Grandparenting; The Good. The Bad. The Incompetent.

I was always told that it is more fun to be a grandparent than a parent. And that is true for a very well understood reason. As a grandparent, one has the luxury of interacting with one’s progeny without the responsibility of rearing them into responsible, well-mannered adults.

Unless, of course, we have agreed to take charge of them for any length of time. When that’s the case, we must act in locus parentis. We must keep them safe. But we must also entertain them with stimulating and enriching diversions, and discipline them when they misbehave.

In theory, that should be a simple job: Just care for them the way, decades earlier, we cared for their parents. Of course, it doesn’t work that way anymore – at least in my situation. I’m expected to parent my grandkids according to the same child-rearing theories and protocols their parents follow. These, I’ve been told, are more enlightened than the crude techniques they remember me using with them.

I can understand the point. Children need consistency. And even if I don’t believe an extra scoop of ice cream will permanently damage a toddler’s brain, there is no absolute need for me to provide one. No matter how adorably the grandchild asks for it.

But when it comes to the activities and interactivity my grandchildren are accustomed to, I must draw a line. I have less energy, emotional elasticity, and physical endurance than I had 20 or 30 years ago. There is a limit to how many times Dado is willing to be pushed into the pool.

Because of such expectations and constraints, I am happy to be the Dado when my grandkids’ parents are present. But as for keeping them safe – i.e., alive, uninjured, and un-kidnapped – while I’m watching them, I’ve established a time-limit of five minutes.

I just can’t imagine how embarrassing it would be to have to say to the mother of one of them, “Gee. I don’t know. He was there when I nodded off. I’m sure of it!”

Luckily for me, I’ve never been asked to be the sole guardian of my grandkids for more than five minutes. If, like me, you think that is a good thing, you may be interested in emulating what I did to get my name checked off the list for long-term care.

Volunteer to be responsible for the children’s pets. And then mindlessly (and honestly) allow them to disappear. I have done this twice in the past five years. And I’m happy to report that each time the animals were eventually recovered. But the lesson was clear: Momo is fine. Dado? Not with my babies!

This has worked out very well for everyone involved. And it has taught me something about grandparental love that I admit and respect. My affection for my grandkids is roughly equal to their affection for me. When they are adorable, I adore them. When they are affectionate, I am delighted, and return the affection. When they want to listen to a story, I’m more than happy to read to them. And when they want to play, I am good for as long as my cardiovascular system allows. But when they are irritable and obstreperous, I leave them to K or their parents. They have no objection. And neither do I.

What kind of grandparent are you? If you’re not sure, click here to read an article that might help you figure it out.

In Search of Meaning, Redux

Part II: Worse, Then Good

After an evening of anxiety and self-flagellation, I decided that K had the right perspective. My stolen bag and its contents could be replaced. Easily. And the loss of income, though substantial, could also be replaced in time with some energy and effort.

So, no, I would not book the next flight back to the US to deal with it in familiar surroundings. I would ask Gio to rush me a replacement computer. And until it arrived in Greece, I would do as much work as I could typing with one finger.

Gio bought one (pink was the only available color) the next morning, and shipped it via FedEx Express that afternoon. It would arrive at our B&B in Naxos in four days, the agent told her.

Meanwhile, we flew to Mykonos to meet our friends (who were already on the boat) and embark on our 10-day exploration of the beautiful Cyclades islands. The boat, a catamaran, was largish and luxurious. Our bedroom was small but comfortable. The captain and his mate were welcoming. And our first meal on board was satisfying.

We docked at Paros the following day and set out to explore the island. Stepping down off the gangplank, I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my left foreleg, at the point where the Achilles tendon ties into the calf muscle. Having had two ruptures of the Achilles tendon before, I could tell that this was a minor tear, one that would eventually repair itself. But it left me half-hobbled and unable to walk at a normal gait. Luckily for me, one of our friends, Roger, had an arthritic knee that was acting up. So, we limped along together, behind the others.

