass the church with the Mogen David, catch a glimpse of the ubiquitous Duomo), and join a group of students who are waiting to enter the museum. We say no, again and again, to smiling street vendors all selling those burnt velvet scarves. Other vendors are selling art work, which they have spread out on the concrete. Still others are hawking a variety of items - T-shirts, postcards, posters, calendars, totes - all imprinted with an image of male private parts, as my granddaughters would say.

Interesting...

The Accademia is smaller than the Uffizi, but we enjoy it more. It's famous primarily for its Michelangelo sculptures--a series called "The Prisoners" housed in a rectangular hall that leads you to a domed room build to accommodate the piece de resistance, "David. " Rick Steve advises eavesdropping on a group that has a tour guide. We sidle up to a tour guide - she's speaking Italian.

"The Prisoners "-- there are four or five, I can't recall -- aren't completed. That's part of the attraction, seeing Michelangelo's emerging artistry. We learn later that, unlike other sculptors, Michelangelo never practiced on models of plaster or other materials. He sculpted directly on the marble--"releasing" the figure or figures he believed were trapped within the stone.

As to "David" ... Our good friend Steve (not to be confused with Rick Steve) was awed by the statue, but nothing prepared us for its majesty and power. It's infinitely compelling, inscrutable. I don't know how long we stood there, gazing up, up, up at the face of the young David (he has just defeated Goliath; his slingshot is born casually across one shoulder), studying the pensive expression in his eyes, the muscles in his thighs, the veins in his hands. The right hand is intentionally larger, Rick Steve explains, to demonstrate David's victory, with God's help, over his monstrously large foe. 

The statue, as you may know,  is of a nude David. I flash back to the images on the T-shirts, the posters, et al. Oh, I think.

Compared to the David, everything else is anticlimactic, but we visit a room on the other side of the building. One of the docents gives us a mini-tour of the multitude of sculptures along the walls and in the center of the room. Figures from mythology; sarcaphogi; busts of the Florentine elite.

"Grazi," we tell her.

"Prego."

I'm still thinking about the David, feeling his pull. In the museum shop I consider buying a postcard image of the statue, but all of the ones I see are focused on his private parts. Me? I would have focused on his eyes.

It's drizzling when we leave the Accademia. We open our umbrellas and walk to San Lorenzo Piazza, which is nearby, and browse among the stalls. I buy coin purses for my mah jonggers, magnets picturing the Ponte Vechio - one for us, one for each of our kids. I buy pretty wallets for my daughters and daughter-in-law. I intend to get more scarves, but we're worried that the drizzle is going to turn into heavy rain.

The day before I had noticed a stall selling ceramic ware.

"Just two minutes," I tell my husband.

I find the stall and admire the ceramic items. I forget the umbrella in my hand and lean in to get a closer look. My umbrella topples a small cruet. For a second or so time seems to stop, and everything is happening in slow motion. I think I can catch the cruet. But if falls to the ground. The stall owner shakes her head and tells me she's sorry, but I'll have to pay for the cruet.

I'm sorry, too.

"Ten euro," she tells me.

My husband hands her the money. Euro bills are pretty and colorful. Did I mention that? She offers me the cruet. I decline. My husband, bless him, doesn't criticize me for my clutziness. Is he a saint, or what?

It's still drizzling. We walk to the synagogue, on Farini. It's an impressive building with Moorish accents and multiple teal domes.

"Our Duomo," my husband says. He smiles.

Security is strict. We have to leave all our metal objects, including our camera, in a locker. Then we pass, one at a time, through a small glass booth. We're taken on a short tour of the synagogue and the smaller museum upstairs. The museum has photos of the old Jewish ghetto (the origin of word, Rick Steve explains, is "getto" - Italian for foundry, pronounced with a soft "g" which was later hardened by Germans or Austrians). On the wall is a photocopy of a letter from the Jewish Florentine, a member of the Levy family, who left his estate for the construction of the synagogue.

The synagogue is magnificent. Designed by three architects (one was Jewish), it has soaring cathedral ceilings and three domes, all covered with frescoes in shades of brick and orange. Spots on the ceiling and larger sections along the bottom of the walls are evidence of the damage done by a devastating flood a while ago.

The synagogue is at once inspiring and depressing. I'm filled with pride by the beauty of this building that can house thousands. But there are only 800 or so Jews in Florence, few of whom attend services.  On the high holidays there are crowds, our guide tells us. Otherwise, it's difficult to get a minyan (the necessary quorum of ten males), even on a Sabbath. I try to imagine the shul in its glory, when Florence was a large Jewish center.

A group of young men enter the shul. They're all from the University of Michigan, they say when we ask. They heard about the shul and figured they'd stop by and see it.

"My mom will be happy," one of the guys says.

In the museum gift shop we buy two booklets about the synagogue, and two lithographs by an Israeli artist, Michal Meron. One is a view of the Florence synagogue. Another, of the Old Ghetto in Venice. Both are vibrant with color and feeling and have a whimsical tone.

