Hong Kong Files #3 & 4 by Brian Leiken, guest blogger

Hong Kong Files #3

Today I decide to meet up with Kevin and take the ferry across Victoria Harbor to Central Hong Kong, the business district spurting with skyscrapers.  

On the way I’m accosted by more Indians and Burmese attempting to sell me purses, suits, and drugs, but by this point, I barely acknowledge them – to make eye contact requires a more persistent NO!

“Please sir, would you like to try a suit?”

“No, sorry.” I glance up to see it’s the same Burmese man who led me to his shop yesterday. “I already am having a suit made. With you in fact. "

He recognizes me, a second later he looks embarrassed. “Oh, so sorry sir. I will see you later, yes?”

I nod, and move on. The two Burmese men beside him redouble their efforts to get my attention. If I bought one suit from their friend, maybe I want another? No, sorry. Moving on, it’s 9:30 AM, and I’m already sweating. 

I pass by a Holiday Inn. Curious, I walk inside and am surprised to see marble floors and counters.

It looks like a 4 star hotel with valet and small men in red coats dashing back and forth to help customers. It’s nicer than my hotel, filled with Europeans sipping drinks, like something from an earlier century. 

Holiday Inn? Really? Makes you wonder what the YMCA is like. (I’ll pass by it later, it’s one of the best hotels in the city.)

I meet up with Kevin and we walk down to the pier. For about 50 cents you can climb aboard a ferry which leaves every ten minutes. Using my Octopus pass, I scan it across the turnstile and I see 3.8 Hong Kong dollars are automatically deducted. 

We climb on board and are greeted to an amazing view of the city, our boat circled by birds as we traverse choppy blue water. The ride is over quickly, maybe five minutes. Kevin wants to go to a hat shop and I’m just happy to tag along. 

Darting across lanes of traffic, we weave through a series of mini malls, and more shopping. There is no end to the sheer variety of stores here; and in Kowloon, the three most popular appearing to be skin cream stores like the Body Shop, jewelry stores all with Rolex signs, and a never ending parade of 7-11’s.

I’ve never seen more 7-11’s per square mile; every convenience store appears to be a 7-11 and they are on every block. 

I walked into one to check out prices and noticed that a tiny bag of M&M’s, barely more than a mouthful, was selling for about $1.10. Just like back home! Didn’t buy the M&M’s.

We begin to hike up hill. Central is quiet, reserved, it’s Sunday and most of the businesses are empty. It’s not a place people live so much as a place for them to do business. 

For the first time, I’m no longer surrounded by people, my new companions are the buildings, skyscrapers built on every available inch of land.

I point out that the skyscrapers look strange to me, and Kevin informs me that I think they look strange because they are unusually thin, built as high as possible on as little land as possible because space is at such a premium. 

We stop at a 7-11 and Kevin gets a beer. A group of men sit about outside, drinking. Kevin tells me this is a Hong Kong tradition.

People typically just gather round outside 7-11’s to drink.  

They all appear to be working class people, smoking cigarettes; none of them speak much, too busy nursing their beers. 

 

Further up into the city, we stop by a boutique hat shop. Kevin wants to try on hats, none of which fit his small head. There are a lot of fedora’s with bows, Newsie caps, and American sports team ball caps, including one for the Chicago Cubs. 

Yes, even here, I can buy American sports paraphernalia but the jokes on the Chinese – only they could possible think wearing a Cubs' hat would be cool.

We walk through the botanical gardens, a free zoo with simians kept behind sturdy black cages. Mostly monkeys and other tiny orange haired critters, but one little fellow looks Chinese with whiskers that resemble a Fu Manchu moustache. I try to take some photos but the distance and the bars prevent it 

We cross into Hong Kong park, which is filled with Filipino women enjoying their day off as they share food and chat. Most of them are maids; they are to Hong Kong what many Mexicans are to the United States, low-end labor the city imports to do the jobs Hong Kongers don’t want to do. 

There appears to be some sort of beauty contest going on, and I note the lack of men. I ask Kevin why there aren’t that many Filipino men in Hong Kong, but he doesn’t know.

That’s when I take note of something else. There are no homeless people in Hong Kong. Three days now, and I haven’t spotted one in a city of 7 million.

Where are they? Does the city sweep them up and push them into China, or offer them some sort of job and place to live, or do the locals simply look out for each other? I don’t know, but it’s the first time I’ve been in a city and not ever seen a homeless person.

We pass by a wedding couple standing on a street corner having  photos taken, the bride in a beautiful white dress, her husband in a black tux. Western style weddings have surpassed more traditional style Chinese weddings, and having unique wedding photos are an important status symbol among upper middle class Chinese couples.

I’ve read that Chinese will often rent out parts of a beach, or an entire building just to get that special photo. If I hadn’t read that, I would have the thought the bride and groom were just models; but something about the way he nuzzles her tells me otherwise.

We take the subway back to Kowloon. Using the Octopus pass, I wave it like a wand and the money is magically deducted from the card. No need for exact fare, the pass takes care of everything. The subways are clean and efficient. Hong Kong may have the best public transportation in the world.

We hit a local Chinese restaurant, and I order the Sweet and Sour pork which tastes just like something I could order back home. I’m just happy to see that many of the Chinese dishes I love aren’t like Tex Mex and are authentically enjoyed by the Chinese. Kevin and I agree to meet for dinner tomorrow and I head home.

Later I’ll go back to the tailor for a second fitting. This time it’s a Cantonese man who measures me. The clothes are half finished; the coat only has one sleeve, the pants no pockets, buttons or zipper.

I put them on and he takes new measurements, asking if I want my sleeves or pants shortened, or my coat further taken in. It takes about ten minutes, and I agree to come back tomorrow to pick up the finished product.

I head back to the Night Market and pass by the Jockey Club. About fifty men stare silently at teleprompters flashing numbers, silently praying their horse will win. 

