View From the Top of the World

Mount Damavand, Iran
Photo by Arad Mojtahedi

My husband and I have a personal joke. Every time we plan a trip to Iran, I ask him, “so this time, we’ll go on a camel ride through the desert, right?”

He just rolls his eyes.

There is a story behind this joke. On my first trip to Iran, our plane landed in Tehran just after midnight, and the next morning I was eager to rush out and explore the city in the daylight. I stepped onto my in-laws’ balcony, expecting to see an exciting and unfamiliar urban world rushing through the streets below. But what caught my attention was a gorgeous mountain off to the left, its snow-capped peaks a mottled vision of blue-gray shadows and sparkling white flanks against a perfect blue sky. It was my first glimpse of Mount Damavand, the jewel of the Alborz Range.

I rushed inside and dragged my husband out. “Look!” I pointed at the mountain. “They have snow here!”

My husband, Tehran native that he is, was underwhelmed by my enthusiasm. “So you expected to see nomads riding camels among the sand dunes?”

Well, not exactly. I’d seen pictures of Iranian nomads, and they were mainly herding sheep and weaving carpets. Not a camel or sand dune in sight. But even my knowledge of the real Iran hadn’t prepared me for just how damp Tehran can be in March: rivulets tracking down the rocky cliffs at the north end of the city; water gushing through the joobs (gutters) lining the streets; and heavy fog hanging over the city as Damavand’s snow cap melts.

Since that first trip, I’ve visited many parts of Iran, and the country’s natural beauty and vast biodiversity never cease to amaze me. Mountains, rainforests, rivers and lakes, marshes and farmland—and yes, even a few deserts—this country has a bit of everything.

But as far as I’m concerned, Iran’s mountains are its best feature. The country boasts the tallest peak west of the Afghan/Pakistani Hindu Kush (Damavand, north of Tehran, at 18,600 feet) and diverse climates ranging from arid to semitropical. I’ve stood shivering in gusts of snowy wind on the slopes of Mount Tochal near Tehran and sweated in my own personal sauna beneath the obligatory Islamic scarf and tunic in the sweltering heat of a Caspian summer day.

On every visit to Tehran, I like to drive over the Alborz Range to the Caspian Sea, and my preferred route is along the Chalous Road. It’s a five-hour, hair-raising journey along a two-lane track of hairpin turns and dark tunnels carved through the mountain. Sections of the road pass below wooden avalanche barriers built as protection from falling snow. They look barely sturdy enough to withstand a stiff wind, let alone hold tons of snow, ice, and rock at bay.

But once I get over the heart-stopping fear of plunging over the edge of the road, the sheer beauty of the landscape takes my breath away. Pockets of snow cling to rocky crevices on the left, while the cliffs on the right plunge into nothingness except for the deep ravines the ancient rivers have cut into the stone. I can always tell when we’ve past the crest of the range because the sparse vegetation starts turning greener and lusher with each passing mile. And when you drive through that last long tunnel and pop out into the sunshine on the other side, the Caspian Sea stretches to the horizon, a deep Mediterranean blue meeting a pale sky.

At sea level, the Caspian coastal road clings to the southern shore of this landlocked salt sea, but the best views heading west are on the south side of the road, where tendrils of mist weave through the forested hills. Farther west, the landscape flattens into rice paddies, pastures of grazing cattle and horses, and knobby green fields of tea.

One of the most mystical experiences I can remember was a telecabine (chair lift) ride up the mountain from the town of Namak Abrud. At the top lies a labyrinth of paths beneath dripping trees, where other hikers appear as shadowy figures through dense fog. Kiosks stand at intersections, where you can warm your insides with a bowl of thick noodle soup or toast your chilled feet near the fire and inhale the scent of grilling kebabs.

I may tease my husband with images of nomads riding camels through sandy deserts. But the real images that Iran’s natural wonders conjure up for me are snow-capped mountains, rushing streams, and green fields stretching along a blue sea.

