New York from the Top of the Rock

We’ve made plans for a post-Christmas jaunt to Manhattan. Marriott reward points pledged toward a room at the posh-for-us East Side Lexington Avenue property up the street from the Chrysler Building. Theater tickets bought and paid for (ouch). Spamalot, “a new musical lovingly ripped off from the motion picture” and featuring David Hyde Pierce and Tim Curry, was sold out. I’ll have to wait until our next trip to hear “Bring out your deaaad” and “Bring me a..a...a....SHRUBBERY!” live on stage. Wicked, my second choice, was sold out as well.

So, we’re seeing The Producers. I hope the kids, at a hundred bucks a head, can find the humor in “Springtime for Hitler.” We’ll see. We take in a show whenever we go to New York, and we’ve had great luck – Cats, Les Miserables, Lion King, Phantom of the Opera, the Rockettes’ Christmas Spectacular, a dark and edgy Oklahoma. Only one clunker so far: Mamma Mia. You need a submarine to plumb the depths of its plot’s inanity. An excruciating waste of time and money. Truly painful. Abba says, “Take a Chance on Me.” My advice? Don't.

This trip, there’ll be something new to do at Rockefeller Center (above). Closed since 1986, the observation deck atop the GE Building at 30 Rockefeller Plaza has reopened to the public. Fitted out with Art Deco vents and stacks to give visitors the sense of being on an ocean liner and fleur-de-lis panels encircling the 70-story-high space, the Top of the Rock offers superlative views of Manhattan and environs. The elevators that carried visitors to the top of Rockefeller Center when the deck was first opened in the 1930s have been remade with glass ceilings so visitors can watch their progress as their “Sky Shuttle” shoots 850 feet above New York’s streets.

I can’t wait to get up there. What a view it’ll be. We’ll look out and take in Central Park and the highrise miracle of midtown. We’ll look up and wave to people standing above us at 1,050 feet, ogling New York from the floodlit top of the Empire State Building’s observation deck, just downtown from the Rock. We’ll be two groups of people standing a thousand feet up in the New York sky popping flashblulbs at each other. And marveling at everything beyond and below us.

Consider Ribbons of Highway for the travel lovers on your holiday gift list. Thank you. And there's still time for signed copies. LoriHein.com tells you how to order.

Thanksgiving prayer

Peace.

It's not in God's hands. It's in ours.

Masai at dinner

I’m cooking for 10 this Thanksgiving, and I’ve just set the table. There’s a little piece of Kenya there in the dining room. The yellow, green and black dinner plates sit atop a large rectangle of red plaid Masai material I use as a tablecloth.

Masai men wear the cloth tied over one shoulder and passed under the opposite armpit. The garment, often red to signify power, stops just short of the knees. The first time I spread the vivid cloth over our table I wondered what the Masai would think of my decorating an American mealtime with an article of their clothing. But they sell the cloth at souvenir stands, knowing, I’m sure, that tourists don’t buy it to wear to work. They must wonder what we do with it. I like to think my use would please them, that they’d like being a colorful, vibrant addition to our dinnertime gatherings.

I bought the cloth for a few dollars at a stall (above) atop the escarpment of the eastern wall of the Rift Valley, the mammoth geologic fault that runs from Syria to Mozambique. Although the day was foggy, the spectacular vista yielded magical views of Mt. Longonot and of the savannah and Masai lands spread across the valley floor. The vendors at the Rift Valley Lookout held out jewelry and wood carvings, beadwork and soapstone, but I headed straight for the tablecloths.

The stall owner asked what country we were from. “America,” he nodded, with a one-upsmanship smile. “Kenyans are famous in your country. As runners.” I laughed and told him we were from Boston and that we’d watched plenty of Kenyans burn up the pavement and earn the laurel wreath in the Boston Marathon. “Yes, we always beat you,” he grinned. I asked if he was a runner. He wasn’t, but he did count some of the distance greats as friends. “They train there, in Eldoret,” he said, and pointed toward the high altitude running mecca away in the distance.

Tablecloth bought, we continued down the Rift Valley escarpment road, built during World War II by British East Africa’s Italian prisoners of war. We passed a small chapel the Italian soldiers built so they could worship during lulls in construction. A group of baboons sat on the road edge across from the chapel. They chattered and ate and picked bugs from each other’s coats.

Between sips of wine, forkfuls of turkey and snatches of Thanksgiving conversation, I will look at my tablecloth and remember Africa.

LoriHein.com

Polperro's Harvest of the Sea

(A version of this story was first posted in November 2004.)