Lunch at Ruth's is soup, pan Toscani, chumous and "Ruth's Special," an assortment of salads and fallafel balls. We chat with a couple from Atlanta who, like us,  will be going to Venice for Shabbat. We tell Simcha we'll see him at dinner. He tells us not to come late.

"I have a group of forty-three non-Jewish students and their teachers," he says. "They want to learn about Judaism and sample kosher food."

From Ruth's we head for the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens, both highly recommended by Rick Steve. We walk to the Ponte Vecchio, which is lined with jewelry stores that sell gold and silver. I'd love to browse, but my husband takes my elbow and steers me past temptation until we're safely off the bridge. We're a little tired by now, and our feet are aching, even more than yesterday. It's a cummulative effect, I guess. We buy tickets for the palace and the gardens.

The Boboli Gardens close earlier than the palace, so we decide to tour the gardens first. To reach them we have to climb several long, steep flights of stairs. With each flight the climb becomes more painful. With each step our knees protest more. I wish I had worn my new tennis shoes.  ("Don't," a friend had advised; "Italians think it's tacky.")

Finally, we're at the top. The climb was worth the pain. The view, despite the mist -- or maybe because of it -- is spectacular. Shrubs with shades of green, purple, umber. The Duomo. Valleys, small houses tucked into lush hills. At the very top of the gardens we visit the Porcelain Museum  - and joke about being careful not to touch anything.

From the top several paths lead in different directions. We decide that the hike down and back up will be too much. We planned to see the Grotto, but by the time we make our way down the flights of stairs, we learn that it has just closed for the day. But we peek inside. My husband manages to get some decent shots. And I buy some postcards from the gift shop.

Next is the Pitti Palace, built by the Pitti family. They sold it to the Medicis, who enlarged it, and then it was bought by an Austrian dynasty who expanded further and renovated. Each room is more magnificent than the other. The walls are barely visible--almost every inch is covered with art. The ceilings are painted with various biblical or mythological themes. One ceiling catches our attention. It depicts the ritual sacrifice of animals at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, accompanied by a procession led by the Kohen Gadol (the High Priest). I was pleased to see art that I could relate to.

We walk through room after room after room - and this, we learn, is only a part of the palace. The rest is closed to the public. In the grand ballroom we chat with one of the museum staff. She offers to take us on a tour of quarters that aren't open to the public, and we eagerly accept. We view the throne room, a private chapel with an altar; numerous bedrooms, guard rooms. Several of the ceilings display the Medici crest. Several depict one of various "virtues."

After thanking our guide profusely, we exit the palace and make our way down the steps to the street. Descending, we find, is more taxing on the knees at this point than ascending.

We cross the Ponte Vecchio. It's almost six, but stores are still open. I exercise tremendous self-control and don't enter any of them. By now it's dark. My husband stops to take a photo of the Arno from the bridge. I wait while he positions the camera on the bridge's ledge. He wants to capture the reflection of the lights on the water. My eyes go to my left and a large batch of padlocks attached to a wood beam. I'm puzzled for a moment, then recall Rick Steve talking about the padlocks: In a romantic gesture, young men pledge their love, lock one of the locks, and toss the key into the Arno.

We're off the bridge. The street is lit up by the headlights of cars and scooters. With the Arno to our left, we walk toward our hotel, passing elegant boutiques that offer clothing with familiar names - Prada, Louis Vuitton, Armani. 

In our hotel room we quickly freshen up, then take a cab back to Ruth's.  Simcha has brought in more tables and chairs. We chose a table and wait for the students, who arrive shortly with a few instructors. The room is buzzing with Italian. I love hearing the language.  When everyone is seated, Simcha talks. I can tell from the few words I understand - Hebrew words - that he's explaining about "kosher" and "Torah." I know he's being funny, because everyone is laughing frequently. I wish I understood what he was saying. I talk with the teacher who arranged to bring the students to Ruth's. She explains that her students have studied the Holocaust, and she wanted them to get a better understanding of Judaism.

The menu is typical Israeli food - salads, chumous, tehina, fallafel. Basically, Ruth's Special. My husband and I have the same.  ("I could ask my wife to make you something else," says Simcha, "but she'll throw me into the street.) Sometime during the meal two musicians enter and play songs. Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Another famiiar tune whose name I can't recall. We tip them before they leave.

Simcha tells us that musicians come in most nights to play for the diners.  "They came last night, too, but I had to ask them to leave. The London people were mostly elderly. They didn't appreciate the music."

What's not to appreciate? I wonder.

It's our last night in Florence. We thank Simcha (and his wife, Miriam) for the delicious  food and for making our stay so pleasant. We take a cab back to the hotel. My feet still ache from the hours of walking, but I'm already missing the cobbled stones, the alleylike streets. The scooters. The Duomo. The bustle of San Lorenzo Piazza. The way the sun glints off the green waters of the Arno.

If It's Tuesday It Must Be Florence

Tuesday, February 28

Our hotel provides breakfast, but since we keep kosher, we can only sigh at the croissants and other pastries. We have cereal, fuit, and coffee that looks kind of muddy and tastes, well, not like the coffee I'm used to. But I brought along three boxes of South Beach nutrition bars, which are in my camel tote, along with a zippered plastic bag filled with almonds.

