WhirledView

Santa Fe: the Dysfunctional Museum City

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

All you people who love to come to Santa Fe to revel in our oh so charming adobe streetscapes, here’s a sorry tale of what we residents endure to fulfill your fantasies.  Did you know that a bunch of early 20th century Anglo aesthetes cooked up this look that’s as traditional as frozen pizza in Helsinki?  I’ve been thinking of writing this story for some time, but the world kept getting in the way.   Lately, however, my water and power bills have been arriving with slick little inserts designed to browbeat me into taking fewer showers—and those with a dribble of water.  I should also equip my lamps with bulbs whose wattage is totally inadequate for people who actually like to read.  Know what?  I am not inclined to discomfit myself.

Let it be known that I tried to be a super good citizen of the modern world, and I got defeated at every turn by the city of Santa Fe.

Here We Are 

The photo above is not a beauty-is-passé canvas by an up and coming artist.  It’s not a charming example of randomness or spontaneity as art.  It’s not even what I would call organic, exactly, but it shows pretty well how my house grew over the past century plus.  Each roof segment surrounded by a little wall or parapet represents one more addition to the original modest (to say the least) adobe cube thrown up by a very poor man.  When I say adobe, I don’t mean an elegant two course job.  I mean one course (or thickness) and often supplemented with pumice stone or the hollow tiles that preceded cinder block construction.  When I bought this place, it was a wreck, a fixer-upper’s fixer upper—and cheap, which was important because it needed work.  Oh boy, did it need work!  And thus began the tragicomedy of attempting to go green in Santa Fe. 

Renovation being a necessity, not a choice, I decided I wanted to end up with a water-and-energy stingy aka  green house.  Not a glass house for floriculture.  Not a house slopped in green paint. But this:  a house that would use water and energy as efficiently as possible, given the givens.    As for the facade, major surgery was necessary, but that was nixed by authorities, as were all my other dreams.  So the front of the house looks like a jungle now, as you can see, mostly xeric plants that need very little water and very little care, the latter my idea of the perfect garden. What you can’t see through the foliage isn’t worth seeing.

The Bottleneck

My problem (and the problem for all residents of Santa Fe) is the Historic Commission, which decides what you can or can’t do to new or older houses.  The Commission pores over floor plans and elevations and refuses to approve those that don’t place windows a full four feet from any corner of the structure.  There's hardly a spot in Santa Fe without a wonderful view, but view-embracing expanses of glass also fail the test, because the original Spanish colonists obviously didn’t have picture windows.  Of course, most of them didn’t have glass windows either, to say nothing of indoor plumbing.  So I guess we should be grateful.  Sort of.  Or laugh.  And order windows with phony dividers, which can mysteriously disappear.  Money wasted, but c’est la vie.  

So I’m writing this piece because I think that Santa Fe’s building and design codes should be changed for everyone—and for the health of the planet, but I must confess that I got into this fix by stupidity and  insufficient research.  I knew nothing of the Historic Commission when I bought this property.  I especially didn’t know that the structure  I was buying appears on mysterious but very important maps as a “contributing” structure.  That means it represents Santa Fe at some “authentic” phase of its history. 

I’ve met people who tell me they fought to keep their homes from designation as “contributing.”   Unfortunately, the family that built and lived in my place for three generations wouldn’t have had the funds to renovate creatively even if they’d wanted to.  Thus, the fact that the poor man’s home they couldn’t even afford to keep livable had been frozen in time didn’t affect them, especially since this buyer was so ignorant.  Result: not only did I have to conform to the constricted official notion of the "Santa Fe style," I had to respect the integrity and external appearance of the existing structure, which believe me—and I’ve delved into histories of New Mexico architecture—is of no significance whatsoever. Gulp!

The Bucket Brigade

What did I want to do?  I wanted to move the water heater from one end of the house to the middle, where the old structure met the wing I miraculously got permission to add.  No go.  Result: several gallons of water are lost before the water runs hot enough for a shower in the master bath.  Actually, I’m supposed to collect this otherwise wasted water in buckets, which must then be schlepped outside to water plants with.  We’re talking many many buckets here—and buckets of water are heavy.  Very heavy.  Now  I’m not happy about wasting water, but the city also refused to let me install a gray water system.   All of that slowly warming water, along with sink water and water from clothes washed in appropriate detergents, could have been put to good purpose without the efforts of this bucket brigade of one.