They have no interest in watching the race, or any race, as every big screen TV in the room flashes endless arrays of numbers. The gamblers here are only interested in covering their bets. The greed is palatable, for these men a way of life.

I stop by a foot massage parlor, filled with locals busy getting their feet massaged. 

When I don’t know where to go in a foreign city, I have one simple rule: do what the locals do. Like all foot massage parlors in Hong Kong, a glowing neon sign with a raised foot stands outside, a happy face smiling from its sole.

I walk in and sink into a chair. A heavy woman with an iron grip boils my feet in a tub of water, then goes to work on my calves, shins, and ankles before working her way to the bottom of my feet.

It’s heavenly, and only about $15 American. Not cheap by Filipino prices, but that’s reasonable by LA prices. 

The TV is turned to a local channel. I watch a cooking show and although I can’t understand what is being said, I can follow the images. This episode the chef is showing the audience how to make lobster flavored ice cream, which judging by her facial expression is supposed to be delicious.

The next show is titled in English and Cantonese: Battle of the Senses. The premise is simple; two teams attempt to be the first to discover answers by being deprived a “sense.”

For example, one of the team members might have to sing through a mike underwater while his teammates attempt to figure out what he is singing. Another game involves blindfolding the entire team and then giving them something to touch, which they then have to identify what it is. 

This episode takes place at the Chinese version of Universal Studios and is essentially an advertisement for the theme park. 

The teams are blindfolded as three “famous” characters are brought out for them to touch and figure out who they are: Woody Woodpecker, Frankenstein, and the Gingerbread Man. Both teams figure out who all three are in under two minutes.  

I have to say I’m impressed, I’m not sure my students would get Woody Woodpecker. Then again they might not get Frankenstein or the Gingerbread Man either.

Back at my hotel there is a huge wedding taking place in the ballroom. I sneak a peek inside and see a drunk bride surrounded by a half dozen of her friends, all drinking from glasses of wine. 

The people are all Cantonese; but outside of their language and facial features, it could be an American wedding, down to the one lone rebel girl who has refused to dress up by wearing jeans with a spiked belt and a Led Zeppelin T-Shirt.

There’s some sort of story there, but I’m not about to crash a Chinese wedding.

Hong Kong Files #4   Victoria’s Peak

Today it’s off to Victoria’s Peak, or the “Peak,” the highest point in Hong Kong. 

By the 1880s, Hong Kong was getting overcrowded, but the British colonials were hemmed in by the mountains; and short of being transported by “coolies,” had no way to traverse them – at least until the cable car was invented.  

Suddenly, the entire mountain was traversable; using a pulley system, steam pumps and steel cables, it was possible to move up the mountain quickly and efficiently.

To this day the mountains surrounding Victoria’s Peak are some of the most highly priced real estate in the world. The average home here goes for about $260 million dollars (post bubble), and rent is upwards of $200,000 a month. (That’s American dollars, not Hong Kong dollars.) 

Big corporations have bought up the land and now use it for corporate retreats. The real estate is Hong Kong’s secret weapon and one of the methods by which the city generates revenue.

The peak's tram is a red cable car with forward facing seats. For about $2, I wave my Octopus pass and take a seat by the window.

As the pulley goes to work, I can feel gravity pushing against my back; it’s like being on a roller coaster before it plunges down the other side. 

If the cable breaks, the entire car would abruptly reverse course and scream down the hill – I calculate odds of survival from slim to nil.  

At the top is a shopping mall and terrace that offers one an amazing view of the city. The air is cooler up here; there is a pleasant breeze, and for the first time in days I feel like I can really enjoy being outside.

There’s even a McDonalds! (The Chinese call them McCafe’s.) And yes, there is also a 7-11, and a New York Fries, and a Hard Rock Café. Once again, America wins!

The view is dizzying. I can look out into the harbor where huge barges resemble toy boats as the bay turns into a magnificent river that divides the city in half.

If the Grand Canyon is the most amazing natural phenomenon I’ve observed, then Hong Kong is the most amazing city view I’ve seen. Most people mistakenly believe that humans can’t improve upon nature, that they only take away from natural beauty; but I don’t believe that is the case with Hong Kong.  

The buildings accentuate the land's uniqueness; even the forests on the mountain were built by design – the trees and topsoil were planted 130 years ago by appraising developers. There’s a reason why the land up here is expensive. The view is unique.

Back inside I pay about $20 to take a tour of Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. 

Outside a group of Indonesian women take photos with a wax doll of Pierce Brosnan dressed as James Bond. 

There is also a wax doll of Michelle Yeoh, a Hong Kong actress from an earlier Bond film with Brosnan, but that’s not who people are interested in – they want to take photos with Bond, James Bond. Chinese, Europeans, South East Asians – Bond is Bond.

Inside are a variety of figures and a handful of Hong Kong movie celebrities, including Jackie Chan and Jet Li.  

There is also a wax figure of Chairman Mao and Yao Ming; a normal Chinese man stands next to Yao Ming’s statue and looks like a hobbit.   

For the most part, however, it’s American and British celebrities. Crowds flock to take their photo with Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Madonna, Lady Gaga, Elvis, The Beatles, Einstein, Shakespeare, Spider-Man, Michael Jackson and Her Majesty, the Queen of England. 

There are even several dictators present: Saddam Hussein and Adolf Hitler and statues of Obama and George Bush.

A special photographer is set up to let people take photos with Obama in his oval office. I don’t see anyone opt for a photo with George Bush.

Taking the trolley back down, I notice now why all the seats face upward in one direction. If anyone was to sit facing downward, gravity would pull them out of their seat and send them tumbling down onto the floor.

I decide to hike through Hong Kong Central and spend the rest of the day walking up and down Hong Kong’s streets.

Central is where the foreigners gather, in bars with leather seats, serving burgers and pints of Guinness, offering mueslix and yogurt. British and Australians mostly, but I also overhear a number of American accents, including American sounding Asians.