Like many seeming setbacks, our mutual handicap had a silver lining. Roger is, among other estimable accomplishments, an art historian with an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient art. I was able to take advantage of our situation by having him regale me with arcane details about the archeological sites we would be seeing, and it was good for Roger, too. He had a captive audience, someone who genuinely appreciated his expertise.

Thus, our onshore excursions were gratifying. And when we were on the boat, I spent every idle moment corresponding with my business partners on current projects and writing my twice-weekly blog posts. In addition, I spent several hours on a strategy for managing my now-reduced cash flow – a Plan A, a Plan B, and a Plan C (optimistic, realistic, and worst-case). This, I knew, was necessary not just for practical reasons, but also as a psychological palliative for my recent misfortunes. (Longtime readers know that I believe the best way to overcome a setback is to (a) accept it stoically, and (b) set to work immediately on a recovery plan.)

These activities had the hoped-for effect. My mood improved quickly, enabling me to participate in our common adventure without complaint. That, in turn, allowed K and our friends to enjoy their vacation without the unnecessary and undeserved burden of catering to a malingerer.

The island tours were, as I explained in the June 17 issue, terrific, exceeding my highest expectations. But on the penultimate day of our journey, sailing from Santorini to Naxos, the captain informed us that the seas would be choppy and that the trip, which normally takes five or six hours, would likely be “a bit” longer. As someone who is susceptible to seasickness, I was not happy to hear this. But okay. I would take my Dramamine as prescribed and be fine.

Oh wait! I remembered that the Dramamine was in the pilfered bag! And the seas were worse than the captain had imagined. We were sailing into a perfect storm. Within an hour, I was retching off the side of the boat. And the five or six hours turned out to be 10.

If you have ever been seasick to the point of vomiting, you know that the misery you feel extenuates time in a way that can only be described as torture. I spent the next nine hours curled up and face down on the deck, wiping bile from my lips and resisting the temptation to hurl myself off the side of the boat and drown.

Finally, finally… we arrived at the port. I hobbled off the boat, lay down on a park bench in a nearby plaza, and stayed there until my stomach settled and the vertigo receded. We took a taxi to our B&B, where I slept for nearly 10 hours. I woke, feeling fine, and enjoyed the next three days in Naxos, a wonderful seaside city in every respect.

Of course, the laptop Gio had sent me did not arrive at the B&B while we were there. It was held up in customs, and was then forwarded to Athens, where we were spending another several days. It did not arrive while we were in Athens either. And so, I had no choice but to have it returned from whence it came in Florida.

Our trip to Greece completed, we said our goodbyes and K and I took a plane to Rome. As I said in the June 28 issue, Rome was, as always, marvelous. The hotel K had booked was five stars. The city was alive and thriving. And our week there, just the two of us, was a happy ending to a journey that had begun so badly.

So, no, I don’t feel like I was victimized by the robbery. Or by the injured muscle. Or by the customs officials or by the fact that my credit cards didn’t work in Rome’s ATMs. I feel like my misfortunes had been due, at least in part, to imprudent decisions on my part. And I was happy to have gotten beyond them.

In Search of Meaning… Redux 

Part I: A Bad Start to a Summer Cruise

A friend said I was victimized. I don’t see it that way.

The outbound flight that was to take us directly to Athens to begin our three-week European vacation was delayed by six hours, which meant we were routed through Amsterdam and Paris and arrived numb and tired, too late for the scheduled departure of our cruise. Our travel companions had already left. We would catch up with them at the next port a day later.

Okay. Fine. No problem.

We checked into the nice little boutique hotel we had been registered to stay at the night before. They had a room. And they were very welcoming. In fact, their welcome was so warm and inviting that I didn’t notice that one of my two bags, a Bottega-Veneta Intrecciato, which was sleeved onto the extended handle of my Tumi carry-on, was deftly stolen as it stood, with our combined luggage, just beside and behind us.

