Westwood
July 14, 1971
My Nikon has been a life preserver. Clinging to it, I have given the world a second look and discovered beauty. The hours I spend in the darkroom are enthralling but lonely. Floyd Rinker, my high school English teacher, phoned and asked how I was.
"Could be better," I said. “My marriage has broken up.”
"Come over and tell me about it."
I did. After a few hours of telling him, I asked: "Where do I go from here?"
"How much traveling have you done?"
"Martha's Vineyard. Fort Lauderdale."
"Never been to Europe? At your age? Go!"
I tried to hide my qualms about traveling alone, but this guru read my mind.
"If you'll behave yourself," he said gruffly over lunch a week later, "maybe I'll go along. I don't like to be spoken to until after I've had my morning coffee, I don't like to be kept waiting for cocktails, and don't expect me to traipse all over the countryside with you and your camera." Included in our arrangements are two side tours for me alone—to Copenhagen and to Istanbul.
Sept. 1971 Wednesday or Thursday or something like that
North British Hotel
Edinburgh, Scotland
Floyd elected to have a continental breakfast brought up to his room, but I wended my way to the dining room after first trying to go through a large pair of decorative windows.
“We’re off to a bit of the wrong direction this morning,” burred a cheerful porter, steering me toward the right one. I had so wanted to see what was on the other side of the looking glass, but the Scots are a practical sort who keep their white rabbits well hidden.
I did see a mad hatter during our brief stop at the London airport. He was about four feet tall and solemnly preoccupied with stacking and re-stacking all the hats his family had collected during their travels,
then balancing the lot on his head to see how they felt.
When he was satisfied with the effect, I snapped his picture, whereupon his mother, Lady McKuen, asked me to send her a copy and even offered to pay for it. Never having been within gawking distance of a real Lady before, let alone being commissioned to do a portrait of her son, I was that flattered!
Now we can only hope that the latent image on my film turns out to be a likeness of the lad and not of his Lordship’s butt, which had a disconcerting way of intruding itself between camera and subject at precisely the moment I was ready to fire away.
2 November 71
Dear Mrs. Malley
It was a lovely surprise to get those sweet photographs of my Mad Hatter son. Thank you very much indeed. He, John, is very proud of them; to the rest of us it brings back the summer days as now the wind howls round the house and the leaves fall off the trees. You have caught the summer feeling and the serious/eccentric character of your small subject.
Thank you very much for sending me the copies. With best wishes, Brigid McKuen.
January 2012
I left Copenhagen for Milan at 9:30 a.m., where—according to my travel agent’s plan— I was to get on a train for Venice at 5:43 a.m. This temporal legerdemain was beyond me. True, I had not been paying much attention to the news the last ten days. I’d heard Khrushchev was dead, and a bank in London was robbed, but as far as I knew, time zones had not been altered.
Fortunately, Floyd detected this error before we parted in Edinburgh on the tenth, so the first thing I did upon arrival in Copenhagen was to seek out the local AAA. I was told I would have ample time after arriving in Milan to catch the train for Venice.
Other things I sought out in Copenhagen: The Little Mermaid; The funny mirror in the Tivoli Gardens; the Stroget or “walking street.” On the Stroget, some sit on a bench and read the local newspaper; some sit and feed the pigeons; some sit and smile; others fiddle for a living. The lady with the camera walks the Walking Street and takes pictures.
I'm not homesick in the least, but the suitcase I bought in Filene’s Basement is a problem. I wrote Floyd that not only is there more than enough room for my wardrobe, but I could also curl up and sleep in it in an emergency. He replied that he had heard of babies left in baskets on doorsteps, but to see a full-grown woman arise from a suitcase would be a novelty.
Sept. 13, 1971
Venice
My train was due to arrive in Venice at 5:02 p.m. At 5:05 the train stopped and the few passengers still aboard began piling off. I hefted my two suitcases down from the overhead rack, then discovered the corridor was too narrow and crowded to get everything off in one trip. With my carry‑all and camera hanging from my left ahoulder, and my purse and smaller suitcase clutched in my right hand, I disembarked. Leaving the suitcase on the platform, I returned to my compartment for the jumbo bag. By the time I staggered down the steps of the train, my shoulders were pleading for mercy. Not a porter in sight. Italian male stalwarts stare studiously in other directions.