After leaving our key at the front desk (the clerk recommended leaving it there, and our passports locked in the safe in our room -- pickpockets, again), we head for the Uffizi, Firenze's most famous art museum. Friends had told us to order tickets in advance. The museum is a main attraction, and it's often impossible to get in, and even if you can get tickets the day you want to tour, you'll have to wait in line for hours.

So I booked two tickets on-line for the Uffizi, and two more for the Accademia for the following day. I paid a fee for booking on-line, of course. And if my copy of Rick Steve's Italy 2006 had arrived in time for me to actually read it (I ordered it three weeks ahead, with the understanding that it shipped within 24 hours- not), Rick would have told me that my hotel would have booked the tickets for me, with no extra charge. Next time...

It's a twenty-minute walk from our hotel to the Uffizi along the Arno River. The day is glorious. The sun glints off the river, off the houses on the south side of Firenze, off the bridges we pass. Perched precariously against the embankment of one of the bridges are young lovers, lost in an embrace. I could stand here for an hour or more, gazing at the Arno, but we have to be at the museum before ten.

Firenze is full of cars, including the occasional "smart cars" - it has no back seat. And scooters. Tons of scooters. Sidewalks are narrow, and we find ourselves frequently moving sideways to allow people to pass. The air is crisp, but not cold. And I'm wearing the silk underwear I bought at Sports Chalet. A good purchase, as it turns out. We pass the famous Ponte Vecchio - Old Bridge - cross the street, and enter the courtyard of the Uffizi.

It's an impressive courtyard, surrounded on either side by impressive gray stone buildings that block the sunlight. We find the ticket-holders line, learn that we first have to pick up tickets in another area. While my husband gets the tickets, I fend off two women trying to sell me burnt velvet scarves.

Inside the museum we pass through security and pay for headphones and a taped tour. 6.50 euro for two of us with a shared tape. So now we're tethered together. Our guide narrator is British and knowledgeable. He expounds upon room after room of famous art, most of it religious and, after a while, overwhelming. To do the musuem justice you'd need hours to study each masterpiece, but a taste is really enough. I admire Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus," "La Primavera." A Rembrandt catches my eye. The rest becomes a blur. I want to return to the Botticelli's, but I can't remember what room they're in, and the narrator can't oblige.

On the second floor courtyard we snack on South Beach bars and watch the pigeons that come up to our feet. From where we're sitting we can see a hint of the Duomo. In the museum shop I'm tempted to buy postcard-size reproductions of some of the art, or maybe a deck of playing cards. But I'm a bad decision maker, and in the end I leave empty-handed.

We stroll along the narrow streets and step into some leather shops. I'm looking for gifts for my mah jong pals, but nothing catches my eye. In San Croce Piazza we ask a woman where we can find San Lorenzo Square with its outdoor leather stalls. Turns out she was born in California, came to Florence years ago, married a Florentian, and has lived here ever since. I can see why.

More strolling takes us to the Duomo, an enormous, magnificent cathedral that defies description.  (My husband took this shot, and all the others, aside from that of the Cisalpino train. For an aerial view of the Duomo, click on the link.) We gaze at the building a while - we don't go in - and walk along side streets that take us to San Lorenzo Piazza. The place reminds me of Santee Street in downtown Los Angeles. Stall after stall with leather goods, scarves, trinkets, magnets, purses. I buy a taupe pashmina shawl and a lamb's wool plaid scarf from a lovely woman named Nicolette. I'm tempted to buy more scarves for gifts, and a turquoise pashmina for myself, but I'm also eager to check out the other stalls. Maybe I'll like something else more. Maybe I'll find better prices... And my husband is becoming impatient. Actually, he was impatient the moment I picked up the first scarf. Although he did get a beautiful red silk tie...

Tourist rule #1: Don't wait for "better" or "less expensive." If you like something, buy it. You won't find better or cheaper. You won't go back to the original place. You'll brood about this for several hours.

Tourist rule #2: Plan a day for shopping, and arrange an alternate activity for your spouse or signifcant other.

I tie my new plaid scarf around my neck and slip the taupe pashmina into my tote. From San Lorenzo we walk to Ruth's, where we enjoy lunch and a conversation with Simcha, our new best friend. We meet an American couple who have just toured the synagogue. We had planned to visit the synagogue after lunch, but they tell us it's closed for the day.

There's always domani.

Simcha tells us, with regret, that he won't be able to accommodate us for dinner that night.

"I have a big group coming, from England. No more space. Unless you want to come after nine-thirty?"

Nine-thirty sounds late for dinner. There's a teeny kosher market a block from Ruth's. We check it out, but aren't familiar with the products, so we pass. It's almost three. Lunch was filling. And I do have more South Beach bars, and almonds. And two chocolate chip Danish.

We return to our hotel, taking side streets that change names with mercurial frequency, checking our map to make sure we're headed in the right direction. Our feet ache from the cobblestones, but taking a taxi is silly. We're almost home. We pass more shops that look inviting, more piazzas with churches (one has a Star of David at the top; we learn later that the architect was Jewish). More scooters.