A crowd of people surround a tea vendor, offering up 7 Hong Kong dollars for a plastic cup of sweetened tea. I buy one; it’s good.

I find myself on Hollywood Boulevard (the irony of this is not lost on me) and begin peeking in antique shops. Jade figurines, ivory combs, metal lanterns, exquisite model ships, dragon masks, dusty cabinets and chairs; is it authentic? No idea, but it looks old.  

I stop by the Ho Man temple, a small Buddha shrine where people pray to the twin gods of martial skill and education. Dark, red walls, incense curled into lamp shades that slowly burn above, small boxes with mysterious Chinese characters embedded into the wall, statues of serene Chinese with legs folded, palms praying.  

Unlike Christian churches, there is nothing awe inspiring about it; the point of the temple is to allow people to pray, not to frighten them into submission.

A handful of people come in and light incense. Crouching onto their knees, they pray, bowing, incense held to their forehead before rising to place the incense into sandy canisters. I don’t take any photos and I’m ignored.

Being Buddhists, I doubt they care what I do one-way or the other so long as I’m quiet and respectful. 

A second room has more statues of serene looking Chinese, but this one has offerings of fruit placed before them: one bowl with a pineapple, another with bananas, a third with grapes, a fourth with dragon fruit.

I have no idea what it means, but my guidebook states that people come here to pray when they need help with exams.

I walk back up the hill to the Sun Yat Sen museum, a colonial mansion near the top of Hong Kong island hill. Who is Sun Yat Sen you ask? 

Well he’s important, important enough to appear in the 7^th edition of the McGraw Hill 10^th grade world history textbook. If you can make it into a “standardized” world history text book, consider yourself a historical VIP, an icon that will be remembered for generations. The museum’s practially empty.

Sun Yat Sen was an impoverished cobbler’s son who became educated, converted to Christianity, and later a revolutionary in an attempt to modernize China. Hong Kong is where he agitated against the evils of the Chinese government until he was eventually banished and forced to flee to London. 

Traveling around the world, he raised money for the Chinese revolution, but eventually realized that money alone wouldn’t be enough to force change.

Befriending the Japanese, Sun Yat Sen later attempted to use the Japanese military in an attempt to overthrow the Chinsese government, but ultimately failed. In his later years, when he realized the Japanese were using him in an attempt to both destabilize and conquer China, he turned to help offered by the Soviets, inadvertently starting China on the path to Communism. Sun Yat Sen’s writing’s would have a great deal of influence on a young Mao Zedong.

As Marx is to Lenin, Sun Yat Sen is to Mao Zedong.

It’s also not all that interactive or interesting, but there are a number of photographs with captions in both English and Chinese. I’m more interested to see that Sun Yat Sen ditched his first wife (an arranged marriage) in favor of a much hotter second wife about ten years before he died.  

In his coat and tie he looks like an early 20^th century Edwardian businessman. In spite of all his failure, Sun Yat Sen was a prophet. He knew that if China was ever to unify and become great again, it would have to adopt a more Western world view.

But even I think he would be shocked by how Western the Chinese have become. Later today I will spot: 

A movie poster for Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter. (In Chinese characters.)

A Chinese marching band practicing with Scottish bag pipes.

A liquor store in Kowloon (meaning mostly Chinese customers) selling a wide array of foreign spirits. (including Chivas!)

At the end of the day I will pick up my coat and three pairs of tailormade pants: they fit like a glove. Total cost: $330.

I ask the tailor, a native to Hong Kong, why the Chinese don’t have more of their own brands. The Japanese have Sony, Toyota, Honda, Seiko; the Koreans have Hyundai, Kia, Samsung – the Chinese have nothing.

The tailor nods his head. “So far, we only make for others.  It take long time to build brand. No trust. Louis Vuitton; it be around for long time. People trust. But China needs to build trust, very difficult to compete against foreigner and big money.”

“How long until they do create brands?” I ask. The tailor thinks about this for a long time. Finally he says, “Hard to say. Thirty more years, maybe?”

We sit and drink a Chinese beer.

Copyright 2012 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned I Went Into Teaching for the Money about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)

Crossed Out, Messed Up and Knocked Down by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

laleiken.tumblr.com

                                                                                                                                                   

"Cap and Gown" by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days.

A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

If all the hours I had spent teaching in school were added up into one continuous, non-stop marathon, at 6.6 hours a day, I'd be only 247 days old.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

This year only two of the students on my case load are graduating, but only one will be at the ceremony, only one will walk across the stage. The other should have graduated last year, but doesn't want to "walk" when most of his senior class graduated a year earlier.

But the girl who is walking across stage is a success story. I've seen her grown from a shy, dependent girl into a slightly less shy but independent young woman. It's been a struggle: building her confidence, teaching her to believe in herself, getting her to work on her own.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

Oh no, this is not happening. "Graduation is a rite of passage, it only comes once. In life, there are no do-overs. You should go."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"Of course they're boring!" I exclaim. "Graduation is supposed to be boring! It's for your parents, and your teachers, and your family! Graduation is for everyone but you!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

It occurs to me there is more going on here than meets the eye; the benefit of six years, five graduations and 900 days experience.

"If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"What about your parents?" I ask. "Don't they have the money?" The girl shakes her head. I've known that her family is poor, I once had to "loan" her and her sister money to go see Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students.

Some seniors short on credits have already bought their cap and gown but won't be needing the gown since they won't be graduating.

Nothing.

An aide who graduated two years ago says he'll bring in his blue and silver cap and gown, after all, he isn't using it. Caps and gowns don't really change; South East's 2005 graduating class would fit right in with this year.

But his father has already thrown the aide's cap and gown away. Turns out he didn't think his son would ever need to use it.