Loaded down like a camel, I staggered down a long flight of stairs leading to the terminal, and eventually found a taxi.
"Please take me to the Bauer‑Grunwald Hotel," I said to the handsome young driver, as I settled back with a relieved sigh.
"The Bauer‑Grunwald is in Venice."
"I know," I said. "That's where I want you to take me."
"It will cost you 30,000 lire."
It sounded like a lot of lire. "Why so much?"
"Because we are not in Venice. You should have gotten off at the next stop."
I pictured myself staggering back to the train, only to have it chug off as I approached. Quel nightmare!
Okay, I told the driver, take me to the Bauer‑Grunwald. On the way, I remembered my letter to Floyd. Suppose he had disobeyed orders and was now waiting for me at the Venezia station?
"Driver, I may have a friend waiting for me at the railroad station. We'd better go there first."
"I cannot do this, Madame."
"Why not?"
"Because of the waterways. I will take you to the water bus that will take you to the station."
At the water‑bus dock, I dragged, pushed, and pulled my suitcase to the ticket window while a throng of muttering commuters shouldered their way past me. I was now sweating profusely and was sure my hairpiece as well as my scarf needed adjusting. Either that or my bangs had grown six inches in ten minutes.
"A ticket to the railroad station," I said when I reached the window.
"Numero uno, numero uno!"
"Yes, just one," I said.
"Numero uno!" the ticket agent repeated, glaring and pointing off to his right. I picked up my bags again and stumbled toward gate numero uno. I remembered that Kathie's impression of Italian men had been unfavorable, and I was fast learning why. Gallant, charming, and flattering they may be when you're tripping along taking in the sights but attention unrelated to romance is not their forte. As I joined the crowd milling toward the boat, my purse fell open and spilled out my passport, hotel itinerary, change purse, and vitamin pills. People stepped around, over, and on me while I crouched down and collected my belongings. I was the last one to board the boat. I reached the station too late. My bangs grew another four inches.
Enough! My pencil is worn to the nub and so am I.
Sept. 14, 1971
Hotel Bauer Grunwald
From the moment I reached this hotel, I've been in a fairyland. The Grand Canal flows by my balcony.
Across the canal is a church. its dome glowing in the light of the setting sun. Wherever I turn, there are spires, domes, and cupolas outlined against a pink‑streaked sky. The activity on the canal holds me like a magnet; I can scarcely tear myself away long enough to unpack. Gondolas propelled by lithe gondaliers. Barges conveying everything from laundry to vegetables. Motor boats, waterbusses, huge steam-ships ‑‑ there is so much to see, it is impossible to describe.
Venice...ah, Venice! Everyone I love must see Venice.
July 14, 1971
My Nikon has been a life preserver. Clinging to it, I have given the world a second look and discovered beauty. The hours I spend in the darkroom are enthralling but lonely. Floyd Rinker, my high school English teacher, phoned and asked how I was.
"Could be better," I said. “My marriage has broken up.”
 |
| WITH FLOYD AT NEWTON HIGH SCHOOL 25TH REUNION 1964 |
I did. After a few hours of telling him, I asked: "Where do I go from here?"
"How much traveling have you done?"
"Martha's Vineyard. Fort Lauderdale."
"Never been to Europe? At your age? Go!"
I tried to hide my qualms about traveling alone, but this guru read my mind.
"If you'll behave yourself," he said gruffly over lunch a week later, "maybe I'll go along. I don't like to be spoken to until after I've had my morning coffee, I don't like to be kept waiting for cocktails, and don't expect me to traipse all over the countryside with you and your camera." Included in our arrangements are two side tours for me alone—to Copenhagen and to Istanbul.
Sept. 1971 Wednesday or Thursday or something like that
North British Hotel
Edinburgh, Scotland
Floyd elected to have a continental breakfast brought up to his room, but I wended my way to the dining room after first trying to go through a large pair of decorative windows.
“We’re off to a bit of the wrong direction this morning,” burred a cheerful porter, steering me toward the right one. I had so wanted to see what was on the other side of the looking glass, but the Scots are a practical sort who keep their white rabbits well hidden.
I did see a mad hatter during our brief stop at the London airport. He was about four feet tall and solemnly preoccupied with stacking and re-stacking all the hats his family had collected during their travels,
then balancing the lot on his head to see how they felt.
 |
| LADY McKUEN'S SON JOHN |
Now we can only hope that the latent image on my film turns out to be a likeness of the lad and not of his Lordship’s butt, which had a disconcerting way of intruding itself between camera and subject at precisely the moment I was ready to fire away.