Off The Beaten Track: Solving the Passover Mystery

Today’s guest is Edgar-nominated Kenneth Wishnia, who wishes us a Happy Passover with his latest historical mystery, The Fifth Servant. Set in the 16^th century in Prague’s Jewish Ghetto, the novel just came out as a paperback reprint. On the eve of Passover, a Christian girl is found with her throat cut in a Jewish shop. The shammes – a synagogue helper, in this case Benyamin Ben-Akiva – wards off the raging mob, stating that Jews are the emperor’s servants and promising severe penalties for anyone “who damages the imperial property.” The city’s sheriff gives him three days to find the murderer – a tight schedule for a young newcomer with no connections and restricted by rabbinical law. But Benyamin enlists a few unlikely helpers: the famous rabbi Judah Loew, a Christian woman Anya, and even the emperor himself! 

It took Wishnia seven years and 14 drafts to research and write this book, including taking a yearlong sabbatical from his teaching job and making a trip to Prague to “get the basic lay of the land – how high the castle is and how wide the river.” In his own words, “That pile of papers is just the drafts. It does not include the 1,200 single-spaced pages of notes, plus three handwritten notebooks.” The book comes with a mini Yiddish dictionary at the end.

My parents always told us that the story of the major Jewish holidays can be summed up as follows: They tried to kill us. They failed. Let’s eat.

This is true of Purim, Hanukkah, and especially Pesach (Passover). At the Passover Seder, the primary ritualistic duty is to tell the story of how the Israelites rebelled against Pharaoh’s oppressive system and fled to the wilderness. Each of us must feel that we have personally experienced this exile from Egypt because, we are taught, in every generation, oppressors have risen up against us, and that we must all flee our own personal version of Pharaoh’s oppressive Egypt.

When my friend and fellow crime writer John Westermann heard that I was working on The Fifth Servant (Morrow, 2010), a Jewish-themed historical thriller set in Prague in 1592 during Pesach and Holy Week, he told me, “The only reason to write a historical novel is to comment on the present.”

I couldn’t agree more.

With so many Americans having extremely shallow historical memories – a few months at best – I believe that it is crucially important to show how, despite the changes in technology, fashion, and knowledge, societies have been dealing with the same basic problems for centuries. (Most Jews, by contrast, have very long historical memories.)

The period I chose, March 1592, attracted me for many reasons. First and foremost, the great Rabbi Judah Loew (of the Golem legends) was active in Prague at the time. What better time and place to represent the Kafkaesque position within larger society that Jews (and other ethnic minorities) often find themselves in? (And you can’t write about Jews in Prague without engaging in some way with the spirit of Kafka.)

My original intent was to set the novel earlier, say in the 14^th century, when the division between Jews and Christians was more clearly marked. The medieval attitudes towards Jews were almost completely black and white: by the 16^th century, many more complexities had set in (primarily economic ones), which provided many more possibilities and occasions for the kind of ambiguity that makes a great story so emotionally resonant.

The 1590s is also a fertile period to write about because people were on the cusp of modernity but not quite there: science was advancing, but the discoveries of Galileo still lay more than 15 years in the future. Every generation seems to believe that it is the natural culmination of all that came before, and I wanted to highlight how ephemeral so many “eternal” ideas and trends really are by choosing a moment in time (my whole story takes place in less than three days) and showing how, although the external trappings of civilization have changed, people are essentially the same.

For me, this is the main attraction of writing a historical novel. After all, how are we supposed to effect long-term change for the better without knowledge of the struggles that came before?

To read more about Ken, visit http://www.kennethwishnia.com/

The Ballade of Oleg The Seer

Once upon a time in the 10^th century there was Oleg the Seer, also known as Oleg the Wise or Oleg of Novgorod. A semi-legendary warrior, he was considered to be the founder of the Kievan Rus’ state, which later became Russia. Originally a Viking leader, he united the local Slavic and Finnish tribes under his rule and moved the capital of Rus’ from Novgorod the Great to Kiev. That move was strategic: Kiev’s location allowed launching attacks to the East. Oleg proved to be a great and nearly invincible military commander: he fought the Khazar tribes who often raided the border villages of the young Rus’ and waged war on the Byzantine Empire, aiming at no less than Constantinople, which in Russian was called Tsargrad – The Tsar’s City. Oleg fixed his shield to the gate of the Tsargrad to symbolize his victory.