Ms. Owens finds a website that sells the gowns for $15, but time is short and it will cost me through the nose to have it shipped.

Eventually, I go to the head of leadership and ask her if I can buy the gown at cost, or about $50. The head of leadership agrees. Khazani, Martinez and Solorio all help contribute cash.

I go back to the girl, handing her the money. I could have paid for it directly, but I want her to buy it for herself. She deserves that.

Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black embroidered sash, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

The girl goes to my window, looking out over the football field, where students are lining up for the senior photo. She stares in silence, twisting the cap and gown bag in her hands in endless loops.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

I stop lecturing her. Sometimes you have to let people do what they want to do. Nothing is said, nothing is spoken. Neither of us is bothered by the silence, the lack of conversation.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.

Copyright 2010-2011 by Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Photo of cap and diploma by Mary Gober
Photo of We're done! by Kati Garner

Dana's Hollywood Birthday by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken

Birthdays!

For most of us, our birthday is an excuse to get together with family and friends, have a good meal, open a few gifts and blow out some candles on a cake.

After turning 21, I became indifferent to birthdays, all I had left to look forward to was may auto insurance dropping at age 25, and I just didn't see any point to celebrating getting older.

Sometimes I've woken up and actually forgotten it's my day of birth until I get a call from my mother wishing me a "Happy Birthday."

Dana is my diametrical birthday opposite; my sister will often begin planning her birthday party weeks in advance, sending out evites to hundreds of potential attendees.

Her birthday is not commemorated by a single party, but a week long event of exquisite dinners starting usually around the 4th of April which culminates on her "official" birthday in either a swank Hollywood hotel or trendy club on April 10th.

Last year Easter fell on the 4th.

Dana upstaged Jesus.

This year I get an email from Tracina, Dana's co-producer, that they are holding a birthday party for my sister at the Hudson, one of those versatile bars that simultaneously appeals to both men and women.

The Hudson may look like a converted train box car on the outside, but on the inside it's a meeting place for the society of good looking white people with great cheek bones, a pit stop for hipsters before they head out to the even trendier and swankier clubs in West Hollywood.

In addition to celebrating Dana's birthday, they'll also be watching a live broadcast of her latest TV show, Marcel's Quantum Kitchen, with both the cast and crew in attendance. Given the last minute invitation, Dana isn't expecting a big crowd, but then this is just the opening birthday event.

Phil's got an invitation, he lives nearby so I stop by his place and we walk over. Like most trendy Hollywood bars, at the Hudson you've got to pay for valet or spend 15 minutes in a vain attempt looking for free parking before finally giving up and paying the $6 for the valet.

The Midwesterner in me would rather walk, so we decide to hike the distance, it would be a pleasant stroll except for the deluge of white people walking their dogs.

We pass by a pair of dog owners making small talk about their breeds, and Phil unsuccessfully tries to hide his disgust.

"I swear to God the worst part about owning a dog is all the banal questions you have to suffer through. How old is your dog? What breed is your pup? Where do you have him groomed? It's the worst."

I nod in sympathy. Freaking white people and their small talk.

Phil and I have got better things to discuss, like the press release for his new novel, Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec, http://bit.ly/iamxum.

As we debate the content of the press release, we pass a dog owner walking his poodle; he fires off a withering glare. We're not Weho material walking pampered dogs that spend their days in doggie day care; we're writers.

There goes the neighborhood.

We get to the Hudson early to enjoy the last vestiges of happy hour. Fifteen minutes and two drinks later, both of us are in a better mood. I ask Phil if he were a drink, what kind of drink would he be?

"Probably a beer. Hoppy. Takes some getting used to, but after a while you'll love it."

"Rum and coke." I reply. "Sweet, easy going, piratey."

Marcel and the cast from his show arrive but Dana's nowhere in site. It's after seven, but Dana will never be on time for her own party - in LA that's simply not done.

I walk over and say hello to the cast; it's the third time I've met Marcel, the first being my 39th birthday where I made a request to my sister to have him cook me a dinner at Bazaar. http://leiken.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-bazaar.html

Calling Marcel a "cook" is like naming Einstein a "mathematician"; Marcel is a gastronomic force of nature, his kitchen a culinary laboratory.

Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (MQK) is a reality TV show ostensibly about a Hollywood catering business, but the heart of the program is observing Marcel in his kitchen concoct dishes that defy the laws of culinary physics.

Noodles created out of blended wine, foie gras wrapped around cotton candy, desserts cooked with liquid nitrogen that cause smoke to billow forth from the mouth and nose - it's not cooking but science, or what Marcel refers to as "molecular gastronomy."

Originally a contestant on Top Chef, Marcel had developed a reputation for having an "attitude"; for being a vicious perfectionist with no empathy or pity for "lesser" cooks.

But I've tasted his cooking; its like eating a Picasso. I shake his hand, Marcel beams.

Chef, buddy, and fellow cast member Jarrid is sitting next to him. Covered in tattoos and wearing a leather jacket, Jarrid looks like he belongs in the Hell's Angels. He exudes almost manic energy; I bet he was pegged with ADHD as a kid.

I sidle up next to him. "I heard that while you were working as a bus boy at Bazaar you stole a prep chef uniform and showed up the next day pretending to be one of the cooks. Is that true?"

Jarrid laughs. "Yeah, I wanted to learn how to cook, and it wasn't happening fast enough, so I just took one of the uniforms that had gotten back from the cleaners and showed up early the next day.

I started prepping and it was like a month before anyone figured out that I wasn't a cook, I just wanted to learn. Marcel knew, but he didn't care. After the boss found out, Marcel just took me in and now I work for him."

"That's amazing."

Jarrid shrugs. "Anytime I've wanted to do something, I just went out and did it. That's how I learned how to be a circus performer, fire eater, and trapeze artist."

I try not to gape. He was a circus performer? "Isn't that scary?"

"Anytime you do something new it's scary, everything's scary. But you just go out and do it."