Music helped knit our family into the life of Polperro (photo), an ancient town on Cornwall's rugged coast. We’d rented a flat at Brent House, high on Talland Hill above the harbor and the English Channel. The Polperro Fishermen’s Choir was due to sing at the Polperro Methodist Church at 6 p.m. one evening. I pried the family from other pursuits, and we made our way down the steep hill into the village. A young man in black clothes carrying a briefcase ran past us. He greeted us with a smile, then continued his headlong rush. “Think he’s the minister?” I asked Mike. “He looks like he’s late for church...”

He wasn’t the minister, but he was a member of the choir, and he greeted us again in the church’s small forecourt where he stood with the 22 other choir members, all with portfolios or briefcases containing their sheet music. “Go right in!” said a charming lady at the gate. “Hear the fishermen sing! Although they’re not all fishermen," she admitted with a wink.

You could tell which ones were by their sun-reddened faces and their sturdy, muscular bodies. They were a fit, handsome group. Most had hair whitened by wisdom, sea and salt, but some were younger, with, God willing, decades left to fish and sing. We sat upstairs near the choir. The service was a centerpiece of Polperro’s Harvest of the Sea, and the choir had come to sing for God's blessings on all who made their living from the water.

The church was clad in nautical attire. Fishnets full of paper fish cut-outs hung from the balconies. Fat sea ropes festooned the preacher’s pulpit, above which towered a fishing boat’s main mast. Seashells lined the altar, and lifejackets, buoys and a gleaming sextant in a hand-crafted box sat as offerings. The Polperro Fishermen sang eight glorious hymns, most a cappella. They were dressed in black pullovers reminiscent of the roll-necked jerseys that women once knitted for their seagoing men, and their 23 voices filled the church with powerful songs of praise and faith.

Their music at once transported and tethered you. Transported you to a spiritual place where ties bind men to God and to each other. Tethered you to the often harsh realities of Cornish fishing village life. They sang of God as anchor. Of rest, respite, rescue and safe harbors. Their stances and voices were strong and steady, like a good boat’s course. Some sang with eyes closed and arms locked over chests. Their straightforward reverence filled the church in forceful, deeply moving swells.

We put some American dollars in the offertory pouch that one of the choir members had circulated around the upstairs pews. When the last hymn was sung and the benediction delivered, we made our way downstairs to file out with the rest of the congregation. A lady we’d chatted with earlier had gathered a few friends, and they waited for us at the bottom of the stairs. “These people came all the way from Boston!” she told them. The ladies grasped our hands and told us how thrilled they were to have us join their worship and celebration.

Then a voice called out, “Now! To the quay!” The church emptied, and we made our way with the throng of townspeople to the harbor, where the Harvest of the Sea celebration would continue into the night.

LoriHein.com

Chichicastenango: The reluctant sister

Guatemala will likely see a spike in tourism now that “Survivor” has landed there. To not only survive but truly enjoy Guatemala, a fascinating country with rich history, vibrant indigenous culture and stunning scenery, leave Guatemala City, the sprawling capital, and head for the hills.

A 3-hour bus ride northwest from the capital took me to Chichicastenango, a market town in the mountains of Quiche. On Sundays and Thursdays, “Chichi” overflows with color, commerce and a cacophony of dialects as farmers and vendors from all over Guatemala converge in the square in front of 400-year-old Santa Tomas church and sell wares that run the gamut from pigs to produce to pottery.

I noticed three beautiful sisters busy stacking a pile of fabric at their family’s stall. They wore bright, handwoven blouses and wide, white smiles. I approached to ask permission to photograph them. My Spanish was of little use, as they spoke Quiche or one of the other Mayan dialects that swirled like high voltage energy through the bustling marketplace. Pantomime did the trick, and the girls – two of the three – nodded their OK. The oldest sister shook her head no and stepped away. As the two younger sisters giggled and prepared to pose, I snapped a photo.

When I got home and developed the slides, I saw the reluctant sister on the side of the frame. I felt badly about having captured her on film when she hadn’t wanted to be. But I was happy to see that she'd enjoyed the encounter.

www.LoriHein.com

Jordan mourning

Jordan’s King Abdullah has declared a national day of mourning. Most of the victims of yesterday’s hotel bombings in Amman (right) were Jordanian. Wedding guests at celebration. A three-month old baby. Terror has come to a country that has long been an oasis of peace and conciliation in a contested part of the world that's become the poster child for man's basest traits. Surrounded, penetrated and influenced by the aggression, hate and ignorant self-interest of individuals, factions and nations with stakes or claims to protect, Jordan has managed to keep taking the high road. It is a place apart. It seems to live by a simple rule, a golden one.

Jordan is the most gracious country I have ever had the privilege of visiting. If I had a dollar for every act of kindness, every gesture of hospitality, every “Welcome in Jordan” proffered me during my 1999 visit, I would be rich.