Wyntoon – William Randolph Hearst’s Secret Hideaway

By Patricia H. Kushlis

Years ago when I was growing up in McCloud, a small lumber town in California’s far north, my dad would take special visitors from “down below” aka San Francisco or the Bay Area to visit William Randolph Hearst’s other estate. This estate of 67,000 acres of dense forest – dominated by stately, tall, long-lived Ponderosa pines – also contained three miniature villages or actually groups of houses somewhere in the middle of the forest and situated on a 90 degree bend on the McCloud River several miles east of the small town itself.  (Photo left of McCloud River by William J. Kushlis July 1975) 

The world knows about Hearst’s San Simeon – his ostentatious mountaintop home overlooking the Pacific Ocean which became a state park soon after Hearst’s death.  San Simeon dominates the crest of a hill of the Pacific Coast Range some 50 miles north of San Luis Obispo not far to the east of Highway 1. When the hill is not fog-shrouded, San Simeon’s roof tops and towers glimmer in the sunlight and the high palms sway in the wind as viewed from the coastal plain below.   After Hearst died August 14, 1951, San Simeon was a gift to the State of California: the State turned it into a major revenue earner where hundreds of thousands of visitors tour its lavish grounds and magnificent buildings year round.

San Simeon is all that Wyntoon is not

San Simeon is opulent; it is erotic: almost bordello-like in a Monte Carlo sense.  It is all that Wyntoon is not – including open to the public.

Meeting Gods and Godesses in Kolkata

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

For nearly two weeks, day and night, Bengalis have been paying homage to Durga their favorite goddess.  But now her effigies have been carried, carted or trucked from their places of honor to be tossed or toppled into the Houghly River.  Sic transit gloria.  All is transient.  Calcutta/Kolkata will return to hyper-crowded, high-energy normality, until the next puja, in honor of Kali or Manasa or Kartik or Saraswati or Ganesh or—the roster of honorees is practically countless.  Calcutta is almost always preparing for or recovering from one puja or another, as I discovered on Day One, for me, in the vibrant city that turned from Calcutta to Kolkata while I was living there.

Kartik

En route from the airport, I found myself being driven down a street along which everyone in sight seemed to have something to do with making effigies.  In open-front shop after shop, artisans were engaged in what turned out to be a four-part process.  (1) Make a humanoid armature of  bamboo strips.  (2) Flesh it out with straw.  (3) Cover it with papier mache.  (4) Paint it flamboyantly.

Kartik puja was days away, it seemed, and I had a decision to make.  Kartik, like the more widely known Ganesha, is a son of the Hindu god Shiva and his wife Parvati.  One of his modern duties is to serve as the god (eg patron saint) of mechanics and engineers.  I, as in-coming supervisor of team that included drivers, mechanics, audio-visual specialists and computer systems operators, had to say yea or nay to the business  of setting up an image of Kartik in our garage.  “Is it customary?” I asked.  The answer was  “Yes.”  So Kartik was duly installed, with a garland of marigolds around his neck.  Who wanted accidents or computer crashes over the next 12 months?  What’s more, if we could have Kartik in the garage, we could have a Christmas tree in the lobby when December rolled around.  Eid treats, in turn, would also be enjoyed by all, Muslim or not. Hurrah for festivals!

Durga

But Kartik puja had nothing, festival-wise, on Durga puja, when every intersection in the city was likely to offer a resplendent image of Durga off to the side, if not plumb in the center, traffic be damned.  In rich neighborhoods Durga images could soar to an awesome 20 feet.  Neighborhood associations collecting funds in less affluent areas would have to be content with a Durga closer to the measurements of an ordinary woman.  Always, however, she’d be lacquered in bright colors and dressed in gaudy glittery raiment.  That much was traditional.  Then came the strings of lights draped above and all around each and every one of her, and the huge loudspeakers with their gaping bells broadcasting Bollywood favorites and static incessantly. 

Gold for Everyone in Northern New Mexico

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

The conquistadors riding north from Montezuma’s conquered capital were disgusted by the mud hut pueblos they found north of the Rio Grande.  Their reports would surely disappoint the king of Spain, and it is never good to disappoint one’s king.  Still, the legends about Cibola were clearly not true.  There were no hoards of gold and certainly no cities of gold in the arid lands now known as New Mexico.  The Crown treasury was not about to be stupendously enriched.