It's around five when we're back in our room. We don't have an evening plan. Ruth's is out. We watch Italian TV - a program that resembles American Idol. Then a singer makes her entrance - she's met with huge applause. She's a star. She looks stark, and her song is morose, lugubrious.

I read more of Daniel Silva's The Confessor. I check my e-mail. I do a few Sudoku puzzles and some Yoga stretches to work off the pan Toscani, then go to sleep.

Bon Giorno

Monday, February 27

My husband nudges me awake.

"Breakfast," he says.

I'm not keen about smoked salmon at five-thirty in the morning, but the train ride to Florence -- Firenze -- is over six hours, and I kind of doubt that we'll be able to buy kosher food on the train.

The Zurich airport is sleek and pristine. We pick up our one piece of checked luggage- a green Travel-pro with multiple zipped sections -- and pass through Customs. No declaration card to fill out. I'm surprised. Then we stop at a rail ticket office to inquire about getting to our Firenze-bound train. We had purchased first-class Eurail Select Passes - $325 each - because we'd been assured by the Eurail representative that passes were cheaper than paying for each leg of our train travel.

Turns out that's not so. See, in addition to the passes, we have to pay another 60-plus Swiss francs for a mandatory seat reservation on the train.

I'm a little annoyed, but I still think the passes are saving us money.

Our train - the Cisalpino - finally arrives, and we drag our luggage on board. Really,my husband who does of the dragging, though I try to help. And it's the big bag that's the killer. The seats are moderately comfortable - two benches facing each other, wtih not much leg room.

But the scenery is spectacular. Steep mountains - the Swiss Alps -some covered with snow. Sheer drops. Graffiti along the walls on the side of the road mars the view, as does the occasional shack. We pass Lugano, a gorgeous splash of azure lake, hugged by homes and, I'm guessing, hotels. The Lake Cuomo.

We're nearing Milan, where we have to switch trains, and the mild queasiness I"ve been feeling for a while is no longer mild. It's the smoked salmon--I'm sure of it. I share the thrilling news with my husband, then gingerly make my way to the bathroom at the end of the car. Fade to black...

I feel better, though shaky. And just in time, because minutes later a woman announces, "Milano." Our train arrives late, and we have only minutes to make the next train to Firenze. We haul our bags off the Cisalpino and haul our butts with Torino Olympian speed to the front of the station, muttering aloud in unison at the irony that the first-class cars are at the end of the train.

"I hate this bag," my husband says, meaning the green Travel-pro.

Everyone -- including Rick Steve - has warned us about the omnipresence of pickpockets in Italy, especially in train stations. Especially in Milan. I clutch my bag to my side. My husband, at my urging, has zipped his wallet and our passports in an inside pocket of his jacket. I'm glad it's not summer.

We scan the board, locate the train to Firenze, and hurry to the track. Again, first class is all the way at the back. We're breathless when we finally take our seats. Across from us is a plain-lloking, thirty-something woman with dirty blond hair. She's talking with an Armani-model-handsome man. Business suit. Great glasses. We exchange pleasantries. I don't think they're married. Work colleagues, I guess.

I'm entranced by his accent, and hers. By the musical words uttered by the woman who announces the stops. Verona. Padova. (Padua). Milano. I think of Shakespeare.

It's after six when we arrive in Firenze. We get off the train. Ahead of us, alongside the train track, a young couple is kissing, their mouths glued together. They're still kissing minutes later when we pass them.

We exit the station and take a taxi to the Kraft Hotel on Soferina. It's a ten-minute walk from the station, and takes almost as long by car, because Firenze, as we discover, has many narrow one-way streets. The Kraft is in a beautiful neighborhood on a tree-lined boulevard across the street from the U.S. Consulate. No pickpockets here, I hope.

The lobby is pretty, and our "superior" room is more than adequate, certainly by European standards. There's a small wood desk along one wall, a larger desk against the adjoining wall. In a corner a TV sits on top of a mini-bar. Nightstands are one either side of the large bed. Above the bed, stenciled onto the wall in bright shades of aqua and yellow, is a ribbonlike "headboard." Cute, I decide. The room also has a balcony facing Soferina and the consulate.

I'm charmed by the room, and pleased with the bathroom. Gray and white marble, white bathsheets. Lovely toiletteries. A steep, though narrow, tub looks inviting. There's a bidet, which, to be honest, I don't know how to use.

By now I'm rather hungry - we haven't eaten much since breakfast, and I didn't keep that down. My husband and the helpful clerk in the lobby can't find the address for Firenze's only kosher restaurant - Ruth's. But I go on-line, using a second-floor computer available to guests for ten Euro for the entire stay (a bargain!), and find it.

We take a cab to the restaurant, a small establishment on Via Farini, next door to Firenze's legendary synagogue. The owner, Simcha, is originally from Czechoslovakia. Simcha speaks English, Italian, Hebrew, and, I'm sure, Czech. In a prior life, he was an actor and worked in a puppet-show. He's entertaining and endearing, and funny, funny, funny.