 

Oleg’s uncanny abilities earned him the title of The Seer. As the legend goes, the Byzantines attempted to poison Oleg, but thanks to his oracular powers, he sensed the betrayal and refused to drink the cup of poisoned wine. Still, like every mortal, he feared death and asked a prophet to foretell his destiny. A warrior, Oleg was prepared to meet his noble end from a sword, yet the pagan oracle prophesized him a death much more mysterious than that.

Inspired by this old legend, the famous Russian poet, Alexander Pushkin, wrote The Ballade of Oleg the Seer, much quoted to this day.  Oleg the Seer has also been one of the emost painted Russian historical characters.

 

“Oleg, the wise Prince, roused to arm,
Cried: ‘Vengeance on the ruthless horde
Of raiding Khazars! Field and farm
My men shall put to fire and sword!'
And when his faithful horse was brought,
He rode out with his knights and men,
In damascened gold armour, wrought,
By some deviceful Saracen."

On the way to his battle, Oleg came across an old prophet white from age, and asked him,

 

“'What woe or weal shall me betide?
How soon shall I, beneath the sods,
Lie buried, while my foes rejoice?
Fear naught; nor speak with faltering words.'”

The man predicted Oleg’s many victories. He promised that his lucky fate will shield him in battles for years. Yet the betrayal would come from someone very dear.

 

"'Thy horse, that dreads no furious fray,
Hath borne thee well in many lands;
And like a rock amid the spray
Among the whistling shafts he stands,
Or bears thee through the brunt of spears,
Obedient to thy lightest breath:
Nor frost, nor fight, with thee he fears:
Yet even he shall be thy death.'"

Determined to win the ultimate battle with his destiny, Oleg held his grief and parted with his steed.

 

"The brave prince beard the strange discourse,
With smiling lips, but gloomy brow:
Then, sadly, lighting from his horse,
He spake: 'And must we two part now?'"

Years had passed. One day, as Oleg and his friends recalled their many crusades, he asked about his horse and was shocked to hear the answer.

“'One answered: By the river-shore,
On a high hill-top, sound asleep
He lies; and will awake no more.'

Musing, Oleg bent low his head,
Remembering the days of old;
And sadly to himself he said:
“'Had I not feared the doom foretold
By that old fashioner of lies,
My old friend had been with me still!'”
And then he bade his lords arise;
And seek with him the burial hill."

Escorted by his retinue, Oleg found his steed’s bones and gently touched its white skull as he spoke to his departed friend.

 

"With gentle foot, and bowed with grief,
Touching the skull, Oleg then said:
'Sleep well, my friend! Our day is brief;
Though I live; thou art with the dead:
Nor, at my funeral feast, full nigh,
Sword-spilt shall thy warm life-blood fall
Upon me dead, when even I
Drop to the dust that ends us all.'

And, even as these words he spake,
From out the eyeless skull there shot
A ribbon-like black deadly snake,
Which stung his foot. “'Is this my lot
By that old wizard prophesied?
Death ambushed in a lifeless bone!
Then, welcome death!' the brave Prince cried:
And sank to earth without a moan."

And thus, many Russians firmly believe one cannot escape his destiny. Do you?

Battle of the Gods

The head of an asura outside a
monastery entrance in Angkor,
Cambodia. (Photo by yarowind)

According to Indian lore, devas and asuras were divine entities, basically gods, but the kind that fought wars and spent precious time and energy keeping each other at bay. The devas were the good guys, and the asuras the baddies. 

But if you go back, way back, to the earliest Indo-Iranian texts, there was a time when the asuras were on par with the devas. The devas supposedly ruled the natural world, the asuras the moral and social one. Somewhere along the way, as the texts evolved and new ones sprung up, the asuras became the villains. According to Hindu myths, they were wicked and materialistic. In Buddhism, asuras were said to lack self control and let their passions (wrath, pride, aggression) get the best of them.