But, come autumn, all of us who live now on this high desert in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo mountains are immersed in a golden landscape.  

If you drive down to Albuquerque from Santa Fe about now, and you look to your right toward the distant  Rio Grande, you will no longer behold a long green snake slithering north to south.  You will see a necklace of gold.  Cottonwoods.  Just as you learned from the classic Westerns that transfixed you back East or wherever else you imbibed our national myths, cottonwood trees thrive along Western river banks. In the spring, they shower us with fluffy white seeds that swirl around like a mischeduled blizzard—or a diaphanous mini balloon Fiesta (the celebrated real hot air balloon Fiesta takes place every year about now in Albuquerque).  But, with fall, cottonwoods turn a rich yellow that’s as close as arboreal nature gets to mimicking the rock that turns humans into casino-haunting fools or gold-obsessed psychopaths, as in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, another Western classic. 

The legend about cities of gold (now the name of a local casino) was so strong that impecunious well-connected Spaniards in need of replenishing the family coffers actually anted up to lead expeditions north along the Rio Grande and farther, even penetrating the area now known as Colorado. Later, they paid to be appointed Governor-General of the territory (so little changes in politics). One of the oldest buildings in town—in Santa Fe, I mean—is a rambling squat one story adobe still called El Palacio, a pretty pathetic structure compared to the stone edifices built by Spaniards in Mexico City during the same era.  If New Mexico today is one of the poorest states in the U.S., the territory was a backwater of the first water even during the Spanish colonial period.  Those ambitious courtiers who were so eager to prove themselves that they bought the opportunity to run the place were lucky to get away with their reputations intact. As for wealth, this is a land of subsistence farming.  The indigenes had already mastered it–corn, beans, squash, turkeys.  The Spanish immigrants never did much better, economically.

But there’s another kind of wealth.  Come to Northern New Mexico in late fall.  You will discover a dazzlingly golden world.  New England has its panoply of reds and oranges and yellows.  It famously attracts hordes of visitors who sit for miles and hours with their noses pasted to tour bus windows.  In northern New Mexico the locals go loco.  They glory in the gold.

On the windy twisty route up to the Santa Fe Ski basin there’s a pull- out called Aspen Vista. Try and get a proper parking spot now.  Ha!  If you’re lucky, you’ll manage to find a close-in space on the up or down shoulder of the road, under signs that say “No parking,” though there’s an expectation at this time of year that spillover parking probably won’t be ticketed.  From Aspen Vista there’s a dirt road that winds up to some communications towers on the top of Tesuque Peak, at nearly 12,000 feet in altitude. Not everyone manages to hike the entire six

Llama Drama in Valle Vidal

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

Oh, ye who are totally dependent on instant cell phone connection with anyone anytime, read no further. Valle Vidal is cut off from the world: 100,0000 acres in the middle of the Sangre de Cristo range, south of the Colorado line, east of Taos, west of Raton.  Little Costilla Peak, a 12,500 mountain that tops out 1000 feet above the tree line, presides over pine and aspen forests, grassy meadows sprinkled with little flowers, enticing trout streams and meandering  little brooks too remote and insignificant to attract fishermen. Ten of us camped at one of these idyllic spots barred to motorized transport, at 10,700 feet, this past week.  Six adults. Four boys. And did we luck out!  No rain packing in.  No rain at all—until we’d packed out and were saying goodbye to our fellow campers—and to our llamas.                                                                                  

Yes, we were llama trekking.  I love to walk, to hike, to trek, but I do not take kindly to carrying huge loads on my back, so I am always happy to have any means to transport to get my gear from point to point.  I’ve trekked with van back up, with sherpas, with horses, and this time I got to have my stuff carried by llamas.  You know: yamas, not lamas, who are Tibetan Buddhist adepts.

To get to the trailhead for this hike my grandson and I had first to drive 70 miles north to Taos, then 40 miles trending northeast to Questa and Amalia, and finally mostly east and mostly on gravel, gravel—with billows of dust!  If we ended up following another vehicle, that is, which always seemed to happen, despite the dearth of traffic, probably because I drive—um!—confidently on bad roads and always manage to catch up  to dust raising pickups.  However, even before we hit the bad stuff, the stuffing had fallen out of my car: a plastic protective thingumajig came unfastened and began sweeping the roadway, making a horrendous noise.  Other drivers gestured.  Pedestrians pointed.  It was very dramatic.  This happened, of course, after 6:00 pm the night before our morning appointment with the llamas.  First aid involved duct tape to hold the gizmo in place—applied by grandson, of course.  Surgery with B & B scissors followed.  Also performed by grandson.  Good kid. Next week: a consultation with people in the know.