My husband and I have delicious lentil soup, followed by fried breaded eggplant and several baskets of pan Toscani, which we dip in olive oil. Prior to our trip I lost twelve pounds on the South Beach diet, and though I know I'm probably putting back several at this one meal, I don't care.

I love Italy.

The cab fare is higher on our return to our hotel - the rates go up after 10 PM, we learn. We relax in our room, search for an English language program on our TV. We watch some CNN, and I visit the computer. I'm tempted to blog, but though I can easily access my Typepad account, the Italian keyboard is confusing. I read my e-mail, send my family messages, and go to sleep.

Caio.

Come Fly with Me

If you're wondering where I've been for the past month....

At the end of February, my husband and I embarked on our first vacation in over a decade. (I'm not counting out-of-town weddings, bar-mitzvahs, or business-related travel.) For some time we'd planned to visit my uncle and aunt and cousins in Israel, and I decided that as long as we were in "the area," we should stop in Italy.

My husband was reluctant. I persevered. We had time only for two cities in Italy, and after talking with friends who'd been there, we (okay, I) chose Florence and Venice.

Sunday, February 26

Our flight to Zurich (don't ask) stops in JFK. My husband used a gazillion miles so that we could fly business class, and even though the kosher meals we confirmed the night before with American Airlines never appear, we make do with cereal and fruit and nosh that I brought along. I busy myself with my Sudoku puzzle book. (I bought two copies on Amazon--one for me, one for my husband-- when I ordered Rick Steve's invaluable Italy 2006 and his Italian-English dictionary and phrase book. Everything arrived two days  before we left. But that's another story.) Then I unzip a satchel pocket and take out one of the paperbacks I pulled from my bookshelf.

It's Daniel Silva's The Confessors. I've never read Silva, but have heard wonderful things about his work. (FYI: He's terrific. So is the book.) I begin reading. Then I check the synopsis at the back of the book.

"You're kidding!" I say aloud.

My husband turns to me. "What?"

"This book takes place in Italy. Florence, Venice, Rome. Isn't that cool?"

My husband shrugs. I'm tickled by the coincidence. Visting Italy is bashert, I decide.

Five hours later we land at JFK. At the Admirals Club, my husband tells one of the staff about our missing meals.  "We're worried about flying to Zurich without any meals," he adds.

"Your kosher meals aren't in the system," she informs him.  Snippily.

My husband, with admirable patience, explains that he confirmed the meals the night before.

"Are you saying that I'm lying?" she asks.

Whoa.

Shlepping my Roll-aboard and satchel, I slink off to the bay of computers sitting on a narrow ledge against a wall. I haven't checked my e-mail in eight hours, and I'm beginning to feel tense with withdrawal. A small plackard on the ledge advises that there's a problem with Internet service, which may be slow.

It is. I finally log onto AOL, but I can't access anything.

I return to the reception area and my husband. Ms. Snip tell us that yes, kosher meals were ordered.

No apology.

But she does order kosher meals, which arrive minutes before we board the flight to Zurich. At least we know they're fresh. We eat our dinner. Then I take an Ambien. I'm determined to sleep. The pill takes a while to kick in, and even when I'm asleep, I feel strong turbulence.

"Potholes in the sky," I tell myself. That's what a flight attendant told me years ago. The image helps.

Perris in the Winter

Sunday we had a family outing at the Orange Empire Railway Museum in Perris, California. "Family" consisted of my husband and me, our kids, grandkids, my brother and sister-in-law and their crew.My husband and I left late-- a given for us--and I forgot to tape Monk, which was airing at 12 noon. USA used to air the episodes several times during the week, but now it's only Friday nights ( I can't watch because of Shabbos) and, apparently, Sunday afternoons.

Time to get Tivo.

Perris is a small town in Riverside County, not far from Palm Springs. So small that Miss Direction couldn't locate the A Street address of the museum, but my husband is a man of many maps. The hour-and-a-half drive was pleasant (it would have been even more pleasant if I hadn't foolishly drunk a cup of coffee just before leaving), and when we arrived we found our group lunching at the picnic tables. Last Wednesday I began the South Beach diet, so I feasted on two mozarella sticks , some tuna salad, and an orange pepper, and passed on the chips and fruit. It's the fruit that I miss: blueberries, strawberries, mangos, apples. One more week, and I can add them to my diet. Chocolate, too. In moderation.

After lunch we bought tickets for the rides--a trolley and a train -- from an elderly cashier who wasn't exactly friendly and who took so long to run our credit card that we missed the 2:30 train and trolley. While we waited for the next trolley, we toured the museum. The railway cars were interesting (the kids enjoyed running through the cars), but I was most fascinated by the advertisements on the car walls for things that no longer exist: Dragnet. A nonflammable cooking spray that promised not to explode. Krsipy Crackers. Enriched breads. Laundry aids. Banks.

