Uncategorized | It's a 60s Thing…Taking a Gap Year in NYC.

NYC Artist Poogy (Briggs) Bjerklie, a Hallowell, Maine Native, has a One-Woman Show at the Sears Peyton Gallery, New York, NY.

Posted on February 4, 2020 by connieottmann

New York City is still a mecca for artists the world over, and the neighborhood of Chelsea, home to hundreds of galleries, is often hailed as one of the city’s most important and influential art districts.

One of the many exciting things about living here is being exposed to all this stimulating creativity and attending art openings. What’s even more exciting is when the one-woman show at the Sears Peyton Gallery, in Chelsea, belongs to a childhood friend who grew up in Hallowell, Maine, and graduated from the Maine College of Art.

Early Morning, oil on panel 20x 20 inches.

Between the Trees, oil on panel, 27×27 inches.

Along with a festive and colorful crowd, I was able to celebrate, Poogy Bjerklie, The In-Between, her second exhibition with the gallery. Described as “…landscape paintings, rendered both intimate and anonymous, imagined and reimagined, on dreamy, luscious surfaces,” I would add that her work has an old world, other worldly quality, which draws you in to reflect on happy childhood memories playing outdoors hoping for talking animals and fairy sightings. Her paintings evoke a response.

Poogy and husband, John opening night..

An art patron at the opening. Love the coat.

Poogy’s story is interesting. After graduating from Maine College of Art, where she met her husband, John, she somewhat reluctantly agreed to move to Brooklyn. Back in the 90’s, they rented a huge apartment that included studio space in what was then an AIR (Artist in Residence) building, which housed about 13 other artists.

At the time, Poogy was creating hand-painted clothing in addition to oil paintings. It was common back then for landlords to ask tenants to hold open studio weekends to showcase their art. Many artists became suspicious because more and more, landlords saw this as an opportunity for real estate developers to have easy access to view the entire building and then make an offer on the property. This wasn’t the case with her landlord.

Not wanting people traipsing through her space, she reluctantly agreed, and, instead, built a temporary wall about four feet into her studio that prevented the public not only passage into her work area but also her living space. She painted and distressed the wall a rich bronze color that captured the light and beautifully enhanced seven small paintings.

Her display caught the eye of one woman in particular during the event. After admiring Poogy’s work, she bought one painting and announced, “I’m scheduling a one person show of your work in October.” This patron happened to represent the Phatory, an East Village art gallery, still open today, specializing in contemporary art.

Every painting sold.

The rest is history.

In 2018, The Maine Museum of Art located in Bangor, part of the University of Maine, Orono, selected Poogy to exhibit her work entitled, Poogy Bjerklie, Nowhere in Particular, at one of its five separate exhibition spaces. The Museum had found her through the Sears Peyton Gallery and had been looking at her work over the years. Oddly enough, they didn’t realize at the time she was a Maine native.

Her work was displayed at the museum from January 12–May 5, 2018. Typically, artists don’t usually sell paintings at museum shows, but as luck, or should I say, talent would have it, Poogy sold four paintings to one collector.

Distant Mountains, oil on paper mounted on wood 11 1/4 x 11 1/4.

Proud moment with a dear friend at her solo show.

While New York City (Queens to be exact) continues to be her primary residence, she still owns seasonal lake property in Maine where she draws inspiration from its natural beauty like so many artists before her. In fact most, if not all, her pieces in this current show were done in Maine this summer.

What makes this a particularly significant event for Poogy is that the year 2020 is proving to be an exciting time for women in the arts as museums everywhere are focusing requisitions and programming on long, underappreciated female artists.The Baltimore Museum of Art has even dedicated all its 2020 programs and exhibitions to women. There couldn’t be a better time to be recognized with a solo show.

Her journey from small town Maine to New York City and having gained entree into its high velocity art scene is notable. Surrounded by lush and graceful paintings representing years of hard work and well honed talent was profound. The vitality and enthusiasm in the room opening night was palpable.