Nobody noticed it. Not I. Not K. Not the hotel manager or the desk clerk. In fact, when I turned around and announced, in shock, that my bag was gone, they all agreed that I must have left it in the taxi.

“No. I’m certain it was there, on top of my carry-on,” I said, feeling increasingly alarmed and frustrated at being doubted. “It must have been stolen!”

They again assured me that I was mistaken. And since my track record of being right about remembered events is getting worse with each passing year, I had a flickering hope that perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was still safely in the taxi. As it happened, the taxi driver had given me his card when he dropped us off. I called. He took a look. No, it wasn’t there, he said. He also said that he remembered seeing me put the one bag on top of the other.

Meanwhile, the hotel manager, who, to her credit, was greatly disturbed by the thought of her guest being robbed inside her reception, went back to the office and reviewed the security camera footage.

Unhappily for me, I was right this time. It showed us walking in and setting down our luggage. Then a man walking in at a quick but unhurried pace, his head tilted down, taking the bag, and walking out while we were chatting happily with the greeting committee. He was very calm. Very efficient. He was in and out in less than 15 seconds.

It was, as I suggested, a rather expensive bag. And it was one of my favorites. Soft, lightweight leather. Just the right size for my business and personal effects. With zippered and buckled pockets.

Inside was a Goyard cigar case, a box of Padron Aniversario Churchill cigars, my Apple Air laptop, a backup laptop (in case something happened to the first one), a Ralph Lauren Dopp kit, a special case I had made to hold my supplements, two pairs of custom-made eyeglasses, several designer bracelets, and a paper envelope containing a substantial amount in euros.

The worst of it was the loss of the laptops. The lion’s share of my life’s work happens on a keyboard. Being without one, even for a day, is difficult. It’s nearly impossible to do any serious work on a cellphone, hunting and pecking out sentences with an index finger. I would try, but until I got a replacement laptop, which I was told would take at least a week to be delivered, I would be falling behind on my work with each passing day. Stressful.

I went to the tourist police, as recommended, and filled out a report. It was a dreary office, sparsely furnished. Fluorescent lights that flickered and buzzed. The young man that took my information was attentive and sympathetic. He worked on a manual typewriter. The report was several pages long.

While he was typing, it occurred to me to check my iPhone’s “Find My” application. Sure enough, there was a location identified for one of my laptops.

“I know where they are!” I told the officer. I showed him my phone.

He looked at his wristwatch. “But they were taken an hour ago,” he said, sighing.

“And?”

“That’s a bad neighborhood. They aren’t there anymore. The man that took your bag, he’s a pro. The computers have been deactivated by now. They’re probably in a pawn shop in some other part of the city. The bag, the cigar case, and the rest of it, too. Each in a different location. That’s how they do it.”

“And the cash?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, that’s in his pocket. But who knows where he is?”

I went back to the hotel, out of hope and empty-handed, and spent the next several hours chastising myself for letting our luggage out of my sight and especially for putting my laptop, and its backup, in the same bag.

K reminded me that everything I lost could be replaced.

“Except my self-respect,” I said.

“That will come back, too,” she assured me.

I used my phone to check my email. And there, in the inbox, was a message from one of my partners. A message I was hoping I wouldn’t be getting. In response to a crumbling global economy and the resulting collapse of the stock market, he and my other partners had decided to reduce the compensation we were taking from our largest business. Did I want to do the same?

I couldn’t say no. Starting almost immediately, and until things got better, that very significant stream of income would be reduced to a trickle.

Strike one: Bag and contents stolen.
Strike two: Loss of my largest source of income.

I was a 6 on my 1-10 mood scale after the theft. Now I was down to a 5. Maybe a bit lower. I opened my carry-on to fetch my antidepressants. They weren’t there. I had left them in the other bag, the one that was stolen.