2 November 71
Dear Mrs. Malley
It was a lovely surprise to get those sweet photographs of my Mad Hatter son. Thank you very much indeed. He, John, is very proud of them; to the rest of us it brings back the summer days as now the wind howls round the house and the leaves fall off the trees. You have caught the summer feeling and the serious/eccentric character of your small subject.
Thank you very much for sending me the copies. With best wishes, Brigid McKuen.
January 2012
Kathie found Lady McKuen online . . .
BERWICKSHIRE NEWS
November 25, 2010
. . .The honour of opening the exhibition was bestowed on Lady Brigid McEwen of Marchmont, who herself is a keen Wojtek enthusiast having dedicated a chapter to him in her book about the Polish war effort.
She said she was “extremely honoured” to be asked to perform the opening after being told the story of Wojtek many years ago.
“I was originally told about Wojtek by an old Polish Soldier who came over to Britain during the war. . .
“They were treated very unjustly at the end of the war so I wanted to write a book which highlighted all of their efforts.
“Wojtek was an extraordinary animal so it was only right that he was featured heavily. . . ."
On their trip through Iran, the men of the Polish 22nd Transport Artillery Supply Company came across a young Iranian boy wandering through the desert, and carrying a large cloth sack. The men thought the boy looked tired and hungry, so they gave him some food and a Crunch bar. When the kid thanked them, the Poles asked what was in the bag. The boy opened it up and revealed a tiny, malnourished brown bear cub. Since the soldiers knew the little cub was in very poor health and needed attention quickly, they bought the bear from the kid for a few bucks (or whatever they used for money in 1940’s Iran) and fed it some condensed milk from a makeshift bottle. For the next several days, they nursed the bear back to health, giving it food, water, and a warm place to sleep.
 |
| THE MOST BADASS WRESTLER |
November 25, 2010
. . .The honour of opening the exhibition was bestowed on Lady Brigid McEwen of Marchmont, who herself is a keen Wojtek enthusiast having dedicated a chapter to him in her book about the Polish war effort.
She said she was “extremely honoured” to be asked to perform the opening after being told the story of Wojtek many years ago.
“I was originally told about Wojtek by an old Polish Soldier who came over to Britain during the war. . .
“They were treated very unjustly at the end of the war so I wanted to write a book which highlighted all of their efforts.
“Wojtek was an extraordinary animal so it was only right that he was featured heavily. . . ."
On their trip through Iran, the men of the Polish 22nd Transport Artillery Supply Company came across a young Iranian boy wandering through the desert, and carrying a large cloth sack. The men thought the boy looked tired and hungry, so they gave him some food and a Crunch bar. When the kid thanked them, the Poles asked what was in the bag. The boy opened it up and revealed a tiny, malnourished brown bear cub. Since the soldiers knew the little cub was in very poor health and needed attention quickly, they bought the bear from the kid for a few bucks (or whatever they used for money in 1940’s Iran) and fed it some condensed milk from a makeshift bottle. For the next several days, they nursed the bear back to health, giving it food, water, and a warm place to sleep.
Over the long journey from Iran to Palestine, the bear, now named Voytek (it’s spelled Wojtek in Polish but pronounced "Voytek”) quickly became the unofficial mascot of the 22nd Company. The bear would sit around the campfire with the men, eating, drinking, and sleeping in tents with the rest of the soldiers. The bear loved smoking cigarettes, drank beer right out of the bottle like a regular infantryman, and got a kick out of wrestling and play-fighting with the other soldiers. Of course, he was the most badass wrestler in the entire company, thanks in part to the fact that he grew to be six feet tall, weighed roughly five hundred pounds, and could knock small trees over with a single swing of his massive, clawed paw.
He grew to be a part of the unit, improving the morale of men who had spent several years in slave labor camps, and was treated as though he were just another hard-drinkin’, hard-smoking’, hard-fightin’, hair-growin’ soldier in the Company. When the unit marched out on a mission, Voytek would stand up on his hind legs and march alongside them. When the motorized convoy was on the move, Voytek sat in the passenger seat of one of the jeeps, hanging his head out the window and shocking the shit out of people walking down the street. . . .