It is inspiring to see an artist still opening her heart–still following her bliss.

Why You Should Ride the NYC Subway. In a world of growing divisions, it has taught me, instead, to see our similarities and shared humanity.

Posted on January 21, 2020 by connieottmann

I’m not Ubering around here.

What I am doing is trying to master NYC mass transit. Like Luke Skywalker, introduced to the ways of the Jedi, I’ve got it in my head this self imposed, home schooled education will earn me my way to the title of Resident New Yorker.

Each trip is a revelation about living here… and a revelation about my 66 year-young- self. I’ve been venturing out of my Brooklyn neighborhood to other locations in Manhattan on a regular basis, sometimes during the comfort of daylight other times under the cover of darkness and long shadows late at night (well, 11:00PM is late for me).

Every ride on the subway is akin to finding yourself suddenly cast in some kind of bizarre Best Short Film.

The NYC subway car is a microcosm of the world young and old, rich and poor, fresh and scrubbed, ripe and unwashed, from far and away, born and raised, unpretentious, ultra glamorous, inconspicuous, and ostentatious, blowzy, mangy, kind, and surly. Thrown together hurly-burly.

Often times, uncomfortably, up close and personal.

On an 8:00AM rush hour car, I find myself crammed like cattle nose to cheek, desperately seeking not only something solid to grip but also a place to rest my eyes. For some insane reason, people do not, “Stand clear of closing doors,” and move to the center of the car where lucky patrons enjoy ample room. NOooo. Everyone prefers to keep their back-packs on and inflict pain on each other squeezing in near the exits. And people put up with it! Occasionally the herd isn’t so docile, and an angry bellow, “MOVE!” causes a seismic shift.

It pays to have both a sense of humor and sense of the ridiculous. I choose viewing this situation through a playful lens. It’s fascinating. Each ride unique.

And then it’s not so amusing. Some poor, afflicted creature displaying an I’m-off-my-meds-I’m-high behavior sends a slight ripple of unease through the air. I witness a young guy in army green, ear phones plugged in, pacing back and forth the entire length of the car, weaving around the poles, arms flailing playing air guitar. We ride four stops this way until other passengers board and fill the space.

There’s often good entertainment while catching a connecting train.

Sometimes you get a double feature. A hopeful singer looking to raise money for recording fees bursts into song with finesse and surprising range. Time stands still, and for a few moments there’s a unified field of good will, dollars collected. Panhandlers of every design, too, share this captive audience. This one, a mountain of a man, bearded with long dark hair, wearing a DIY muumuu from what appears to be a bed sheet. He eventually shuffles along.

But wait….amazingly, chivalry is alive and well. Standing in a crowded train, I feel a slight tug on my coat sleeve. As I look down into the face of an earnest young man, he silently gestures to me to take his seat. On the one hand, I groan inwardly thinking, do I look that old? But on the other hand, I think, how can I refuse such a courtly gesture? It’s obvious he loves his Momma, and she’d be proud of this outward show of manners.

The Q train at East 72nd Street, Manhattan. So this is how the other half lives.

These subway, mini-adventures have made me realize that we sacrifice a lot of living today for the comforts of convenience. Our lives have become so busy and outwardly projected, heads down, eyes to phones, that we no longer really see each other and lose those fleeting, often joyous moments of connection with total strangers reminding us that in the end, we’re all just trying to make it through the night.

Of course, at some point, I’ll dial up an Uber.

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy commiserating and communing on the subway with my “Human Family.” Maya Angelou expressed it poignantly in her like-named poem:

I note the obvious difference

between each sort and type,

but we are more alike my friends,

than we are unalike.

In order to follow your Heart, you have to roll with the punches AND with the bed springs when pursuing a New Adventure.

