Priorities. At midday in Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, the flea market on the north end of Paris, vendors pause their work to get down to business. Chairs are pulled out. Tables cleared. Plates distributed. Wine opened. Proprietors come together. Friends. Families. Crock pots, takeout containers and baguette sleeves. Amidst the art and the heirlooms, the deals and the detritus, the market stops to have lunch.
Before a February evening departure at København H.
My earliest memories of travel are of trips to Toronto. From our rural town, surrounded by trees and farms, we ventured east to visit family a few times a year. For four hours as we drove, I’d be on the edge of my seat, counting distance markers as the highway delivered us into Canada’s metropolis.
The afternoon rush in Copenhagen, inspired by MC Escher. “If we are always arriving and departing, it is also true that we are eternally anchored. One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.”
– Henry Miller
Geometry class is in session at the Olympic Park in Athens.
Saturday afternoon in Yokohama, not far from the Market.
In central Copenhagen, 3 of the 5 cylinders of the Axel Towers complex. Designed by Lundgaard & Tranberg, a wonderful example of the visual feast that is Danish architecture.
The copper-wrapped tower used for raising and lowering the Langebro (Long bridge) in Copenhagen’s Inner Harbour.
I’m really not a train guy. Despite all the images on this blog suggesting otherwise, I couldn’t tell you the first detail about locomotives or gauges, routes or liveries.
But in the gleaming – or dilapidated – vehicles, the frenetic stations and the detritus, I see stories. Of adventure. Of tragedy. Beginnings and endings. Speed and stasis. The machines that deliver us to the moments: the defining experiences of travel…
Amidst the morning commute at Copenhagen’s central station.
A spring day in the Oregon hills, not far from Portland.
Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom…is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go. – Anthony Bourdain
Lines of jumpers had been exiting C-47s and C-130s all day, their chutes unfurling as they left the aircraft doors. Standing in the drop zone shooting photos all morning, the USAF Combat Controllers had seen me running back and forth as people came in, landed, packed up and left. In a pause between airplanes, one Controller said to me, “Watch – these guys will be different.”
The bridge was critical. As the invasion of Normandy began, seizing and holding the La Fière bridge was one of three central objectives for the USAF. This route was essential for movement inland from Utah Beach and to prevent German reinforcements from moving west. It simply couldn’t be done without securing the bridge.
Crazy lines. Columns, grids, angles, lines — it’s all here in Madrid.
From the dark halls of the Ateneo de Madrid.
The curve of the Tagus river, in a huge panorama, shot from Mirador del Valle. One of my favourite prints from my collection was seeing this image as a triptych, each about 4 feet high, with 6 inches of white matting and a white frame. Stunning presentation on a large wall.
The Ateneo de Madrid, one of Spain’s cultural icons, is a striking library that dates from the early 1800’s. A legendary spot to retreat, study, socialize and — maybe most importantly — focus.
The sound seems to carry farther on cold mornings. Sharp little snapping sounds as shoes click along the floor, the odd bit of salt underfoot.
Queen Street, east of Yonge. A crowded streetcar on a cold Saturday afternoon offers respite from the biting wind.