Meanwhile, the essentials of the car were in fine shape, so we reached our meeting point: Clayton Corral, elev. some 9500 feet, where eight llamas and a trip leader were waiting for the clients. Llama names: K2, Matchu, Pitchu, Rusty, Onyx, etc.  Some all white; some—yep! rusty, some mottled brown and white, some almost black.  Some sporting dread locks, some with nice curly coats, all with up-pointing, in-curving ears, on swivels. One ear could listen forward while the other focused on some person’s attempt to be friendly—or commanding.  All of the llamas were standing around and humming, almost inaudibly, at different pitches. Well, they were hitched, by short leads, to their carrier truck, so they had to stand around, and singing may have made the boredom more bearable.                                                             

Eventually all clients arrived and all gear got lashed to one llama or another, crammed into weight-matched panniers filled with about 30 pounds each of clothes, personal effects, tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, food—including a clumsy-looking pair of coolers K2 had to carry, utensils, water for the first night, etc., etc.  The llamas took it all very patiently—as if they had a choice. 

But then, I’m told llamas have been carrying loads for people in the Andes for some 6,000 years, so I suppose they’re resigned to the servitude.  As are their very remote cousins, the camels and dromedaries of Asian and African deserts.  Llamas fold their legs like camels when they are resting and they have the same  herky-jerky three stage process for getting back onto their feet.  Note also the head carriage.  The disdainful nose-in-the-air look.  And the eyelashes. 

In Navajo Country: Canyon de Chelly

By Patricia H. Kushlis

On August 8th, I wrote about the Monument Valley, the valley in Arizona – and a tiny slice of Utah – not California, that film director John Ford made famous. But there’s another site on the Navajo Reservation that is just as spectacular. This is Canyon de Chelly. It’s located to Monument Valley’s south and east. It is still in (Photo: Canyon de Chelly from Tsegi Overlook - Photo by PHKushlis 2009) Arizona but much closer to the New Mexico border than Monument Valley.

Maybe Canyon de Chelly (corruption of the Navajo name Tseyi) is less well known because it did not figure in twentieth century Hollywood film lore. Or perhaps because it’s off well traveled grand-tours-of-the-Southwest-tour-company routes. Or because – well - how many canyons can a tourist visit without one blurring into the next. After all the Grand Canyon has many more tourist amenities and is far closer to “civilization” via the major cross country Interstate (I-40) that makes visits there far more accessible for the greatest numbers.

Lack of crowds a plus

But the lack of crowds is part of what makes Canyon de Chelly - designated a National Monument not National Park – so appealing. A private visitor can take the self-drive tour along the rim road stopping at well marked look outs with plenty of time and space to see, photograph and read about the Anasazi ruins, the various tribes that inhabited the canyon – one replacing the other over time - as well as just enjoy the natural beauty of the geology still well preserved by both the US Park Service and the Navajo.

Canyon de Chelly is also unique because it is the only US National Monument that is run in cooperation with the Navajo Nation. The Navajo Tribal Council voted in its favor in 1925 and the bill passed Congress in 1931. Navajos still live within – and, of course, beyond - the boundaries, farm its valley in spring and summer and guide visitors down and back up the steep canyon walls to the rivers below.

Perhaps the most famous picture of Canyon de Chelly is one by the early photographer Edward S. Curtis taken in 1904 that the New York Times sold as a limited edition print earlier this year. Since I discovered the same or a similar photograph – or I think it is the same – as a free-bee on Wikipedia, (photo left) I don’t really see the need to buy a copy from the Times – or anyone else. Or maybe the Curtis photo the Times is selling is different – but it sure looks like the one on Wikipedia to me. Regardless, I took my own photos. And since I don’t collect historic photos anyway, I plan to forgo the Times offer.

A humbling site

Curtis’s photo of a small group of horses and riders at the base of the canyon walls evokes a quiet solitude of a far off place more than a century ago that did not become a National Monument until 1931. This photograph depicts what insignificant specks humans really are in comparison to the enormous rock formations that tower above.