My sister arrives, she's just had her hair and make-up done and she looks like a movie star.

 "Would you believe that the guy who was doing my make-up was a former contestant on NEXT?" she exclaims.

 "I remember producing him and he was quite the prize, I mean they all wanted him. I was just afraid he was going to make me look like a drag queen."

"You look great, Dana," I reply. I'm a little surprised she isn't wearing a tiara, but then it is early. "Where's Christos?"

Up in San Francisco, but he had me bring wine." Dana withdraws a couple of bottles from a small winery located in Napa valley. We uncork it and it's delicious.

"If you were a drink, what kind of drink would you be?" I ask.

"Champagne," my sister answers.

I nod; my sister probably would be a bottle of champagne, sophisticated and sparkly. We order food and I devour a burger and sweet potato fries. It's one of the best burgers I've ever had, but then I'm really hungry and I am a burger whore.

A willowy woman with great cheek bones arrives; she looks like a model. Phil asks who it is. I'm not sure but I think it's Marcel's super hot model girlfriend. I ask Dana.

"Oh, that's Shannon. She's Marcel's girlfriend; they met while she was modeling for the show."

I love it when I'm right. To get a woman like Shannon you'd have to be some kind of culinary genius with his own TV show. My sister didn't settle for anything less than 007; I'd date Christos and I'm not even gay.

"I was expecting a blog about the last party, but instead you wrote about your car!" Dana exclaims. "I still think you should name it "Teacher's Pet!"

"I'll write about this party next, I just need a couple of photos as proof I was here."

You need proof?" Marcel calls out, waving me over.

 "C'mon then, let's take a photo."

We pose and I give my patented "thumbs up and wink" - Arrggh! Marcel picks up on it immediately and mimics it.

Dana begins opening gifts. I haven't gotten her anything yet, because I've learned its better just to ask what she wants.

Phil has brought her a Buddha board, a stylus that you paint with water that creates images, then over time disappear allowing you to use it over and over again.

Dana claps her hands in excitement. "Where's your gift, brother unit?"

"I decided to wait."

"Phil got it right. Good job, Phil."

I try not to glare. "Yeah, good job, Phil."

More people arrive; many of them people Dana has worked with on other shows. My sister has a vast network of reality TV show contacts; it's one of the reasons she is so successful at both finding work and getting shows produced.

The Tonight Show, Howie Mandel, Beyond Chance, The Best Damn Sports Show, Christopher Lowell, NEXT, Ace of Cakes - there's more but I can't remember them all.

Dana's birthdays are more than just a celebration; they provide her an opportunity to network; it's one of the reasons why it takes a week for her to get through her birthday.

Other than Facebook how else is she supposed to keep up with all these people?

The staff changes the channel on a big screen TV over to MQK but there's a Laker game on and the bar is packed; I can't hear a thing. As soon as the show starts, the cast and crew cheers; I try listening for half a minute before giving up.

Dana arches an eyebrow in my direction, annoyed I'm not watching the show, but then hardly anyone is.

The Lakers are playing the Utah Jazz and are on the verge of making a come back; the bar is filled with jubilant cries of exultation that drowns out any conversation more than two feet away.

At least until Kobe drops the ball with two seconds left and loses the game (I love it when the Lakers lose), but by this time MQK is almost over.

I find my attention diverted between watching Marcel on screen, then switching back to glance at him in the bar; which one do I watch? TV Marcel, or flesh and blood Marcel? The same goes for the rest of the cast: Jarrid, Robyn, and Kevin.

Watching someone on TV while being able to simultaneously talk to them creates dissonance in the brain. How do I know which one is real?

We sing Dana happy birthday; there are cupcakes and she blows out a pair of candles. She's completely in her element, laughing, working the room as her friends and co-workers pay homage to the young woman who has become a celebrity in the nebulous world of production.

The only thing better than being a star is being a star maker; and my sister has the contacts, experience, and creativity to make it happen. If most people in Hollywood are talk, Dana is one of those rare few who can actually make it happen.

Breast cancer didn't stop her, it wasn't even a yield sign, just a speed bump that barely slowed her down; she managed to produce MQK while going through chemotherapy.

Like a gambler rolling straight 7's at the craps table, people surround my sister in the hopes that some of her luck will rub off on them.

Beautiful, fearless, exuberant, Dana is a phenomenon, a Hollywood singularity that continues to beat the odds because successful people like my sister generate their own luck.

If I had a motto it would be something like, "It's kind of crappy, but it's free," or "Send those squabs to Davy Jones' locker!"

But my sister only has one motto: Make it happen!

Before I head out, I kiss her on the cheek. "I better still get a call on my birthday," Dana warns.

I nod. Woe unto those who forget my sister's birthday. D-day is not June 6th.

D-day is April 10th.

Happy Birthday, Dana.

Make it happen!

Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned I Went Into Teaching for the Money about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)

Crossed Out and Messed Up by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

"Look at Me" by guest blogger Karen Cross

Look at me.


I am.


No! Look at me!


Which one are you?


I don’t know, I can’t see me anymore…all I see is pain.


I see you. You are a survivor!


Survivor, ha! I am done surviving.


You are so strong.


Am I?


Look at all you have come through.


You mean all I have survived.


Well yes…


Yes, I know I am a childhood SURVIVOR of sexual abuse. My marriage SURIVIVED an affair and now…


Now you have SURVIVED breast cancer.


But I don’t want to SURVIVE anymore, I want to LIVE!


You are so blessed!


Yes, I know.


You were lucky not to have chemo or radiation…


STOP!! I am blessed, BUT I AM NOT LUCKY! ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?


Yes, and I still see a strong young woman. A survivor!


Please stop saying that. I am standing here with no breasts. With medical tubes hanging where my round, supple femininity should be… How is that lucky?