September 11, 1971
King Frederick Hotel, Copenhagen, Denmark
Dear Floyd,
After checking into the King Frederick, I walked across the square to the Tivoli Gardens and had my first adventure almost as soon as I passed through the gate. I was taking in all the lights and excitement and fun, and bumping into people in a touristy way that would make my husband cringe, when suddenly I found myself nose to nose with an Indian. I couldn't have jumped higher if he'd had a tomahawk and feathers. He was the kind of Indian who comes from India; but his swarthy complexion, curly black beard, and gleaming black eyes, weren't what I'd expected to meet on a dark night in the Tivoli Gardens.
He grew to be a part of the unit, improving the morale of men who had spent several years in slave labor camps, and was treated as though he were just another hard-drinkin’, hard-smoking’, hard-fightin’, hair-growin’ soldier in the Company. When the unit marched out on a mission, Voytek would stand up on his hind legs and march alongside them. When the motorized convoy was on the move, Voytek sat in the passenger seat of one of the jeeps, hanging his head out the window and shocking the shit out of people walking down the street. . . .
September 11, 1971
King Frederick Hotel, Copenhagen, Denmark
Dear Floyd,
 |
| TIVOLI GARDENS |
"Hello!" he said, between the gap in his front teeth. I was speechless.
"I only said hello. Is that so frightening?" He fell into step beside me, asking where I was from and how I liked Copenhagen. I decided to ignore his piratical appearance and assume he was a harmless foreigner from a strange land, even as I. He told me how difficult it was for a native of India to leave his country. After buying his airline ticket, he was permitted to take with him only $8.00 in American currency. Fortunately, he had a brother living in London, who was able to help him.
"Oh, look," he said, stopping suddenly and pointing. "They have gambling in there. Do you enjoy gambling? Why don't we go in and watch?"
I saw that piratical glint in his eye again, and said I didn't care for gambling and thought I'd go back to my hotel. The pirate tried to talk me into having a drink with him, but orange lights were flashing in my head. He walked me to the gate of my hotel, and when I wouldn't agree to meet him the next night at a definite time and place, he bowed and smiled and said we would perhaps meet again by chance.
If you never hear from me again, you'll know we met by chance, whereupon I was doped and smuggled off to India as a white slave. Further adventures I'll relate in person when I see you in Venice. Don't plan to meet my train; I have become self sufficient and will see you at the whatever-it‑is hotel when I get there. If I'm more than 48 hours late, check with the Bureau of Missing Persons in New Delhi.
I have been forgetting to take my tranquilizers, yet have never felt more tranquil. I think of Ed once in awhile, but am no longer obsessed. Your travel prescription is working, Dr. Rinker. . . .
"I only said hello. Is that so frightening?" He fell into step beside me, asking where I was from and how I liked Copenhagen. I decided to ignore his piratical appearance and assume he was a harmless foreigner from a strange land, even as I. He told me how difficult it was for a native of India to leave his country. After buying his airline ticket, he was permitted to take with him only $8.00 in American currency. Fortunately, he had a brother living in London, who was able to help him.
"Oh, look," he said, stopping suddenly and pointing. "They have gambling in there. Do you enjoy gambling? Why don't we go in and watch?"
I saw that piratical glint in his eye again, and said I didn't care for gambling and thought I'd go back to my hotel. The pirate tried to talk me into having a drink with him, but orange lights were flashing in my head. He walked me to the gate of my hotel, and when I wouldn't agree to meet him the next night at a definite time and place, he bowed and smiled and said we would perhaps meet again by chance.
If you never hear from me again, you'll know we met by chance, whereupon I was doped and smuggled off to India as a white slave. Further adventures I'll relate in person when I see you in Venice. Don't plan to meet my train; I have become self sufficient and will see you at the whatever-it‑is hotel when I get there. If I'm more than 48 hours late, check with the Bureau of Missing Persons in New Delhi.
I have been forgetting to take my tranquilizers, yet have never felt more tranquil. I think of Ed once in awhile, but am no longer obsessed. Your travel prescription is working, Dr. Rinker. . . .
September 12, 1971
Copenhagen I left Copenhagen for Milan at 9:30 a.m., where—according to my travel agent’s plan— I was to get on a train for Venice at 5:43 a.m. This temporal legerdemain was beyond me. True, I had not been paying much attention to the news the last ten days. I’d heard Khrushchev was dead, and a bank in London was robbed, but as far as I knew, time zones had not been altered.