Posted on January 2, 2020 by connieottmann

As we get older, we tend to like coming home and sleeping in the security of our own, comfy cocoons. I figure in the last five weeks, I’ve had to sleep in ten strange beds, and variations of beds, (alone) in a variety of different places. No easy feat for a boomer since getting enough shut eye is essential to our well being. And let’s face it. A good night’s sleep is harder to get than… a seat on the G train at rush hour. Like the princess and the pea, I’ve had to stay honest and true to myself by suffering some minor inconveniences like this.

But stepping out of my comfort zone is a constant requirement, and everything is just more strenuous here. For example, moving into my place took a Herculean effort. I had to GPS it from Irvington to Brooklyn in gridlock, hope for a place to park without parking restrictions close to my building, and then make eight (I counted) trips that consisted of : a) unloading an item; b) locking my car; c) carrying heavy item about 200 feet; d) use other set of keys to unlock outside door; e) cart my heavy bag/ plastic tub up two flights of stairs; e) unlock apartment door; f) drop the stuff off; g) lock the door; h) head back down to the car; i) unlock the car; j) …w,x,y,z; REPEAT. Like Sisyphus rolling his rock up the hill, I have my Camu moments of thinking this undertaking is absurd, but they evaporate and the excitement returns.

Heading home from the G train.

Still… unconscious fears lurk below the surface.

During my first week in the apartment, on the night of the full moon, (December 12th at 12:00PM) I had a vivid dream of being pursued by a crazed and unruly rabble, fueled on alcohol, since I had the distinct feeling that all sense of reason was gone. And what really ratcheted things up was that everyone was naked. It reminded me of a funeral march of Jacques during the French Revolution, in a scene from Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities that suddenly turns in to a bloodthirsty, murderous mob.

Chased from one place to another, I was trying to out run them. But I was getting more and more tired, and there were fewer and fewer places to hide. Although quite terrifying, I managed to out maneuver them each time, and in my gut, I felt I was going to be OK. But the question remained: How long was I able to keep this up?

In trying to analyze this, I figured it was about raw, animal fear. Was I able to survive in this jungle of a city? After all, I am kinda high on the food chain as vulnerable, older prey. Will I be taken down, or can I keep up–out run its perils and survive? I have to keep my wits about me and stay present.

And yet, it’s all part of the adventure. The good and the bad. Time slows down when you find yourself in a new environment, and you’re much more present. Meditating helps foster this too.

The young woman I’m subleasing from has left a pretty good library of books. I’ve just finished Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which explores the author’s grief following the sudden death of her husband of forty years. It begins with these lines:

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

The question of self-pity.

Sobering to read at our age as we tend to bump up against death more and more in the guise of friends and family members dying too soon, and we see, too, our own mortality reflected in death’s face.

And then, interestingly enough, I followed up with The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers. It’s a wonderful discussion of mythology and what myths can tell us about our own lives. When I came upon this passage, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had a very visceral response:

People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances within our own inner most being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.

Enjoying the first night in my new home, I was sitting quietly waiting for my roommate to come home. Somewhat intoxicated with a feeling of bliss (and the pungent smell of pot that often wafts through the building) I suddenly heard from somewhere above the vibrato trills of a beautiful soprano voice practicing scales.

WHOA….

I gotta admit. I’m feeling the rapture from time to time.

Ginger lives happily at Jerannie Deli Grocery on the corner of Clifton Place and Nostrand Ave.

Brooklyn is home to a lot of young, hip Millennials. Would Ageism be a factor in my search for a room to rent? Turned out… it wasn’t.

Posted on December 15, 2019 by connieottmann

Fresh greens for the holidays.

On a recent visit from Irvington to Brooklyn, my brother took my sister aside, and, out of ear shot from me, told her with pity saturating his voice that I wasn’t likely to find a room to rent. My prospects were probably nil. Early on I had contacted a high school friend who has been living in Brooklyn since college and told her I was looking for a place. Her response was something to the effect that people looking for rooms were young people.