Well…


Well what? You have nothing to say? You shouldn’t, because you do not know what this is like. Let me tell you, it is a horror amusement ride at one of those traveling carnivals.


Go on, tell me more…


Well I want to scream, “Let me off this ride!” Cancer, mastectomy, expanders…oh my! And yet there is more to come.


I hear your pain.


I don’t think you do. You can’t hear PAIN!


Tell me more about this ride.


December 31st was when the call came and the doors opened to the house of horrors. The doctor was on the line, and we all know doctor’s only call when it’s bad. He said, “The biopsy revealed cancer. The good news is we caught it early.”


Happy New Year!


After that call, everything is a whirlwind of shock, information overload and tough decisions. Dr. Cox, the breast cancer surgeon, was amazing and thorough in her presentation of options.


With the odds of recurrence lowest after full mastectomy, I made the choice to remove my breast and undergo reconstruction. My life, in one doctor’s visit, had changed forever.


I left the office with my husband and sister; all of us silent. It was a lot to take in, for everyone. Walking to the car felt surreal, nothing would ever be the same.


Fear of the unknown had left me numb. I had now become an attraction on the horror ride, a zombie driven aimlessly through the motions of the events that followed.


Day by day, minute by minute, I ceased to feel. After all, I had to put on a show to protect the ones I loved from the gruesomeness cancer displays.


Along the ride I appeared strong and fearless as I subjected my womanhood to the butcher’s knife. Then the ride appears to end as it comes to rest in front of these mirrors; mirrors reflecting before and after…


And now I ask you, who am I?


You are me…


No, I have changed. Where is the beautiful, confident woman I used to see?


I am still here and yours to claim.


I can’t see you in me anymore. I stand here, after the knife, angry, scarred and altered.


I still see beauty and confidence in you, look harder.


I look and I see beauty shattered with the absence of me and confidence lost in what has been left behind.


Maybe you should look at me.


I am looking and I am lost in my reflections.


I see you, you are the strong one.


Am I?


Yes, nothing’s changed there.


Then you must not be looking, because everything has changed.


On the outside, yes, but you have always been a survivor and…


There it is again, SURVIVOR, why must this be my title? When can I say enough is enough?


The Lord has a purpose for your life and your strength in adversity is how He uses you.


I accept that, but when is it okay for me to just be? When can I just live? When can I stop SURVIVING?


Maybe the answer is in your voice.


My voice? I am sure He has heard my voice. When have you known me not to speak my mind?


No, not that voice. The voice that sang praises as a child with the belief of innocence. The voice that reached others in song through the pain of a struggling marriage, where is that voice?


Oh, that voice.


Why have you silenced it?


I am afraid to sing again. My voice is my soul and I feel I must hide my deepest, painful emotions from this cavalcade freak show.


You can try and hide them, but they are the key to living.


I know...but I feel that once I begin to sing, I just might fall apart.


Then fall apart and let Him pick up the pieces. He feels your pain, He sees your tears and He longs to hear your voice.


Ah, my voice…funny, but I long to hear it too. Can it be that simple? Can it be that this is how this frightful passage ends?


I believe it does.


So, you do see me.


Yes, right here in my reflection…just look at me.


Copyright by Karen Cross 2010

Illustration reference:

http://www.1212galleryrva.com/.a/6a00d834526ca869e20120a55c20e2970c-320wi


Karen Cross is a 40 year old mother and wife. She has three intelligent, sensitive and funny boys and a wonderfully amazing husband. Currently, Karen helps adult learners find their way down the educational path to graduation at University of Phoenix and is one year away from graduating herself with a bachelors in psychology.

As a student recovering from breast cancer, she was provided an outlet for her emotional struggles as she returned to school after her mastectomy to a cathartic course in creative writing.

In that class this piece was born, and Karen hopes it will inspire, touch and maybe evoke the healing sought by all who travel the breast cancer journey back to emotional health.


________________________________________

Guest Blog: "Dating L.A." by Brian Leiken

L.A. is a goddess.

She is the daughter of Apollo and Lilith, forever chic, eternally young, phone glued to her ear as she veers down the freeway.

Like all gods, she goes by many names: Hollywood and Tinseltown. She is the American Idol.

Dating in L.A. is notoriously difficult. People who move here often go for years finding no one, then move away only to discover a "soul mate" and marry six months later.

It's a paradox. How can a city known for its youth and beauty, a city crammed full of party loving singles, a city like L.A., be so difficult for finding love?

The problem is the nature of L.A. herself.

She's elusive. Her whims are fickle. She wants everything but promises nothing. Many come to L.A. seeking her, yearning for her approval.

She is mesmerizing, Narcissus reborn; those who seek her unable to tear themselves away, hoping, praying, even begging for the briefest hint of her acknowledgement.

She's beautiful, the essence of desire; to have L.A. laughing on your arm is to have every aspiration fulfilled. Her silhouette covers the city in sequined glamour.

People who look in the mirror do not want to see themselves - they want to see her gazing back at them with longing.

She is terrifying, this goddess. Those lucky few who bask in her glory often get too close to her divine flames, burning up, enraptured by all that she offers.

Those who lose her interest are the wash outs; has-beens who frequently debase themselves on game shows and reality TV in acts of public self-flagellation, all in the vain hope of regaining her approval.

Within six months most who come to L.A. realize she doesn't exist, no more real then a mirage, no more attainable than a bowl of Cezanne's fruit. You can only gaze at her illusive beauty.

She is untouchable, but her captivating splendor remains alluring and tempting.

It is because of this goddess, this siren of desire, that dating is impossible in L.A.

No one wants to date who they are with - they want her. She is the collective consciousness of the modern world's dreams, a broadcast of mass marketed fantasy.

L.A. is lust and passion, wealth and romance, ecstasy and bliss. No mere mortal can match up to the promise of L.A; no one person can fulfill all the dreams and endless possibilities she evokes.