A half hour later we were on the trolley. Trolleys, our guide explained, were an attempt to attract passengers leery of riding on railway cars that were prone to accidents and fires. Our guide pointed out various railway equipment, including a car that had been used in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?," another that had been donated by Shirley Temple. (Coincidentally, on that Sunday night, Shirley Temple would be honored by the Screen Actors Guild at their annual awards ceremony.) The guide also showed us a Pacific Electric car, and I flashed to a story I'd edited for Murder on Sunset Boulevard, an anthology of stories written by members of the Los Angeles chapter of Sisters in Crime: "The Red Car Murders," by Richard Partlow.

"The Red Line?" I asked our trolley driver.

"Right!"

Thanks, Richard.

The grandchildren weren't as interested in the history of the equipment our driver was showing us.

"Can't it go faster?" my eight-year-old grandson  asked me.

"I guess not. But after this we take the train."

My niece's five-year-old son was preoccupied with his new baby brother, fast asleep in an infant seat on my son-in-law's lap.

"That's not his baby," my niece's son announced to the driver, indicating my son-in-law.  "It's my mommy's baby."

"We have special Thomas exhibits," the guide informed us. "In November. If you're interested, I advise buying tickets at least two months before. They go fast."

"That's not his baby," my niece's son repeated. "It's my mommy's."

"Last November we had over 40,000 people come see Thomas," the guide said.

After the trolley ride we visited Emma, a beautiful steam engine housed in a barn called Grizzly Flats. We climbed aboard. We took photos. Then onto the train. Not a memorable ride, and not much to see (I noted a facility for children and families donated by Rob Reiner).

But the kids had fun.

My seven-year-old granddaughter resumed pushing a stoller holding one of the younger kids. Her sister was walking hand-in-hand with my niece's oldest.

"Train fast enough?" I asked my grandson.

He nodded.

Miss Direction

Thanks to an uninsured, unlicensed driver who side-swiped and totaled my husband's beloved 1992 Honda, we have a new Toyota Avalon, with a navigation system.

After Mapquesting my way around South Florida last month, I was excited about having a navigation system. (My only disappointment is that there's no touch-pad screen for inputting destinations. You have to choose numbers and letters from a keyboard, one at a time. Kind of tedious, and if you make a mistake, you're back to Step one. I made several mistakes.)

I first tested the navigation system last week when I drove to New Jewish Community High School in West Hills. I have to admit I wondered: Did the system really work?

It did - but not perfectly. The pleasant female voice that directed me over Laurel Canyon to the 101 Freeway-- I'll call her Miss Direction -- worried me when she told me to take the Topanga Canyon exit. See, I had checked Mapquest before leaving the house; Mapquest had instructed me to take Valley Circle. Feeling a little rude, I ignored Miss Direction. She took my disobedience in stride and adjusted to my route. Some time after I exited onto Valley Circle, she informed me that I had reached my destination and advised me to turn right. Actually, my destination was two blocks up, and I had to turn left into the parking lot.

Two days later I used the navigation system again when I drove to Encinitas to do a reading at the Barnes & Noble. I had planned to stop by Warwick's in La Jolla to sign stock before my B&N event. My husband (he was the driver) plugged in the address for Warwicks. He had also looked up directions for the Encinitas store on one of his many maps.

Miss Direction steered us to the 10 Freeway, and then to the 5. I guess she figured we were okay on our own after that, because she checked in only a few times to assure us that we were on track.

"I wish she'd stop talking," my husband said.

"I like her," I told him. "She's very pleasant."

Warwick's closes at six. A minor mishap had made us to leave Los Angeles later than we had intended, so the timing was tight. When we neared La Jolla, we sat in traffic caused by a major car accident. So it was a quarter to six o'clock when we finally exited onto La Jolla Village Drive, per Miss Direction's instructions. A minute or so later we found ourselves on Torrey Pines Road - dark, curvy, unfamiliar. At one point Miss Direction told us to turn right. My husband thought she was wrong. Turned out she was right. I don't blame him for doubting her. I had, too.

I didn't make it to Warwick's. I did enjoy the Encinitas event, where I saw people I'd met before and talked with a man who had come to hear me because his name is Krick.

"Could be we're related," he said.

"Could be," I agreed.

I used the navigation system last night as I drove to the newly remodeled Santa Monica Library, where I did a program with Denise Hamilton and Paula Woods. I had a pretty good idea of how to get to the library, but I wanted to see if Miss Direction knew her stuff.

The thing is, to get to Santa Monica, you can use the freeway or  local streets. Miss Direction wanted me to use the freeway, but at six in the evening, when I was driving, the freeway has heavy traffic.

So I took took Beverly, which turns into Santa Monica Boulevard. A straight drive to the library. As I neared La Cienega, Miss Direction told me to turn left. I kept driving.

"In two-tenths of a mile, turn left," she repeated as I approached San Vincente.

"Sorry," I said. I really was. I didn't want her to feel useless, unappreciated.

Miss Direction didn't give up. She urged me again to turn left at Robertson, and one more time before I neared Wilshire Boulevard. She must have been frustrated, but she couldn't have been nicer when she told me in her velvety voice to proceed to my destination.

See, that's why I like Miss Direction. No attitude, sighing.