But I am rich for having met Ala’a Haddad, owner of the rental franchise where I picked up the car I’d use to cross Jordan. He served me thick coffee and became excited at my itinerary, one that would show me crenellated castles and Roman ruins, antiquities and modern marketplaces, beach resorts and ground Moses had walked. “Very good,” he said as he smiled his approval. “You are welcome in Jordan. Please do not believe what people tell you. We do not eat anybody. Everything is friendly and safe and easy to find.” Haddad gave me his cell phone number and told me to call, 24/7, if I needed anything. We talked about King Hussein, the tireless Jordanian peacemaker who'd recently died from non-Hodgkins lymphoma. I'd long admired Hussein. On the day of his funeral, I’d risen in Boston at 4 a.m to watch on TV. Haddad told me the sight of the world’s leaders gathered in tribute to the king had made him proud to be Jordanian. “You cannot know what it was like for us that day,” he said, recalling the emotion of knowing that Hussein, even in death, could bring adversaries together.

And Nadim Twal, the elegant gentleman whom I’d stopped on an Amman street to ask directions to the Safeway grocery store. “That is in the direction of my house,” said Mr. Twal, “so we will walk together.” He told me of his work in the insurance business and, at our parting, gave me his card. You are welcome at my house at any time," said Mr. Twal. "And please call if you need something.” I hadn't yet left Amman and already had phone numbers and open offers of assistance from two new friends.

And the gorgeous little boy with wide chocolate eyes and teeth like pearls who tried to sell me boxes of Kleenex every time I passed the intersection he hawked from. I was in Madaba, driving in circles trying to find the Church of St. George and its exquisite mosaic map of the 6th century world from Jerusalem to the Nile delta. As I rolled to his traffic light for the fourth time, my small friend and I both belly-laughed. He smiled brilliantly and shouted, “Hello, Lady!”

And the thin Bedouin ticket collector who manned the Siq, the magical chasm that leads to Petra, a wondrous ancient city of sculpted stone afire, and my place of a lifetime. My first day in Petra was an appetizer, and when I approached the Siq for another day, the old man beamed. “Ahhh! Two days! Good! I remember you from yesterday!”

And the bride and groom who welcomed me into the midst of their proud, joyful procession as the wedding party and guests gathered in the Amman Marriott where I was staying. Dancing and singing and clapping and smiles and laughter and tears.

And the young boy who offered me his rented plastic chair when I visited the shores of the Dead Sea. A gesture I will never forget.

And the soldier guarding the mosaic-covered Byzantine church that crowns Mt. Nebo where Moses is said to have died and been buried. As we stood on the sun-kissed summit and looked across the West Bank and into Israel as far as Jerusalem and the Sea of Galilee, this Muslim caretaker of one of Christianity's most sacred sites asked where I was from. "The U.S.," I replied, to which he exclaimed, “Ah, brothers!” When I told him Jordan was a beautiful country, he bowed slightly and said, “It is your country. You are welcome.”

And I know I would be today. May days of peace follow this day of mourning.

LoriHein.com

Horst and the summer snowballs

The meteorologists said it would rain today. It’s clear and sunny. Until they go to the same school that Horst went to and start getting their weather right, I’m going to stop listening to them entirely.

On a blistering July day, on our way to Samedan near St. Moritz, we stopped at Bellinzona (left), an ancient Swiss town that guards the St. Gotthard Pass. Bellinzona rates only a quick half-page in the Michelin Green Guide to Switzerland, but it should be on the cover. Almost no one stops here, but everyone should. It’s an extraordinary small city filled with exquisitely restored baroque and Renaissance squares. The place brims with arcaded walks and elaborately painted plaster and stone facades sporting intriguing designs and trompe l’oeil. Bellinzona is the capital of the Italian-speaking Ticino canton, and, as we walked through the Centro Storico, Bellinzona’s historic heart, I was happy to pack my German away for the day and try out some of the flowing, liquid Italian I’d been trying to learn.

Three castles from the 13th to the 15th centuries sit on successively higher hills above Bellinzona's twisting, cobbled streets. The smallest, youngest castle is on the highest hill. A magnificently turreted and crenellated creation sits in the middle. And the oldest, largest castle – the Castelgrande – rests massively on the lowest hill. From the Centro Storico, a space-age elevator whisked us up through a rock face and deposited us inside Castelgrande's walls. The air-conditioned elevator encased in cold stone provided wondrous relief from the heavy July heat.

We sat at a concrete picnic table at a terrace restaurant built into the castle walls and looked out over the panorama of Bellinzona below and the alpine mountainscape spreading away in the distance. A pergola of creeping vines provided spotty shade.

I began telling the kids about the Samedan hotel where we’d spend the night – the Berghotel Muottas Muragl, a sherbet-colored inn at the top of a 7,500-foot peak (2,456 meters, to be exact). We’d park our car at the Punt Muragl rail station and take a tiny mountain train to the hotel.