These aren’t easy myths to reconcile, for the asuras are still considered deities in the Hindu pantheon, highly revering certain ones, including Agni (god of fire) and Rudra (god of wind). While King Indra ruled the devas, Varuna, the god of water, presided over the asuras, and the two were powerful rivals. (Think of Indra as the Hindu counterpart to Zeus in Greek mythology.) Both Indra and Varuna were thought to rule the sky and earth, but they represented opposing interests.

Researchers over the past few hundred years, and as recently as a decade ago, have made some startling discoveries about these legends. The ancient epic Hindu poem, Rig Veda, refers to Indra carrying his people across many rivers and lands to reach what is now Punjab in Pakistan and India, eastern Afghanistan, and the Upper Indus Valley. In recent years, archaeologists discovered that the forefathers of Indo-Aryans hail from a place in Central Asia, specifically in Turkmenistan. Russian and Turkmen archaeologists have dug up impressive artifacts from a civilization the original Aryans, including the devas and asuras, hailed from. Among the important finds: horse-drawn chariots with spoked wheels, fire altars, sunken bowls with traces of an ancient drink known as soma that’s mentioned in the Vedas, as well as remnants of horse sacrifices.

Archaeologists believe the Indo-Iranians first arrived at this spot in Turkmenistan around 4,000 years ago, drawn there because of the existence of an oasis. They left some time later, as major climactic shifts began to take place and the fertile delta they relied on dried up. Presumably that's what the Vedas refer to, about some among them moving east (towards modern-day Pakistan and India) and others moving west (Afghanistan and Iran). Many different communities evolved out of these migrations, each one putting down roots in the rich, fertile valleys and lands between Central and South Asia.

It’s impossible to say which of the civilizations from the various groups that migrated away are still buried and waiting for us to discover. But we do know these original Indo-Iranians (Aryans), wherever they went, took the concepts of the fire god and the stories of the asuras and devas with them. 

 Ahura Mazda is often depicted in ancient art as
performing the crowning ceremonies of kings, to show
both the divine blessing of the ascension and god’s
protection of the king. In this relief at Taq-e-Bostan,
Ahura Mazda crowns Khosrow II (at center), with
the goddess Anahita at left. Anahita’s name derives from
the old Indo-Iranian word for the goddess Harahvati (Persian)
and Saraswati (Sanskrit). (Photo by Philippe Chavin)

Only thing is, the legend of the devas and the asuras evolved much differently among the Persians than the Hindus. 

In the Gathas, the earliest Zoroastrian hymns, ahuras were followers of asha (truth) and daevas of druj (falsehood). Ahura being the Persian form of the Sanskrit word asura, Varuna became Ahura Mazda. Curiously, while Ahura means "truth," Mazda means “other.” Both cultures still consider fire and water as the main ritual agents of purity.

According to the Persian texts, the two factions had vast differences of outlook and perspective right from the get-go, the chasm between them perhaps widening to such an extent that the two groups eventually went their separate ways. There’s no mention of any specific wars or battles as in the Vedic version, but eventually, the daevas came to be understood as malign creatures (not even deities).

The Indian and Persian legends share many similar concepts though--manu as man, Saraswati or Harahvati as both a river and a goddess, soma or haoma as a sacred plant, yajna or yasna as worship and sacrifice, and so on. Both scriptures, the Hindu Vedas and the Zoroastrian Avesta, retell a few of the same myths and legends, though from differing points of view. In the Vedic version, Varuna and Indra agree to cooperate at the dawn of each new year to reestablish order. In the Persian legend, daevas were originally not considered hostile (they are in later versions) but rather only following a false path and possibly the wrong gods.