The thought of spending the next two weeks on a sailboat trying to be on vacation seemed like an impossibility. I wanted to book the next flight back to Florida. But that would mean disappointing K and our friends. It was not an option. I had to get my mind straight. So long as things didn’t get worse, I would find a way.

But things got worse.

More to come…

More About Rome… 

On Tuesday, I said that what I like best about Rome is its people, the Romans. And that’s true. But even without them, Rome would still be my favorite city in the world because of its churches.

Not the churches you’ll find in tour guides. These are random churches – nondescript on the outside – that you can step into on any given street in Rome. And inside, you are enveloped in sumptuous, astonishing beauty. Sculpture. Art. Tile. Metalwork. Mosaics.

Before I experienced the churches of Rome, I had a common condescension towards Baroque art. I considered it overdone. But in its presence, I don’t have that feeling. Yes, there is a lot of it. One thing on top of another. But that doesn’t make me want to denigrate it. It makes me want to engulf myself in it, time and again.

On days like these, when we have nothing particular to do, K and I stop at almost every church we pass… and each one is a marvel.

More About Tour Guides… and Tourists 

Whenever I feel comfortable doing so, I ask our tour guides about the differences they experience serving tourists from different countries. I’ve asked this question dozens of times. And the answers are almost always the same.

Americans are at the top of the list because they are usually upbeat, unpretentious, enthusiastic to learn, and generous in their tipping. Japanese are up there, too, and for the same reasons. But the Japanese are, for some, overly polite. They tend to be restrained in expressing their feelings, so it is difficult for the guides to know if they are happy with their guided experience.

Canadians have all the same attributes as their USA cousins, but they aren’t as generous with the tipping. Europeans, including Eastern Europeans, are somewhat difficult to please and don’t tip at all. And of them, the French are the worst. “They are never happy with anything,” Nicholas, our guide in Athens, told me.

“So are they the absolute worst?” I asked, suspecting he had saved that for last.

“No,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s the Chinese.”

Chinese tourists, according to my personal survey, have the reputation of being almost impossible to deal with. “They are loud, rude, and pushy,” said a guide I befriended some years ago. “And they don’t listen to you. They don’t care about the history or culture of the country they are seeing. They just want to take pictures and rush to the next tourist site.”

I know. These are crude generalizations. They are not true for every French or Chinese tourist. And there are plenty of Americans that behave terribly. But we make generalizations for a good reason. Actually, for two good reasons. Because they are, in general, true. And because they are, generally, amusing.

If you’d like to take a look at some slightly more scientific surveys about “best” and “worst” tourists, here are three articles that might entertain you. Click here… and here… and here.

What I Believe: About Tour Guides

In Greece, we had several very good tour guides, including a young Frenchman that had graduated from the Sorbonne in psychology. He went on to work as an art historian for the Louvre, spoke five languages, was conversant in American literature, could name the genus and species of any plant we asked about… and much more.

He showed us the obvious places and made them something more than obvious by telling us stories about them that were not in the standard guidebooks. And he brought us to a dozen places that were not even listed. One of them: a tiny, hidden Byzantine chapel outside of Athens that still had the old frescoes on the walls and was still used by locals for services. It had taken many years for them to feel comfortable with him… so much so that he was allowed to bring his clients to visit so long as they didn’t take photographs or tell anyone where they had been or what they had seen.

That’s what you want in a tour guide. That kind of knowledge. Broad and sometimes deep. With love for what he does and the respect of the community into which he brings tourists.

In Naxos, we had a completely different experience. This time, we had two guides. (And I’m being generous in calling them guides.) They took us first to what they called a vineyard, which was a random plot of land in the suburbs that held about 100 plants of a grape variety that they could not name. And then to here and there, the usual places, about which neither of them seemed to know a thing. It was a four-hour “tour” that felt like 40 hours. In speaking about it afterwards, we got to calling them Dumb and Dumber.