I have to admit it did seem daunting. Brooklyn has gentrified and is gentrifying still, drawing young professionals from Manhattan to its more friendly, quaint neighborhoods. On numerous times in the past, while out to dinner with my son, I’ve looked around at a sea of Forever 21- fresh faces and wondered if I could blend in without having, what I perceived to be an arrow pointing down at my head reading, “Mom’s in town visiting.”

With some trepidation, I stuck my big toe in to the Roomi app and the Listing Project website, looked around, and then dove in head first and fired off some emails.

Listing Project was recommended to me by a friend’s daughter who lives in Brooklyn. It’s a no fee, curated (no brokers or third party services) weekly email that caters to artists and other creative (that word again) types searching for everything from studio space to sublets and long term rentals. The lister posts pictures, price, location, particulars, and info about him or herself. On average, I found ages to be between 28 and 40. Oh dear.

Two postings looked promising–the first advertised two professional women in their 30s looking for someone respectful, neat, who wanted a safe haven to come home to. The other caught my eye–two gay comedians. Maybe they’d be more forgiving? My moving in might provide them with some good material for future acts: The Golden Girl(s) meets Will & Grace?

Zilp zip, nada!

I soldiered on.

No response.

I tried the Roomi app and finally heard from a woman who appeared to be in her 50s. The location was perfect but upon arriving the building looked like a fire trap. I followed Maria (names have been changed to protect the innocent) down a very narrow hallway hotter than Hades reeking of cat pee, to a small room still overflowing with the 20- something- tenant’s eerily childish belongings. Pictures are deceiving. My other roommate would be a young man who just immigrated from South America. I liked Maria very much. She had come from Brazil fifteen years ago and was supporting a mother with Alzheimer’s back home. But this is what you get for $1200. a month?!

I enjoyed meeting Maria, but I couldn’t see myself living here.

I did hear from a woman my age who contacted me about a room, but she mentioned it was way out in City Island and, “You’d never know you were in NYC.” Isn’t that the whole point? It was nice to be contacted though.

I persevered, dispelled negative thoughts when they arose, and meditated on exactly what I wanted to manifest.

Next, I heard back from a Listing Project prospect, a psychoanalyst and English Lit professor at CUNY, who was “open to all.” I had no idea how old the person was or what gender, but on a cold windy evening, I was warmly greeted by a young, good -looking guy in a white button down shirt and khakis–early 30s maybe–originally from Vermont. When I stated that I was surprised he answered my email (I could hear my son scolding me, “Stop saying that!”), Monroe replied, “Why? I think what you’re doing is cool.” He told me his mom was relocating to Ireland, and that her fiance was from Camden, Maine. The place wasn’t furnished and he wanted me to split a broker’s fee, so it didn’t work out. But, WOW, I was encouraged. I recall Sally Field’s Oscar win response, “You like me. You really like me!

It was pretty nice, but located in the basement of the building with zero phone reception!

Unfurnished bedroom

Shortly after I heard back from three more young listers who were interested. I met Jen and Jeremy a couple in their 30s who advertised, “We love green spaces, outdoor activities, radical ideas, and non violent communication. Communal living a plus.” O.k.a.y….? Maybe they’re communists?

He actually was a former professional cyclist who now manages a bike shop in Manhattan, and she works in early childhood art education and is studying herbology. Jen’s mom was visiting from Texas when I showed up. Did I detect a smirk? I wondered what she thought of me as a possible roommate. Again, just the sweetest people, but the place was tiny and living with a couple might be a tad too close. Besides, the next morning I was meeting a young woman to see what might be the perfect place.

I had arranged to meet Kim at 11:00 at her apartment only two blocks from my son and brother’s place. Kim is a 32 year- old freelance art director “who likes to illustrate and make puppets on the side” and shares an apartment with only one other roommate and was subleasing her furnished bedroom AND WORKROOM/STUDIO for nine months to attend to a family matter back home in Texas. We had, what I felt was an instant rapport, the place was perfect and in my price range, utilities included. Her roommate was also 32, an archivist for a non profit and described as very laid back and considerate. Since she wasn’t around, we could FaceTime later if I was chosen. Kim was bombarded with emails to see the place, and she would make a decision the next day. I left a little hopeful...something just felt right.