There are many more such fascinating intersections. According to author Michael Wood in his landmark documentary, The Story of India, and book by the same name: “The big picture…is that the ancestors of Aryans were part of a huge language group who spread out from the area between the Caspian and Aral seas 4,000 years ago, and whose language lies at the root of modern European languages, including English, Welsh, Gaelic, Latin and Greek, but also Persian and the main modern north Indian language.” (Check out Michael Wood’s work for many more such amazing discoveries.)

Wood makes a point about these remarkable legends that the following photo also illustrates.

In the Bangkok airport, a sculpture shows the asuras using Naga Vasuki,
the king of the serpents, to churn an ocean of milk along with the
devas (not shown) to extract ambrosia. According to Hindu mythology, and later Chinese and
Japanese mythology as well, Vasuki was one of eight great Naga kings.
(Photo by Sailko)

For generations, we may have considered these legends as merely old stories but as time goes on, we find that they are grounded in quite a bit of historical fact. And how powerful these two entirely separate belief systems are that they continue to thrive today, both rooted from ancient traditions that have influenced so many others. Doesn't it boggle the mind to see how interconnected we all are?

Creating a New World

The Sol de Mayo found on the first Argentine coin. Photo by Pruxo

Being the geeky gal that I am, this week’s topic sent me all aflutter. I’ve always been fascinated with legends from around the world, and I don’t think anyone would be astounded if I said some of my favorites are from South America. So much so, I wrote an entire book based around a particular civilization steeped in legend—the Incas.

It’s interesting to see how folklore hundreds of years old can influence today’s culture throughout South America. For example, the Argentine national flag features the Sun of May. Argentina printed the sun on its first coin, but the origins of this image are tied to the Inca Sun God, Inti. And it’s no surprise to see Uruguay, Argentina’s neighbor, has the Sun of May on its national flag also.

The Incas didn’t have a written system as we know it to record their legends. However, they used a Khipu, a bunch of cords, sometimes up to 2,000, that were knotted in a certain way. This complex system was how the Incas recorded information, including legends. Unfortunately, no one has been able to decipher the encoding system yet, so the only history we know is the recounts of the Spanish conquistadors. But of course, the Spanish colonizers wrote these from their point of view.

For me, one of the most appealing Inca legends is how their civilization was created. There are many variations of this story, but they all start at Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. Standing on the shores, it’s impossible to see the other side, and it really does look like a sea (minus the toothy sharks). It’s no wonder Bolivia, a landlocked country, has its own navy to patrol the very choppy and chilly waters. And it’s from this body of water that Wiraqocha, the Creator God, shaped the race we refer to as the Incas.

Manco Capac and Inti

Back in the time before light existed, Wiraqocha formed a race of people bigger than himself. These giants turned into greedy beings full of pride and made him weep with sadness. Wiraqocha turned some of these disappointing creatures into stone and for those who remained, he summoned a giant flood that killed all but two. He created a new design of being from these leftover giants--humans.

The newly-fashioned creations were called Manco Capac (the son of the Sun God Inti), and Mama Occlo (fertility goddess and mother). These two summoned the sun and the moon, although the sun became jealous of the moon’s brilliance. In an act of jealousy, the sun threw ashes in the moon’s face, causing it to dim, and the waxing and waning moon we now see is a result of this act. If you ever travel to Lake Titicaca, be sure to visit the islands that pay homage to this legend—the islands of the Sun and Moon.

Wiraqocha needed a master plan for his new world, especially after the disaster with the giants, so on the shores of the lake, at a place called Tiwanaku, he carved out his ideas for the nations he wished to create. He sent two of his servants away, one to the coast and one to the mountains, and their job was to call the newly created humans out from rocky outcrops, valleys, lakes, forests and mountains. Along the way, the servants would place these people at the predetermined destinations Wiraqocha had designated for them. And new civilizations would spring up in each spot.

Travelling in the corridor between his servants, Wiraqocha dressed as a beggar and carried a staff and book in his hands. He taught the people the basics of how to survive and what behavior was expected of them, and along the way he worked the odd miracle.