What makes Canyon de Chelly unique is that this essence of insignificance is still there. The ancient dwellings at the canyon’s base and carved into caves in its walls are specks. Telescopes or telescopic lenses are needed to see them from the rim. So too the farms, people, cows, cars and horses along the river’s edge or even fording the river itself.

Two of the best known sites within the canyon are the White House Overlook and Trail and the magnificent Spider Rock. Both views (and the White House Trail) are accessible from the south rim drive – plan to spend several hours because each of the seven overlooks off this 16 mile paved road offers a unique vista. Canyon del Muerto – another part of the Canyon de Chelly National Monument is yet another experience which we will need to return to another time.

(Photo right: South Rim Drive - fording the river 2009 style by PHKushlis and photo left: Spider Rock by PHKushlis 2009).

As with Monument Valley, lather on the sun screen, wear good walking shoes and a sun hat and take plenty of water with you. Unlike Monument Valley, however, the drive is on paved roads (only the short segments to the overlooks are not) and Canyon de Chelly is open all year.

Getting there: Take Route 3 North from I-40 at Gallup to 191 west of Ganado. Drive north on 191 to Chinle and east on Route 7 to the Canyon de Chelly US National Monument Visitor Center to pick up maps, history and the Motoring Guide. The South Rim drive ends at Spider Rock Overlook. The North Rim drive is along Route 64 when ends at Route 12. Like Monument Valley, Canyon de Chelly is surrounded by the Navajo Nation.

Farmer's Market Veggies for As-You-Like-It Sambar Soup

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

Sambar is a spicy lentil soup that’s served with masala dosa or idli in South India.  Usually a fresh coconut chutney is also served. 

What’s a dosa?  It’s a huge ghee-crisp crèpe that is folded around several dollops of curried potato. Normally you eat dosa with your hands, like a burrito, but the fastidious non-Indian may reach for a fork, especially after a lot of sambar has been poured over and around it.  I don’t know of anyone who’s eaten a dosa and not fallen in love.

Idlis are another matter.  Even I didn’t think much of idli for breakfast when I first encountered them.  Where’s the dosa? I thought.  Both idli and dosa begin with a batter composed of lentils and rice that have been softened by soaking, ground together in a blender, then left to ferment a bit.  Eventually the dosa gets cooked in ghee on a griddle, while the idlis are steamed in a special steamer (one tray of which is illustrated here). 

After a session in the steamer, the idli emerge–moist, delicate, ever so subtly flavored, the perfect foil for the contrastive flavors of spicy hot sambar and cooling coconut chutney. In some ways, I actually prefer idli to dosa now, which doesn’t mean I’d ever refuse a dosa, if offered.  Another very attractive attribute of idli: there’s no fat involved in preparation. 

I’ve never managed to make an acceptable dosa.  My batter looks fine, but I can’t seem to cook them. Of course, I don’t have a huge, shelf-sized griddle like the one at the terrific idli place in Colombo, Sri Lanka, where I often met friends for lunch.  Or the griddle at the upstairs hole-in-the-wall just down the street from my work place in Kolkata, West Bengal, India.  Whoa! Colombo and Kolkata aren’t in Tamilnadu, you might protest.  Exactly.  Dosa is as insidious as pizza.  It wins over gourmands and gluttons everywhere. 

The spicy potato stuffing is part of a dosa’s appeal.  Most any Indian cookbook has a recipe, and every formula is well nigh fail safe: boiled potatoes added to onions fried to the transparent stage in peanut oil or any other essentially tasteless cooking oil, turmeric and some spices of the South Indian persuasion.  Samosas, also popular with foreigners as well as Indians, get a similar  filling, except the spice mix is different, because samosas originate from the more northerly parts of the country.  Take a small uncooked chapati, cut it in half, wrap it around a generous tablespoon of spiced potato and deep fry it. Yum. Great hors d’oeuvres for parties.  Great any time snack. 

To sum up:  dosas are almost impossible for amateurs to get right.  Idli involve the nuisance of steaming.  Samosas are easy to fry, but tedious to construct. And coconut chutney that’s edible requires messing around with fresh not frozen or dried coconut.