It is only after becoming numb in the land of collagen and silicon enhanced bodies that the realization dawns - not even L.A. can satiate all that she promises.

No matter how much you are with her, L.A. leaves you hungry and desperate for more. More fame, more success, more praise, more self-adoration.

L.A. doesn't bequeath dreams, L.A. bestows hallucination.

Natives born in her womb are impervious to fever induced charms. Birthed with immune systems incapable of substance, L.A. natives accept her artificiality with a zen like Buddhism that mystifies outsiders.

For the natives do not date; they "hook-up." For them, it is enough to have a look and the appearance of a relationship.

For true initiates of Hollywood, the image is the person, what you look like is who you are. They accept that when you are in a relationship, you aren't just a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you're an accessory.

In most places, it's what you bring to the table. In L.A. it's not what you bring, it's who you bring to the table.

In L.A. an image isn't skin deep because there is nothing beneath the skin. Dating in L.A. isn't about love or commitment. It's about creating an image, all in an attempt to be closer, to be closer to her.

It's why as a "broke" writer I did better dating than as an employed teacher - a writer has the potential of launching a career, catapulting an individual into her hands.

A teacher? A teacher might be able to add you to his PPO.

It's why people in L.A. can have one night stands, but are incapable of sustaining a relationship. In a relationship, your image might not be compatible with theirs.

People often say to me, "Leiken, you are too picky. You won't bend, you won't compromise. You expect too much. You don't put yourself out there enough...you won't change your look."

To date in L.A. you have to find your niche, you need to have a "look."

Because when you are dating in L.A. you are dating two women. The girl you are with, and L.A. One I can handle, the other can never be satisfied.

Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken

Long hair photo by vassiliki koutsothanasi
Narcissism photo by lu tb
In the sun photo by Ulrika Bengtsson

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an L.A. inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Also see my initial impressions of L.A. after moving from Washington, D.C.:
D.C. to L.A: A Monumental Change http://justdoingmythingcom.blogspot.com/2009/09/dc-to-la-monumental-change.html

Guest Villa Vita blog: Ciao for Now, Il Borgo

Sharing the Beauty of Travel in Italy and Beyond

by Gina Ruggiero, Villa Vita Blog

I am sitting on the plane en route back to the U.S. after another absolutely wonderful stay in Tuscany thinking to myself “how can I be so lucky”?

I believe a large part of my good fortune can be accredited to learning about Il Borgo Villa di Bossi Pucci. Since I first entered through the grand gates last year, I (and everyone I bring here) have been treated with such good care.

The apartments are simple and elegantly furnished with full living rooms and breakfast kitchens. Each building is restored to reveal its original typical Tuscan architecture.

The views from the terraces in the 2 bedroom villas are stunning. I must admit I spent a great deal of time here admiring it all during my stay.

The fog rolling down into the valley in the morning, the late afternoon cloud burst and thunderstorms, and the sunset (after 9 PM in June) turning the valley to a gold and green paradise is as much a part of the holiday as is the trips to all the charming hill towns and restaurants.

The owner of the estate is a former CEO of Hilton International and American Express which helps to explain the top notch service and quality accommodations. Daily management of the property is under the capable hands of Alessandro Guerrieri. He, his wife Julia and their two sons all live on the estate.

On a quiet afternoon in the summer, you can catch a glimpse of the boys playing soccer in one of the many grassy fields surrounding the estate.

On special occasions, the large central courtyard plays host to classical concerts with local musicians and other such venues.

The pool boasts the same fantastic views as the 2 bedroom villas with Poppiano Castle to the left and Montespertoli in the direct distance just past the vineyards and olive groves.

Walking paths and quiet country roads lead in all directions from here taking you further into a Tuscan dream.

The landscaping is abound with rosemary and roses, terra cotta pots brimming with blossoms and of course, olive trees and cypress.

There is a little ancient chapel on property tucked away in a small wooded area just past the pool. It was very common for larger estates to all have their own chapel centuries ago.

Just below the pool, a grassy pathway leads to the small town of Montagnana. Here there is the general store, (alimentari) a wonderful pizzeria, un ristorante, café, hair salon, gas station, post office, and real estate office.

I could not resist taking a look at the few homes and apartments for sale, after all, this is a slice of paradise. Many of the apartments in Il Borgo are for sale as well if you are like me and would like this to be a more permanent holiday.

In the meantime, staying at Il Borgo and participating in the Lessons of Tuscany program is the next best way to experience all the splendors of Tuscany.

Join us in September for a creative writing workshop, "Postcards from Italy," taught by Erana Leiken, and capture Tuscany with your pen and your heart.

http://villavita.net/workshops_adventures.htm

http://www.villavita.net/experience.htm

Testimonials from Our Travelers
http://myvillavita.com/travelers/

Guest Blog: "Cap and Gown" by Brian Leiken

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days.

A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

If all the hours I had spent teaching in school were added up into one continuous, non-stop marathon, at 6.6 hours a day, I'd be only 247 days old.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

This year only two of the students on my case load are graduating, but only one will be at the ceremony, only one will walk across the stage. The other should have graduated last year, but doesn't want to "walk" when most of his senior class graduated a year earlier.

But the girl who is walking across stage is a success story. I've seen her grown from a shy, dependent girl into a slightly less shy but independent young woman. It's been a struggle: building her confidence, teaching her to believe in herself, getting her to work on her own.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

Oh no, this is not happening. "Graduation is a rite of passage, it only comes once. In life, there are no do-overs. You should go."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"Of course they're boring!" I exclaim. "Graduation is supposed to be boring! It's for your parents, and your teachers, and your family! Graduation is for everyone but you!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

It occurs to me there is more going on here than meets the eye; the benefit of six years, five graduations and 900 days experience. "If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"What about your parents?" I ask. "Don't they have the money?" The girl shakes her head. I've known that her family is poor, I once had to "loan" her and her sister money to go see Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students; some seniors short on credits have already bought their cap and gown but won't be needing the gown since they won't be graduating.