He placed Manco Capac and Mama Occlo, in the place we call Cuzco (and which is also referred to as the Navel of the Incas), and their job was to make sure Cuzco became the capital of the Inca world. Wiraqocha continued on his way north, heading into what is now Ecuador, where he met up with his two servants. Their job of spreading civilization complete, the trio disappeared across the ocean (yes, they walked on it!), with the promise to one day return.

It’s interesting to note the parallels to legends and stories around the world. I can’t work out how this happens, and perhaps no one will ever know, but when I read about a myth like the one Heidi covered yesterday (here), and how similar it is to legends I’ve heard from other nations, it makes me wonder if there’s some sort of telepathic mystical thing going on or if humans have been born with the same imagination, no matter where they live in the world or in what era.

What myths do you know that have similarities between more than one civilization?

Artwork found by archaeologists of Wiraqocha--as he holds thunderbolts in his hands and has tears cascading down his cheeks (to represent rain)—associates him with the sun in his crown.

Wounded Mountain, Broken Hearts

Photo by Ali Esfandiari

In the foothills of the Zagros Mountains, not far from the western Iranian city of Kermanshah, there stands a mountain with an ugly gash across its face. It looks like a giant tried to strip away the rocky cliff’s very skin and left a ragged wound behind.

This wounded mountain is known as Bisotun, and it draws visitors from far and wide to view ancient carvings depicting the lives and conflicts of ancient Persia’s Achaemenian kings. But the wide slash in the rock, located to one side of the Achaemenian carvings, has its own story to tell—a tale of star-crossed lovers whose lives ended in tragedy, much like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

According to legend, Farhad was a stonecutter who fell in love with a beautiful princess named Shireen. Knowing the lady would never notice a man of such lowly birth, Farhad went into the mountains where he spent long days without food, playing haunting melodies on his flute to express his love for her. Eventually, strains of Farhad’s music reached the princess’s ears, and she went looking for the man who could produce such ethereal sounds. On finding him, love sparked in her own heart and Shireen vowed she would marry Farhad.

Shireen’s father, always a practical man, knew this was not to be. How could a high-born princess marry a lowly stonecutter? But the king also could never refuse his daughter the slightest desire, so he came up with a plan. He would allow Farhad and Shireen to marry, but only on one condition: The stonecutter would have to break open Mount Bisotun and find water. Then he was to dig a trench six lances wide, three lances deep, and forty miles long to direct the flow to the king’s castle on the dry plain below the mountain.

The king figured that the task was too enormous for any man to accomplish and Farhad would abandon the effort in frustration. Problem solved. But His Highness hadn’t counted on the stonecutter’s blind determination, or the power of love.

It took many years of back-breaking work, but the gash on the mountain grew deeper and wider. Farhad toiled from dawn till dusk, sleeping on the mountain under the stars with the rocks as his bed and his spade for a pillow. As the king watched the work progress, he knew he’d have to come up with Plan B. So he sent a messenger to the mountaintop to tell the stonecutter that the princess was dead.

In his grief, Farhad struck himself on the head with the spade and fell dead to the ground, his blood flowing into the half-built channel. When Shireen heard of her lover’s death, she rushed up to the mountain, seized the deadly spade and killed herself with it over her lover’s still body.

Like any good legend, this one has many different versions. Sometimes the king is Shireen’s father, other times he’s her jealous husband determined to destroy the rival for his queen’s affections. In one story, Shireen herself sets Farhad to work digging a ditch to a dairy farm many miles away so that milk can flow directly from the royal cows to her castle’s kitchen. (Obviously this princess understands little about how cows are milked.)

They say that at the heart of any legend lies a seed of truth. When I visited Bisotun on a sweltering summer day a few years ago, it was easy to believe that these sad events had unfolded just as the legend says. I could spot marks in the ragged gash that scarred the mountainside, scars that looked like they could have been left by a stonecutter’s tools. Great angular boulders lay scattered about the dusty hill where I stood, as though they’d been left there long before, perhaps during Farhad’s labors. And on the wide plain far below lay the ruins of an ancient structure: the castle where Shireen and her father had lived?

I’m a sucker for a happy ending. But sometimes it’s the tragic ones that linger in my mind.