No, "Am I talking to myself?"

"I said, 'Turn left!"

"Didn't you hear me?"

"Why did you ask me for instructions if you had no intention of following them?"

Sometimes the inhuman touch is, well, more human.

No offense...

Me and My Mapquest

In mid December I took a Saturday night red-eye to South Florida. I came down with a cold the Friday before I left--achy throat, runny nose, itchy eyes. I doctored myself with echinacea, Sudafed, Advil, and several packets of Emergen - C, but I was feeling less than wonderful when I landed at 6 AM in Ft. Lauderdale.

An hour later I was in Aventura, taking a nap at my wonderful cousins'. I was tempted to stay in bed, or take in the gorgeous view from their twenty-fourth floor condominium, but I had bookstores to visit, books to sign. My cousins had graciously offered me the use of their second car. Two weeks before I had contacted all the Barnes & Nobles and Borders in the area, spoken with managers, and offered to come by and sign stock. Using the stores' zip codes, my husband had plotted my itinerary, and I had printed out Mapquest directions from store to store.

I had never driven in Florida before. My husband, supportive as he is, had conveyed some concern. And Mapquest, as you may know, isn't perfect. My cousin pointed out that the Mapquest directions for leaving Mystic Pointe were wrong.

Not encouraging. But I was determined. And I had a cell phone. And a bag of nosh that my cousin's wife packed for me, along with throat lozenges and a bottle of water.

After an initial blunder (Mapquest's ambiguous directions), I was headed for the turnpike and my first stop. Six hours later I had visited eight chain stores in Kendall, Miami, South Miami, and Coral Gables. I signed stock. I chatted with the people who sell my books. I met with Michael, a manager who writes poetry (he gave me clearer and more accurate to the next store). Not all of the stores had received the copies of my books that they'd ordered. Several stores supposedly had recevied the copies--but they were nowhere to be found. The mystery of my mystery. And I almost gave up finding a parking spot in the enormous Dolphin Mall, which had gridlock. I was exhausted and achy. I wanted to lay my head on the steering wheel and cry. But I found a spot, and inside the Borders I met an area marketing manager with whom I'd corresponded the week before.

As Molly's Bubbie G would say, it was bashert.

From the Dolphin mall I headed to Palm Beach, where I would be speaking that night. The route was fairly direct - I took the I 95 north -- and I planned to visit three more stores. But it was getting a little late, day had given way to night. As I approached West Palm Beach I was becoming apprehensive about finding my way in the sudden darkness. So I phoned my husband back in L.A., used the speaker-phone feature on my cell phone, and let him do the navigating.

Better than GPS.

The Palm Beach parents' event, sponsored by the Palm Beach Synagogue, was held at the lovely home of one of the congregants, whose brother, as it turns out, lives in Los Angeles. We all talked about the subject of Now You See Me... - teens at risk, the dangers of the Internet, the myriad pressures young people face. We discussed balancing the importance of trusting our children with the need to protect them. Later, I had the pleasure of chatting with Cheryl Kravetz and Jeff Jacobus from Palm Beach's Classic Bookshop. Cheryl had made my day a few weeks earlier when I cold-called the bookstore. "You're Rochelle Krich!" she had exclaimed. "I love your books!"

The drive home from Palm Beach was traffic-free and uneventful. Back at my cousins' I had a glass of hot tea and a good night's sleep--probably because I hadn't brought my lap top, and my cousins don't have a computer. Scary for me, yet somehow liberating.

I did ask my husband to check my e-mail messages. Because you never know, right?

Off Again...

Much to blog about - especially my unhappiness with the slanted Orthodox Jewish content on last week's Law & Order - but I'm off in less than an hour on the last leg of my book tour- Ft. Lauderdale and environs until Wednesday, when I fly to Omaha.

I'm taking a red-eye, which isn't thrilling to begin wtih. Plus I'm doctoring a cold with Sudafed and EmergenC, and in case I can't sleep, I copied yesterday's L.A. Times Sudoku puzzle ("diabolical") and today's  (moderate). And I still have my book of Sudoku puzzles.

Oh, and there's a deceased rodent in the basement. My husband noticed him yesterday when he opened the basement door.

We don't know if it's Jerry.

Have a great week.

Meet Me in St. Louis - Again

I've been to the St. Louis Jewish book fair numerous times, and every visit is wonderful. Weather.com had predicted the 80s, but St. Louis was in the 70s, glorious and sunny.

Susan and Sheila, book fair volunteers, met me at the airport and gave me a mini tour of the city as they drove me to Left Bank Books, a wonderful independent bookstore. From there we went to the Jewish Community Center, where I enjoyed a boxed lunch (including a delicious cabbage-apple soup) and saw several people I knew from previous book fairs. On the way to my hotel, Sheila and Susan drove me to a local Borders, where I signed stock.