Nothing.

An aide who graduated two years ago says he'll bring in his blue and silver cap and gown, after all, he isn't using it. Caps and gowns don't really change; South East's 2005 graduating class would fit right in with the 2010.

But his father has already thrown the aide's cap and gown away. Turns out he didn't think his son would ever need to use it.

Ms. Owens finds a website that sells the gowns for $15, but time is short and it will cost me through the nose to have it shipped.

Eventually, I go to the head of leadership and ask her if I can buy the gown at cost, or about $50. The head of leadership agrees. Khazani, Martinez and Solorio all help contribute cash.

I go back to the girl, handing her the money. I could have paid for it directly, but I want her to buy it for herself. She deserves that.

Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black sash embroidered 2010, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

The girl goes to my window, looking out over the football field, where students are lining up for the senior photo. She stares in silence, twisting the cap and gown bag in her hands in endless loops.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

I stop lecturing her. Sometimes you have to let people do what they want to do. Nothing is said, nothing is spoken. Neither of us is bothered by the silence, the lack of conversation.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.





Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken


LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Photo of cap and diploma by Mary Gober
Photo of We're done! by Kati Garner

The Art of Chianti

Sharing the Beauty of Travel in Italy and Beyond  by Guest blogger Gina Ruggiero, Villa Vita Blog

During the week of August 17 – 24, 2008, while many Italians were still on holiday for Ferragosto –
a few artists from Phoenix took in the Chianti Countryside with their eyes, with their paints, pastels and with their hearts.

We spent a wonderful week once again at Il Borgo Villa di Bossi Pucci located just south of Florence near the town of Montespertoli. Pastel artist Liz Kenyon created this trip to allow fellow artists to join her while she worked on her own series.

On the day we arrived, we all checked into our simple but elegant apartments just prior to a huge downpour which drenched the land and, as quickly as it came, the skies opened back up to bright sunshine and puffy white clouds.

We all enjoyed a wonderful welcome antipasti – which is typically appetizers but always turns into a full blown meal at Il Borgo.

We enjoyed fresh tomatoes picked from the garden, Il Borgo’s own wine and olive oil from their nearby castle estate, hand-made pasta and bread made by Alessandro’s 8 year old son Francesco and much more.  Liz helps set the tone for the joyful week ahead.

Ahhhh Chianti!

After a much needed siesta and time to unpack and get settled – we hopped into the van to take a good look at the surrounding beauty which would make it’s way onto the canvas over the next few days, such as Barb’s wonderful interpretation of Il Borgo’s grand front yard shown here.

That evening we all walked over to the community park where we enjoyed a delicious seafood dinner. Our reservations were drawn clearly on the butcher paper which lined the table!

Even our guests who arrived from the U.S. that day were such troopers ignoring the time change and long flight to stay and enjoy this typical local summer dinner – the typical dinner which starts long after what we consider dinnertime to be! There were great cheers when the three-wheeled vehicles showed up with the giant pots of linguini and clam sauce and delicious fish stew!

The next day, the artists found their places around Il Borgo to begin their “field sketches” and record their interpretations of the Chianti countryside.

The artists would create several paintings over the next few days of various sites in and around Il Borgo and the surrounding towns.

The property itself lent many opportunities for artists with its fiascos and courtyards, cypress lined drive, charming chapel and sprawling valley views.

With Florence only 20 minutes away, we always make sure to include a full day visit during our stays at Il Borgo. Our artists opted to visit the Uffizi Gallery and Academia to view some of Florence’s most treasured works of art including Michelangelo’s David and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

We strolled along the River Arno and spent some time on the infamous Ponte Vecchio. Piazza Signori is always a focus of attention while in Florence with its grand statues and fountains. We also made some time to view the amazing Duomo and Baptistry as well as enjoy some gelato, of course!

Another wonderful field trip was to the small town of Volpaia just north of Radda in Chianti.

This little gem of a town has a small cafe in the central piazza and a wonderful restaurant called La Bottega both owned by two sisters who have lived in Volpaia for over 70 years.

We had incredible views of the valley from our table and enjoyed a variety of wonderful dishes from the country kitchen such as handmade ravioli and tagliatelle with mushrooms.

In Volpaia, there are no gift shops, markets or tobacco stores and best of all, there is no traffic!

Streets and doorways are lined with flower pots bursting with colorful plants and herbs. Here the artists set up their easels in town to capture some of the beauty this town offers.

A small tour group of American students came through on foot admiring Liz’s work and the aspiring artists among them longed to join us!

Poppiano was another very special place just minutes from Il Borgo and her grand castle was always in view from our rooms.

The sunflowers in the foreground had since passed with the exception of a few late bloomers, however, the scene was no less magnificent.

We set up along the cypress line road in front of vineyards, peach, pear, and olive trees with the castle in the distance and Puccini playing in the background courtesy of our laptop. The sun was hot and bright – the colors brilliant.

The clouds moved in giving the artists a bit of shade and offered new hues and puffy clouds for their skies. The interpretation of the scene was varied and interesting. It was another lovely day in the Chianti countryside.

Our visit to Chianti through artist’s eyes has opened my eyes even more to the marvelous beauty, the brilliant colors, patterns, and patchwork this land beholds all which has been created by the fine hands of the agricultural artists of Tuscany and dutifully and respectfully preserved by the creative and talented hands of our artists Liz, Barb, Alicia and Barbara from Phoenix, Arizona.

To view more of Liz Kenyon’s Art, please visit www.lizkenyon.com

See http://www.villavita.net/workshops_pastels.htm

 for more information on this workshop.

Also see "Postcards from Italy" Creative Writing Workshop, Sept. 4 -11, 2010 http://villavita.net/workshops_adventures.htm taught by Erana Leiken