Open kitchen and livingroom wih high ceilings!

My furnished bedroom with full mattress.

A studio!!!

On pins and needles the following day, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer and texted Kim late in the afternoon. When she texted back and asked if I minded if some tenants in the building smoked pot (hell no), I knew I had the place!

My building in Bed Stuy.

And so it goes.

I believe I really did manifest the perfect situation–one roommate and studio space to boot! Unheard of in these parts.

What I find most amazing is how welcoming and open minded these young people are. This experience reinforces that old thinking based on experiences from the past begets the same old future. The science of neuroplasticity says that the nervous system has the capacity to create new neural pathways and connections–we can retrain our brains and thinking –to create a vision of the future we want. Maybe ageism is something we perpetuate?

Recently that same Brooklyn brother took me aside at another gathering and stated that he secretly didn’t think I was going to be able to make the big move. He told me that he was really impressed I had made it happen.

I continue to be blown away. I am incredibly happy. What can I manifest next?

Making the Transition from Maine to NYC,the village of Irvington,on the Hudson,offers the best of both worlds with scenic water views, parks, and a short train ride to Grand Central.

Posted on December 6, 2019 by connieottmann

With its many amenities and progressive vibe, Irvington, home to legendary Washington Irving, is the kind of friendly place Millennials want to move to after a stint in the City and babies start arriving. My sister and her family moved to the village center over twenty years ago because of great public schools and an easy commute to Manhattan (36 to 55 minutes) on Metro North Railroad’s Hudson line. An almost empty-nester, she’s given me a place to stay (I’ve been as helpful as I can possibly be) while looking for a room to rent in Brooklyn.

Irvington has attracted industry big names and celebrities alike. The first African American woman millionaire, Madam C.J. Walker, made her fortune creating a hair straightening formula. Eileen Fisher has her corporate headquarters here, along with a retail shop and second hand outlet. I recently passed Meredith Vieira on a walk in the woods, and Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones are the newest neighbors.

Back view of Madam CJ Walker mansion.

Eileen Fisher retail store.

Main Street

Town Hall and town theaater.

Irvington train station

While Irvington has its mansions and tony neighborhoods, it does offer condominiums, cooperative apartments, rental units, and some affordable housing. Taxes are high, then again, garbage pick up each week is Monday, Thursday, and recycling Wednesday.

I feel like I’ve been on vacation as my days include reading the New York Times each morning starting with the Arts and Business sections, taking long walks on the Old Croton Aqueduct Trail, walking the dog, Cactus, in the 400-acre Irvington Woods, and enjoying train excursions to Manhattan. Irvington is a little bit country and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll 19 miles away.

Old Croton Aqueduct Trail

One of my favorite houses on the trail.

Another view on the Croton Aqueduct trail. I love trees, even more so since reading “The Overstory.”

I so love the train! Riding off-peak is $19.50 round trip. In less than an hour, Metro North deposits you in the magical world of Grand Central, and you are swept along with the tides of humanity to all the dizzying din that is NYC. This apt quote by Charles Baudelaire captures it: “What strange phenomena we find in a great city. All we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.” Check out on Instagram, Subway Creatures.

I recently met up with a friend from Maine who was baby sitting her grand child in Manhattan. When I explained taking the subway and locating her address, she responded, “Wow, I don’t know how to do that.” Another recent field trip was to“The Whitney”, The High Line, and a new Swedish Bakery Fabrique, that boasts the best, ever, cardamon Rolls. I’m getting around.