That night's program was a mysery panel--a first for St. Louis, and my first evening event at the book fair. With me were William Lashner (Falls the Shadow), Laura Lippman (To the Power of Three) and our moderator and St. Louis's own Michael Kahn (The Mourning Sexton, written under the pseudonym Michael Baron). The auditorium was packed. I've known Laura for years, and Bill and I had done the Rockland County event, so we were comfortable with each other. Michael did a terrific job moderating- mixing it up, posing fresh and thought-provoking questions. I thought the evening was a great success, and the book fair committee agreed. And so many people, bless them, bought books!

Friday morning I packed my luggage again. No more travel until December. Part of me is eager to get home and stay there, to sleep in the comfort of my own bed. Part of me is already looking forward to the next opportunity where I can meet people who have connected with my characters, where readers often turn into friends.

Wednesdays With Laurie

The solution to my eye problem is...the solution!

A new bottle --burning, reddened eyes. Obviously, the concentration of preservatives was too strong.

I arrived at this deduction in Minneapolis, where I was invited to speak at Kenesseth Israel.  Detroit was unseasonably warm--too warm for the new coat I took along.  Minneapolis, on the other hand, was invigoratingly crisp and windy and made the coat a necessity--although you'd never know it was cold if you were sitting inside a car as I was, gazing through the window at the sun-lit scenery. Laurie, who arranged for my visit, wasn't wearing a jacket. Neither was the shul rabbi, who came out to meet me wearing only slacks and a shirt.

"I've been Minneapolized," he told me.

Minneapolis has not one, but two wonderful mystery book stores (and several crime fiction writers). Laurie graciously took time out of her busy day to escort me to both. Getting to our first stop, Uncle Edgar's, was challenging. Several construction projects that began in April in the bookstore's neighborhood are still on-going, and when we should have turned right onto Chicago Avenue, where the store is located, signs warned us to stay away. We finally called the store and were instructed to ignore the Do Not Enter signs on Chicago Avenue.

We ignored. I met Jeff, who welcomed me warmly. We talked books. I signed stock. Then Laurie and I visited Once Upon A Crime, where we were greeted by a gorgeous canine that belonged to a Minneappolis author who was just leaving. Pat, one of the store's owners, gave the dog a biscuit. Then she entertained us with her droll humor and made my day by giving me a copy of Crime Spree with a fabulous review of Now You See Me.... The reviewer is Ruth Jordan, who made Now You See Me... one of her five picks for best mysteries of 2005. Thanks, Ruth!

I asked Pat if I could steal her away from Minneapolis--she's that delightful. She declined.

A kosher market was next. In the parking lot, in one of those serendipitous moments that make the world just a little smaller, I spotted Julie, whom I had met in September at a Hadassah talk near San Diego (see "A Little Too Thelma and Louise"). Julie was visiting family in Minneapolis.

"I'll see you tonight," she told me.

After a short tour of Minneapolis, Laurie deposited me at the hotel and left to finish preparations for the event. I relaxed, checked my e-mail, and phoned my L.A. optometrist, Leslie Wachs. He wasn't in, but I spoke with Roger, who advised me to soak the lenses in preservative-free saline solution. Which I didn't have.

The program at Kenesseth Israel begain with a delicious dinner, prepared by Laurie and her committee. During dinner I had a chance to chat with some of the event's sponsors, and with Bucky, a mystery fan and local hero (I have to get Laurie to tell me his story). At my table was Owen, who told me my daughter had introduced him to his wife, and Nathalie, who had just moved to Minneapolis from Israel. I also met Jill, the rabbi's wife, who has an amazingly inspirational story and has become a fan of my books. Jill has been so engrossed with my books that when her husband, the rabbi, introduced me, he thanked me for giving him the opportunity to spend time with his children.

Last Wednesday, November 9, was Kristallnacht, a somber remembrance of a frightening event that presaged the carnage of the Holocaust that claimed more than six million innocente lives, including most of my family. On the way to the shul, I contemplated reading to the audience "Last Dance," my recent article about my late father, of blessed memory, who, along with my mother, were Polish Jews and Holocaust survivors. Laurie approved. So did the rabbi. So I read "Last Dance," and talked about being a child of survivor's, about being fortunate to have parents who were able to create a normal life for me and my brother, who demonstrated courage by rebuilding their lives.

The audience had come to hear me talk about my books, which I did, after a moment of silence. I had worried that the transition might be awkward, but it wasn't. And really, when you think about it, crime fiction is gratifying because in the pages of the fictional world the writer creates, justice can be served, the guilty can be held accountable for their crimes.

After my talk, I signed books and chatted with people who had come to hear me, including a woman whom I had met two years ago at the St. Paul JCC book fair. We have stayed in touch, and since then she has become a grandmother. That night she had laryngitis, but she e-mailed me when she got home and brought me up to date. Among other things, she told me that her daughter works for a New York agency that links volunteers with Holocaust survivors.

It was a lovely evening, lovely on many levels.

Laurie took me to a Walgreens, where I bought saline solution.

I soaked my contact lenses in the solution overnight.

In the morning, I inserted the lenses. No burning, no irritation.

An hour later, sitting in Laurie's car in the airport post office parking lot, I did a live radio interview with a show just outside of Minneapolis.

On the air. An hour later, in the air.