That leaves sambar, which is easy to prepare and absolutely delicious.  You don’t have to eat it over a dosa or an idli either.  Sambar alone makes a perfectly slurp-worthy soup, another farmers’ market special with a flavor entirely different from last week’s chicken vegetable soup.  What makes sambar particularly easy is that you can buy a jar of sambar spice mix from any shop that carries

Monument Valley: Bouncing Along Nostalgia Road

By Patricia H. Kushlis

I’ve never been a western movie aficionado. Nevertheless, growing up in the West and having a grandfather who had been a sheriff in California’s San Joaquin Valley for over twenty years, I got more than my fill of classic westerns at the local movie theater (Photo: Monument Valley by P. H. Kushlis, April 13, 2009) on Saturday afternoons - not to mention numerous tales of real life in California’s early West at home.

So when I toured Monument Valley in April this year for the first time, the scenery was not unexpected. But it was far more spectacular than I had remembered from the celluloid screen years ago.

A reality-based movie set

Monument Valley, the setting of several of John Ford’s classic cowboys and Indians stagecoach shoot ‘em ups, really does exist. So too do the incredible rock formations and the shapes and colors of their ever changing shadows that creep across the desert expanse as the sun slides from East to West over this northern most part of Arizona with only a small slice across the Utah line.

This is no fake setting manufactured on the back lot of some Hollywood studio.

Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park

It is an incredible place – a movie set smack-dab in the middle of the Navajo Nation. Monument Valley is the Navajos own and until earlier this year, lodging for visitors was confined to tiny towns at least a few miles drive away.

Yummy. Economical, Healthy Special Recipe for Santa Fe Farmer’s Market Chicken Vegetable Soup

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

I love to eat soup.  I even like to make soup.  And I adore shopping for fresh vegetables, so Saturday mornings at the Farmers Market in Santa Fe are pure pleasure.   Pleasure for the eye.  Pleasure chatting with farmers and with friends I happen to bump into. Pleasure just sauntering around.  And pleasure anticipating that first spoonful from the soup bowl.

Before I get down to business, let me linger on a few of the sights and sounds of the Farmers Market.  I didn’t buy any flowers today, but I could have---dahlias, zinnias, gladiolas, lavender---plus all sorts of edible or decorative plants for my garden, were I in a dig-and-sweat mood. I gave a wave to the guy who recycles iris tubers.  For practically nothing you can have elegant prize-winning varieties in your own garden.  I stopped to tap my foot in time with the fiddler and grinned at the  jolly fellow singing old Hispanic songs.  Violin case and hat were filling nicely with green stuff, I noted.  Then my mouth was watering full flow as I lingered over fresh pastries and pies, which I usually don’t buy for two reasons.  One, calories.  Two, I do my own baking, except for croissants or the occasional cheese Danish at my favorite breakfast spots.  Bread is another matter.  I can’t improve on the breads I find at Sage Bakery, which also supplies many restaurants in town.

The farmers market is a great place for carnivores as well as herbi-vores.  Free range beef.  Pork from pigs who don’t live in crates.  Poultry from chickens who get to run around all day outside. Plus goat and yak and bison/American buffalo. And if you love cheese,  this is the place.  I’ve served Sweetwoods goat cheese to a Brit married to a French woman and resident in France.  His reaction: nothing better of that particular variety of fromage  in France.     

But today I am mostly buying vegetables, because I am making soup.  I bought a pound of each of the following: baby squash, fingerling potatoes, vidalia onions, carrots, skinny green beans.  Except for the beans, the cost was $2.00 a pound, so that’s $8.00 for the vegetables, plus 50¢ for the celery I had to buy at the super-market and $3.00 more for a half pound of the beans.   Total veggie cost for the soup: $11.50. 

Head Iseseisvuspäev!

by Cheryl Rofer

I'm a bit conflicted today. Yes, as the title of the post implies, I'll be celebrating Fourth of July tonight with friends. But it's the first Üldlaulupidu since 1999 that I haven't attended. There are many complicated reasons for that, and I'm not totally unhappy I'm not in Tallinn beyond always thinking that it would be nice to be in Tallinn.

So here's a mini-lalupidu. Still photos are taken from today's orgy of laulupidu photos in Postimees.

It always rains, of course, for laulupidu, although some of the photos have a bright blue sky in them. Fortunately, the northern Europeans, Finns especially, manufacture thin rain ponchos that sell (or did the last time I was there) for about a dollar apiece. They come in a little case, about four centimeters by six, only a few millimeters thick. But don't think about folding them back up when they're dry. They're usable, but they'll never see those dimensions again. I've still got an unused one in my day pack.