Best of all, I qualify for senior discount MTA subway and buss fares! A single ride is $2.75: senior, $1.35; A 30-day unlimited pass is $127.00 a month: Senior, $63.50; A 7-day unlimited pass is $33.00: senior, $16.50 Something to be grateful for (I list them daily) in this youth-obsessed culture.

How lucky am I to be living again with one of my siblings at this age! We’ve been able to support each other during times of big change for us both. After being the sole occupant of my home for so long, I’m really enjoying sharing my space. I even think I said a few years ago, I’m kinda tired of living alone.

Well, this will sorely be tested as I try to find a room to rent in the city and live again with a roommate, more likely roommates, after 40 years. It would be so easy to just pay rent here with my sister, but I know deep in my heart, I’d disappoint myself. So… this begs the question:

Can a woman my age find a room to rent in the fresh, young, cutting edge world of Brooklyn?

The answer will surprise you.

A “Boomer” and Tripping My Brains Out! Traveling Solo at 63…on a Budget.

Posted on August 22, 2016 by connieottmann

Darwin: The “Mostest” Little City in Australia.

One of many signs posted along the harbor esplanade in Darwin.

To say that I’ve learned a lot while traveling on my own is a gross understatement, but where my learning curve has shown the most dramatic rise, is on the subject of how to be a gracious host. Over and over I have been warmly greeted and then entertained by folks who have taken time out of their busy lives to make me feel welcome.

This certainly was the case when meeting Nan, the cousin of my friend Gayl’s husband, Tom. What a comfort it was to be picked up at the airport in this new city, and to be free from the stresses of finding a shuttle or cab to some little known address. I’ve come across lots of blog posts and Facebook postings that feature stories about good deeds and kindness shown to strangers. Over and over on my travels, I have been the lucky recipient of these acts of kindness. Nan is just this kind of person. She exudes benevolence. Nan showed me incredible hospitality for three days in Darwin, and after spending time with her, I felt like I had connected with some long, lost relative. And, I learned a lot from her about the city, including history and global politics.

Nan and her husband Pete who shared their home with me.

Darwin is Australia’s most northern city, and the most diverse (with more than 75 ethnic groups–10% Aboriginal). It has the youngest median age of any city, and its population is the most transient. With just under 130,000 people, Darwin also has one of the highest crime and homelessness rates.

While driving around the city, Nan pointed out the Darwin Military Museum. I didn’t know that during WWII, on February 19, 1942, Darwin, seen as a key port and filled with Allied ships, was bombed by the same Japanese commander who a year earlier bombed Pearl Harbor…and they dropped more bombs on Darwin than they did on Pearl Harbor.

A view of Parliament house from the front. It is Australia’s newest Parliament building.

Next, we stopped at Northern Territory Library located in Parliament House and visited an exhibit about The Stolen Generations and Kahlin Aboriginal Compound in Darwin, which existed from 1913 to 1938. While many Aboriginal children were forcibly taken there, Darwin’s Aboriginal workforce and their families were required by law to live at the compound as were children of mixed descent. It’s an important piece of history because the people from the compound helped to build Darwin.

We drove around Darwin’s impressive harbor and stopped for a walk on the esplanade where I encountered, for the first time, crocodile warnings. All that water and no place to swim! Of all the deadly things that inhabit Australia, salt water crocs (salties) freak me out the most. I wasn’t up in this part of the world more than a couple of weeks when it was reported that a 40 something-year woman, with a friend she was visiting with in Queensland, decided to go to the beach at night(stupid). Her last uttered word, reportedly was, “Crocodile!!” Authorities searched for her body for a couple of days. Nada, zip, 0…. Death by crocodile? Terrifying.

I also learned something about the importance of Darwin harbor and how it is not only strategically placed as an entry way to Asia, but it is also the base for the Royal Australian Army’s border protection operations.