Faking It, Making It: The Changing World of Knock-offs

Cuban cigars are expensive. A Cohiba robusto will set you back more than $25. You can buy them for much less. And lots of people do. Trouble is, they are fake.

People like me who have been smoking Cohibas for many years will tell you that it’s easy to tell the difference between a genuine and a counterfeit. The printing on the label may be a bit off – the wrong size or the wrong shade of yellow. Sometimes the size of the label is irregular. Or the quality of the paper is inferior. If you can’t spot a fake by examining the external evidence, you should notice the difference when you light up. The fakes don’t have the flavor. Not nearly.

It used to be easy to spot ersatz Rolexes. Like Cohiba wrappers, their faces bore minor typographical irregularities. They weighed less than the genuine watches. And they stopped working within a year.

But that’s changing. The use of sophisticated computer technology by modern counterfeiters is resulting in a new class of fake watches. Ones that are so close to the original that watchmakers can’t tell the difference unless they put them under a microscope. And even then, some of them “pass.”

Digital technology is helping counterfeiters replicate all sorts of valuable merchandise, from vintage wines to expensive Italian suits to first-edition books to fine art. And it’s not just luxury goods. Every product known to man can be, and is being, perfectly copied.

During a recent trip to New York, a friend and I passed some Nigerians selling knock-off designer leather goods. We stopped to look.

“Boy, look at the quality of this stuff,” he said to me.

I examined the “Gucci” bag. The leather was supple. The stitching was neat. Everything looked perfect.

“Looks good,” I said.

“I hate it,” he moaned.

He lifted his bag to my face and said, “Do you know how much money I spent on this? And those guys are selling these bags for 50 bucks apiece.”

Later, at lunch, we talked about this trend toward quality counterfeiting.

“So do you wish you had bought one of those knock-offs?” I asked.

“I would never be happy with a fake,” he said. “Luxury manufacturers spend millions of dollars on designers, manufacturing, and advertising. They create more than good products. They create a mystique that has value beyond the quality of the materials or the workmanship. That mystique has a marketable value that belongs to the businesses that paid for it. When these guys sell knock-offs, they are selling something – prestige – that they haven’t paid for and don’t own. It’s stealing. Just like stealing money. It shouldn’t be tolerated.”

I could see the logic of his argument. And I could understand his ire. But I’m not sure whether the overall effect is good or bad. I’m guessing 90% of the people who buy merchandise from curbside vendors know exactly what they are doing. They are happy to spend $20 on a cheap Rolex because they can afford $20. And they are happy to wear that watch, hoping they can fake out all those who see it and think, “Wow! Pretty impressive!”

There is a social value to counterfeiting. It allows ordinary people to enjoy the status of luxury goods. And now that counterfeit luxury goods are close in quality as well as appearance, those same people can also enjoy the superior functioning of the originals.

“From a purely economic perspective,” I told my friend, “there is no reason ever to buy high-priced luxury goods.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let me ask you this,” I said. “If you saw a gas station attendant wearing a top-of-the-line Rolex, what would you think?”

“That it was a knock-off.”

“And if you saw a very rich man – someone you knew to be rich – wearing a Rolex, would you assume it was genuine? Or would you suspect it was a fake?”

“I’d assume it was real.”

“In other words, you would always assume that the rich man’s belongings were genuine and the working man’s were fakes – even though you couldn’t tell the difference.”

“I guess that’s so,” he said.

“Which means it never pays to own the genuine thing. If you are rich, you can wear fakes and everyone will believe they are real. If you are not rich, people will assume you are wearing a fake even if it is real.”

I wasn’t being entirely serious, but I was getting at a fundamental problem with the status of luxury goods. In the old days, wealthy people were willing to pay a lot more for high-end items because they were better made and conveyed prestige. Nowadays, the knock-offs are nearly as well made and the omnipresence of luxury fakes makes all luxury goods suspect.