Off The Beaten Track: Notes from a Museum Nut

Leighton Gage writes a series of crime novels featuring Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Brazilian Federal Police. The New York Times has referred to his books as “top notch… controversial and entirely absorbing” and called the new one, Every Bitter Thing, “irresistible.” Readers can access a video of him at http://www.leightongage.com, and read his weekly contributions on the blog he shares with seven other writers of international mysteries at http://murderiseverywhere.blogspot.com/. He lives and works in Brazil.

I’m a museum nut. Maybe it has something to do with being museum-starved here in São Paulo, where we have so very few.

Although, if you ever come here, you really shouldn’t miss our MASP. It’s got the finest collection of Western Art in all of the Southern Hemisphere. And a very attractive building as well, under which a flea market is held every Sunday.

 

I have made it my goal to visit all of the great art museums of the world and I’ve been pretty successful at achieving it, but there remain two glaring exceptions in my museum knowledge.

The Hermitage...

...and the National Palace Museum in Taiwan.

I’ve never been to either place.

I’m sure you’ve heard of the former, but you may not be familiar with the latter, which has the most precious collection of Chinese Art in the world – and is one of the reasons why mainland China is so anxious to annex the country. You can read about the history of the museum here: http://www.npm.gov.tw/en/about/tradition.htm And, while there, I suggest you click on the “Collection” tab at the top of the page and sample of few of the museum’s delights. Chinese art isn’t everyone’s cup of chai, certainly not mine, but the place is still on my bucket list.

As to the Hermitage, did you know how close it is to Helsinki?

I’ve been in Finland many times, but have yet to make it to St. Petersburg, despite many promises to my wife to do so. The two cities are separated by little more than 180 miles – and there’s a train. But I’ll be in Helsinki again, in September, for the launch of another Finnish version of one of my books – and, this time, I’ve resolved to go.

The thing about museums and me is that, no matter how much I love them, if I’m in one for more than about three hours at a stretch, my level of appreciation drops. And, since I don’t see myself ever spending more than a few days in Taipei, I fear that my visit to the National Palace Museum is going to be an incomplete experience. That’s why I prefer to make extended stays in those cities that have lots to offer in the museum department.

And, being both a writer and a guy whose kids are no longer at home, my wife and I can often get away with it.

In 2009, for example, we spent the time between March and October in Paris. Enough time to see all of the museums, right?

Wrong! Paris has more than 140 of them. Some of them are so small you can do them in a morning.

One such, is the splendid little Museum of Romantic Life: http://news-e.hoosta.com/museum-of-romantic-life-in-paris/

Another is the Museum of Eroticism: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Museum_of_Eroticism Warning: that one is “X” rated. They project classic pornographic films in black and white and have a myriad of interesting...objects. Don’t bring the kids.

The Mother of All Paris Museums is, of course, the Louvre.

If you’re living in Paris, as we were, one of the first things you should buy for yourself is a membership in the Société des Amis du Louvre: http://www.amisdulouvre.fr/index.htm

They have a little shop in one of the galleries you’ll pass on your way from the Metro to the ticket booths. Drop in, and for a mere ninety Euros, you can buy a family membership, valid for two, for a year. And, with one of those, you get to bypass the long lines at the ticket windows and visit for as long as you like, whenever you like. The normal entry fee to the Louvre is 14 Euros a person, so you and your spouse, if you have one, are going to spend 28 Euros a visit. Do the math. In four visits, the membership pays for itself. But with your membership card you can drop by for an hour or so without it seeming like an indulgence. Which is what we did, several times a week between March and October of 2009. I can honestly say that I now know the Louvre better than any other great museum in the world.

Finally, folks, a suggestion. If you haven’t yet visited Paris’s Jacquemart-André, you really should check it out: http://www.musee-jacquemart-andre.com/en/jacquemart/

They have a truly splendid collection of paintings by Italian and Flemish masters housed in what used to be a private mansion back in the Belle Époque. The art is fantastic, but the place is well worth-seeing for the building alone.