Fortunately, Floyd detected this error before we parted in Edinburgh on the tenth, so the first thing I did upon arrival in Copenhagen was to seek out the local AAA. I was told I would have ample time after arriving in Milan to catch the train for Venice.
Other things I sought out in Copenhagen: The Little Mermaid; The funny mirror in the Tivoli Gardens; the Stroget or “walking street.” On the Stroget, some sit on a bench and read the local newspaper; some sit and feed the pigeons; some sit and smile; others fiddle for a living. The lady with the camera walks the Walking Street and takes pictures.
 |
| ON THE WALKING STREET, SOME SIT AND READ. |
 |
| SOME SIT AND FEED THE PIGEONS |
 |
| SOME SIT AND SMILE AND RESEMBLE THEIR DOGS . . . |
 |
| SOME SIT AND FIDDLE FOR A LIVELIHOOD. |
 |
| THE LITTLE MERMAID LOOKS HOMESICK. |
Sept. 13, 1971
Venice
My train was due to arrive in Venice at 5:02 p.m. At 5:05 the train stopped and the few passengers still aboard began piling off. I hefted my two suitcases down from the overhead rack, then discovered the corridor was too narrow and crowded to get everything off in one trip. With my carry‑all and camera hanging from my left ahoulder, and my purse and smaller suitcase clutched in my right hand, I disembarked. Leaving the suitcase on the platform, I returned to my compartment for the jumbo bag. By the time I staggered down the steps of the train, my shoulders were pleading for mercy. Not a porter in sight. Italian male stalwarts stare studiously in other directions.
Loaded down like a camel, I staggered down a long flight of stairs leading to the terminal, and eventually found a taxi.
"Please take me to the Bauer‑Grunwald Hotel," I said to the handsome young driver, as I settled back with a relieved sigh.
"The Bauer‑Grunwald is in Venice."
"I know," I said. "That's where I want you to take me."
"It will cost you 30,000 lire."
It sounded like a lot of lire. "Why so much?"
"Because we are not in Venice. You should have gotten off at the next stop."
I pictured myself staggering back to the train, only to have it chug off as I approached. Quel nightmare!
Okay, I told the driver, take me to the Bauer‑Grunwald. On the way, I remembered my letter to Floyd. Suppose he had disobeyed orders and was now waiting for me at the Venezia station?
"Driver, I may have a friend waiting for me at the railroad station. We'd better go there first."
"I cannot do this, Madame."
"Why not?"
"Because of the waterways. I will take you to the water bus that will take you to the station."
At the water‑bus dock, I dragged, pushed, and pulled my suitcase to the ticket window while a throng of muttering commuters shouldered their way past me. I was now sweating profusely and was sure my hairpiece as well as my scarf needed adjusting. Either that or my bangs had grown six inches in ten minutes.
"A ticket to the railroad station," I said when I reached the window.
"Numero uno, numero uno!"
"Yes, just one," I said.
"Numero uno!" the ticket agent repeated, glaring and pointing off to his right. I picked up my bags again and stumbled toward gate numero uno. I remembered that Kathie's impression of Italian men had been unfavorable, and I was fast learning why. Gallant, charming, and flattering they may be when you're tripping along taking in the sights but attention unrelated to romance is not their forte. As I joined the crowd milling toward the boat, my purse fell open and spilled out my passport, hotel itinerary, change purse, and vitamin pills. People stepped around, over, and on me while I crouched down and collected my belongings. I was the last one to board the boat. I reached the station too late. My bangs grew another four inches.
Enough! My pencil is worn to the nub and so am I.
Sept. 14, 1971
Hotel Bauer Grunwald
From the moment I reached this hotel, I've been in a fairyland. The Grand Canal flows by my balcony.
Across the canal is a church. its dome glowing in the light of the setting sun. Wherever I turn, there are spires, domes, and cupolas outlined against a pink‑streaked sky. The activity on the canal holds me like a magnet; I can scarcely tear myself away long enough to unpack. Gondolas propelled by lithe gondaliers. Barges conveying everything from laundry to vegetables. Motor boats, waterbusses, huge steam-ships ‑‑ there is so much to see, it is impossible to describe.
Venice...ah, Venice! Everyone I love must see Venice.
ng lessons.
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