I can understand why the manufacturers of luxury goods want to put an end to all this counterfeiting. Yet you can’t deny that the increase in high-quality knock-offs is democratizing luxury. Millions of Americans who would otherwise have to settle for something less now have access to quality, albeit via stolen images.

In a perfect world, we would have both: ever-deflating costs for quality goods and a robust trade in luxury. And as counterfeiters continue to improve the quality of their fakes, I think that is exactly what we will get.

Driven by the illegal digital revolution in counterfeiting, high-quality products will become more and more available. Some of them will be fakes. And some will be from small manufacturers that can take advantage of the technology without feeling compelled to steal someone else’s brand.

Untitled, 1967, Armando Morales

Oil and collage on canvas
40.25 x 32 inches

I’m excited about our most recent acquisition. It’s the oil painting you see above, by Armando Morales. Along with Francisco Zúñiga and Carlos Mérida, he is among the best-known and most sought after Central American Modernists.

This brings our collection of his work to seven pieces. We have one forest scene, three nudes, and, with this, three abstracts. Currently, the forest paintings demand the highest prices – ranging from $100,000 to $1 million. The nudes are typically bought and sold in the $30,000 to $50,000 range. But the early abstractions, like this one, which Morales did in the 1960s when he was living and working in New York, lag behind in valuations.

Suzanne bought it for a good price from a distressed buyer. It has excellent provenance and is a good size at 40 x 32 inches. In adding this piece, I’m betting that the gap between the forests, the nudes, and the abstractions will narrow as Morales’s reputation in the international art community continues to climb and the art-buying public realizes how great these early abstractions are.

Suzanne and I are working on a sequel to Central American Modernism.It’s going to be even bigger than its predecessor because it covers more ground. The first one was on the modern period – roughly from the 1920s to the 1960s. The new book will cover contemporary artists from the 1970s to the present.

I’m excited about this project. It’s going to be important. It’s going to be fun. And it’s already giving me problems.

When we wrote Central American Modernism, we had a paucity of source materials to work with. Almost nothing in the US – even in the libraries of universities with international art studies programs. Nor was there a lot of material online. The problem was simple: Almost nobody back then cared about or thought about Central American art except Central Americans. And most of them were in Central America.

So, Suzanne and I spent about eight years and I spent more than a quarter-million dollars traveling to all six countries repeatedly. We met with museum directors, gallery owners, art critics and historians, collectors and artists – the few that were still alive. We threw parties and went to parties and ran contests and we even set up our own gallery in Nicaragua.

Like almost everything else I’ve done that I’m proud of, had I any idea what a long, demanding, and expensive slog that first book was going to be, I probably wouldn’t have done it. But I fooled myself into thinking I could do it relatively quickly and cheaply. And that got me going. Then, once I got moving, failing to finish it was not an option. To use a younger generation’s phrase, that’s how I roll. Ready. Fire. Aim.

Due to all the work we were putting into it, it began to feel like Suzanne and I were the two top experts in the world on Central American Modernism. So, when it came to making decisions about what should go in the book, I was comfortable making them.

But for the new book, I’ve enlisted help from some terrific people that know a lot more about Central American contemporary art than I do. Suzanne, of course. Also on our team is Alex Stato, who was once the director of LA’s Museum of Latin American Art.

Here’s the problem…

Both Suzanne and Alex are telling me that I have to expand my definition of art. It can’t be limited to paintings and drawings and sculptures, they say. Contemporary art must include conceptual and performance art.

I am having a tough time coming to grips with this. I understand their point. The book could be defensibly criticized for omitting these two important genres. And, in fairness, I’ve seen some conceptual/performance pieces that I thought were clever and even wonderful. But most of what I’ve seen has seemed to me to be more like a con job – a way for hucksters and their promoters to fool otherwise smart people into spending good money on silly things.

If you are not familiar with conceptual and performance art, take a look at “Good to Know,” below, and decide for yourself.