Suddenly a voice said, “It will snow above 2,000 meters.” Horst, a German mathematics professor who lived in Zurich and was on his way to a math conference in Ascona on Lake Maggiore, introduced himself and repeated, with certainty, “It will snow above 2,000 meters.”

Shielding our eyes from the blazing sun, we smiled at him. Snow. Sure. Let me run and get the boots and parkas. This was a blast furnace day. We were sweating bullets into our bisteca. During lunch, Adam and Horst talked math, and Horst did some career counseling, telling Adam over and over that “being a mathematician is really fun.”

Early that evening, we rode the mountain train to the top of Muottas Muragl. The stony summit was snow-free and carpeted with delicate lichen and pink and yellow wildflowers. We stood in the warm setting sun and looked across the Upper Engadine Valley to the powerful peaks of the Bernina Massif, full in our faces.

That night, while the family slept, I sat at our hotel room window and looked out on a view that included the twinkling lights of St. Moritz far below. Stars peppered the clear, cobalt sky.

Then a heavy cloud rolled right past the window. It seemed to stop and look in at me long enough to deliver a strange "I told you so" stare. Then it grew bigger and darker, and I watched as it swallowed the hotel. Flakes began to fall.

The next morning we woke to a world covered in Horst-foretold snow above 2,000 meters. The kids hooted and ran across the frosted, white mountaintop, slipping and sliding in their sneakers. They made an arsenal of July snowballs and pitched the orbs at each other and out over the side of the mountain, watching as they sailed into the green, snowless valley below.

www.LoriHein.com

World Run Day

November 6 is World Run Day, “an international day of running and charity.” All over the globe, people will run (or not) and make donations to various charities. This year, the event has an option that lets you earmark your donation for Gulf Coast hurricane relief efforts.

Cruise Run Day’s website, www.runday.com to see how you can participate. Run in a sponsored race somewhere on the planet and your entry fee will help a local charity. Or, register yourself as a “virtual runner,” and, on November 6, go run around, time yourself, and send your results (and your donation) to Run Day, which will post them online. Or, if running’s not your thing but you’d like to join in the spirit of this “global fitness and charity challenge,” make a donation, grab a bag of organic whole-grain pretzels, and sit back and watch the runners’ results come in from around the world.

Running in itself is energizing, but running for or with a cause can unleash power you didn’t know you had. Runners can be intense, but runners on a mission are unstoppable. They will reach their finish lines, real and symbolic.

If you’re a marathoner, consider heading south in February to run for New Orleans. Bill Burke, director of the Mardi Gras Marathon, is determined to get the race on its feet in time for its planned February 5th running. Net proceeds will go toward rebuilding efforts in New Orleans. That's a cause worth running for. The route is being reworked and won’t be nailed down until Christmas, but some of the city’s best running terrain around Audubon Park and the Garden District is accessible and sure to be included.

I’ve met some runners with interesting personal causes. Ruthie (Ripley, believe it or not) from upstate New York set a goal for herself in 1995. Her mission? Run a marathon in each of the 50 U.S. states. In 2002, breast cancer slowed her down a bit, but it didn’t stop her. In October 2004, Ruthie crossed the finish line at a marathon in Colorado, her 50th state.

And Joanne from Phoenix, who’s vying for membership in the Seven Continents Club, a group of people who’ve run marathons on all seven continents. (Are there six or seven continents? Depends on whom you talk to.)

Joanne knocked off Asia with the Great Wall Marathon, one of the toughest 26.2-milers on the planet. (Look at the photo above and imagine running miles uphill along a pitted, pocked stone wall. Better brace those ankles. And I can tell you that the Great Wall has sections that are nonstop, killer staircases. Yikes! Pass the PowerGel – and the Tiger Balm!) Joanne checked off Africa by tackling the Kilimanjaro Marathon in Tanzania. (Or was it the Mt. Kilimanjaro Marathon, the one that calls itelf “The Original and Still the Best”?) Soon, she’s off to run a marathon along the Inca Trail between Cusco and Machu Picchu. And, she’s already got a spot in the next Antarctica Marathon.

If you’re interested in that one, you’d better get your name on a waiting list. The 2007 Antarctica Marathon is sold out, but Marathon Tours, a company that caters to people who see marathoning as a fine way to spend their vacation time, “is now accepting applications for 2008.”

I'd think twice (or three, four, five, six times...) before committing to that race because there’s a risk it'll be run at sea. I recall reading an article a few years back that described how the dozen or so people who’d come to Antarctica to run the marathon spent long, frigid, wind-whipped hours, heads down and bodies encased in GoreTex, plodding 26.2 miles worth of laps around the deck of their ship – a ship that was supposed to have delivered them to the world’s remotest continent but couldn’t because ice and storms made landfall impossible. Forget Gatorade. I hope the ship's cook was able to line the deck with aid stations serving hot chocolate.

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