In 2015, the Northern Territory government(with clearance from the Defense Department) signed a deal for 506 million to lease Darwin Harbor for 99 years to the private Chinese company Landbridge, which purportedly has ties to the People’s Liberation Army. The U.S. was never consulted (nor were a host of other people) and only found out about it after the fact (an article in The New York Times). It is understandable that Obama was a little angry since the U.S. is an important ally, and the port hosts annual visits of more than 1000 marines. Since 2011, Darwin has been an important staging post for U.S. Marines, and up to 2,500 are expected to be on rotation.

Some in Australia see this harbor lease as a big economic boon, others see it as holistically short sighted. Although China is Australia’s biggest trading partner, it is not a major ally. (The Chinese also just bought Carlton Station also in NT for 60 million.) I point this out because a new goal of mine is to be a better informed U.S. and global citizen. I know little about foreign policy, especially from the perspective of other countries.

On a lighter note, Darwin is host to many bustling outdoor markets featuring delicious food from around the world. Nan took me to the Rapid Creek Market, one of her regular shopping stops, and my senses were overloaded with fresh, colorful, and exotic foods and produce.

Another view of fresh produce at Rapid Creek Market.

Nan, on the left at Rapid Creek Market.

Rapid Creek Market variety.

Darwin’s climate is tropical, and features several “seasons:” cool dry, hot dry, build up, hot wet, cold wet. I was there the end of May, and it wasn’t very cool or dry. Build up is pretty rugged as the humidity soars and the clouds fill with moisture for weeks before finally letting loose the wet season. Suicide rates rise during this time. The only thing I can compare it to in Maine is what we call “cabin fever,” when spring never comes and it can be cold with snow well into April.

You have to love the warm evenings though! Sunsets in this part of the world are spectacular. Viewed from the patio of the Darwin Boat Club, or the Mindil Beach Sunset Market, pinks, oranges, and reds ignite the sky.

Sunset at the beach at Mindl Market.

Having drinks at the Darwin Boat Club and enjoying the view.

View of Mindil Market.

When previously in Alice Springs, I was advised by my airbnb host to be sure to go to Litchfield National Park, home to huge magnetic termite mounds and many stunning waterfalls that cascade into crystal clear pools. Without even mentioning this to Nan, she had already made plans to do just that the next day. The park is about a 2 hour drive from Darwin and the waterfalls are just off the main road. This is swimming at its best!

One of the many huge termite mounds.

More giant termite mounds. Somehow these tiny armies of termites build these on a north-south axis to protect the interiors from the brutal sun!

Florence Falls, my favorite. This is where you go to swim. No crocodiles here!

Florence Falls. Hidden around the corner to the right is a twin waterfall. That’s Nan on the right. No crocodiles here!

A view of Tolmer Falls, which was closed that day, but I could still walk out a short distance on part of the viewing station.

Easily accessible Wangi Falls and another swimming pool to enjoy.

There is nothing more pleasing than the music of splashing water, bird chatter, and happy voices. Couple that with the silken embrace of clear, tepid water and I’m taken back to those old Johnny Weissmuller, Tarzan movies I watched as a kid where he and Jane swam in exactly such a place. The only thing missing is an elaborate tree house.

My visit wouldn’t be complete without some art, and Darwin doesn’t disappoint. The Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory has everything including a great collection of Aboriginal art and terrific views of the ocean from the huge veranda near the cafe. I was able to see the NATISSA winners(National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Art Awards) of contemporary and traditional media by established and emerging artists.

Sweetheart, a huge salt water crocodile that became a Top End (nickname for NT) personality after attacking several fishing dinghies.

After three great days in this cosmopolitan city, I’m off to the east Kimberley and the real wilds of Australia. I’m told that 17 people last year “disappeared” (a good place to go if you want to disappear– not so good if you get lost and run out of gas).

As I travel farther west and north, the colors and mysteries of this land are a source of wonder. This quote by one of the artists captures it best: “I am not painting for pleasure. Out in the Top End, the land is not empty. The land is full of knowledge, full of energy, full of power.”