Down the rabbit hole On Russian Hill

On a gorgeous Fall evening years ago, the family gathered at A Stones Throw, a lovely and popular restaurant on Russian Hill in San Francisco. The views were spectacular. The sun was going down, and you could see the world's most famous bridge, the city marching away westward into the sunset, and Golden Gate Park, with tiny little kites fluttering high in the sky. 

Dinner was a delicious blur, full of laughter, drinking and eating with abandon, memories and celebration. We all gathered outside for a photographic memory of the event:

San Francisco was bathed with a spectacular fall light:

 

But then, just as we were getting ready to pack it in and head south to Campbell, We came upon a very curious curio shop:

To be continued...really!

All I know is that I know nothing.

 I love Australia and Australians. They're friendly, well-spoken, inclusive, laid-back, and love jokes. So, of course, I had to go back. I decided to go to Brisbane since I'd never been there before. It's a great city. I took many images, had a blast jet skiing on the Brisbane River, and took public transportation, yet I barely scratched the surface of this wonderful city that will host the Summer Olympics in 2032. 

I flew from Phoenix to LAX, had a short layover, and boarded a Delta flight direct to Brisbane, only 14 1/2 hours away. I slept some, and as we collected our luggage after landing, I said a few words to my seatmates and learned that the gent in the middle seat was an editor and his wife in the window seat was an artist! I realized that we could have had a rousing conversation if I had bothered to ask my question in LA instead of Brisbane. I asked for his top recommendation gleaned from an entire career. He smiled and said, "Don't self-edit." 

It was quite a blow since I seldom have someone looking over my shoulder as I select, edit, curate, and organize my work. I mulled it over as I shuffled through customs and immigration, collected my luggage, and headed to the train to the city. 

Fast-forward several weeks, and I was back home, assembling the Brisbane portfolio and curating the images to make the final cut. I seldom look at statistics, but I decided to take a quick peek and see what the most popular images in the portfolio were thus far. 

To my utter chagrin and horror, in curating the portfolio (I had taken over 3,700 images), I had already deleted the most popular image, which had garnered twice the views of the next most popular image! That's when the remark by my seatmate from LA came back to me with inescapable clarity: "Don't self-edit!" 

Hmm. Did he really mean it? 

Flower Power

 I've always admired the Impressionists. When I started Esprit Decor Gallery in 1985, I read that the De Young Museum in San Francisco was mounting a blockbuster show on the Impressionists, with artwork from all over the world. Museums, galleries, and private collectors had lent pieces for the show, and it would be a chance to see actual paintings that I had only seen photographs in Art History books. 

Naturally, the show was completely sold out, but I hopped on a plane, caught a bus from SFO to Golden Gate Park, grabbed a sign I found lying in the grass that said, "I NEED TICKETS," and within a minute, I was in the queue for the exhibit. 

The show was organized chronologically, with eight huge rooms corresponding to the eight impressionist exhibitions between 1874 and 1886—the blink of an eye in the history of art but a movement that would change the world forever. 

Fast forward a century, and I was, mouth open, staring up at Gustave Caillebotte's "Paris Street; Rainy Day," a genre scene of a couple under umbrellas near the Gare St. Lazare. I slowly made my way through the rest of the exhibition, awed by the magnificence of each successive image, and made a silent promise to myself that one day, I would go to Paris to revisit many of the paintings I had seen.

The movement that would set the art world on its ears took its name from an image by Claude Monet titled  "Impression, Sunrise," painted in April of 1874. He had moved to Giverny the previous year and would spend the rest of his life painting his garden and nearby lily pond. Millions of people worldwide have made the pilgrimage to this pastoral location in a tiny town fifty miles or so Northeast of Paris. I was one. 

 That was a long time ago, almost a quarter of a century. I've returned to that spot several times since then, by myself or with friends, to share the beauty of the setting that has produced some of the most beloved art in the history of the world. In these images, I hope to share it with you. To see the entire portfolio, click this link:  take me to Monet's Garden. 

I'm a Prepper – Sort Of

There is something to be said for prepping – not in a dystopian way, because that's a glass half full or even a glass soon-to-be empty philosophy, but in an "I probably should have a quasi-plan for whatever city I'm headed to." Recently, I went around the world with only an airline ticket to my first stop and a two-night hotel reservation. On the other hand, having every day planned out to the Nth degree can be fatal to the type of photography I like to do. As Iron Mike Tyson said, "Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the mouth." 

Enter the internet, YouTube, tips from friends, Google Flights, and the bucket list. Language, coinage, mass transit, tours, cycling and hiking routes, and points of interest give a rough idea of where to stay and what each day might hold, whether a visit is a few days or a month. Plus, learning about a city before you show up can be an exciting prelude to the trip itself. 

Right now, I'm doing due diligence on Brisbane, Australia. I've been to Sydney, Melbourne, and Cairns, but Brissie, Brizzy, or BrizVegas is new to me. I also want to visit Perth, but that will be another trip. I've found Aussies to be friendly, cheerful, and always ready to poke fun at themselves and visitors, but in a nice way. They don't suffer gasbags, stuffed shirts, or poseurs but have a genuine affection for Yanks, so it's my kind of place. I'm headed there next month, and there's still lots to do!

A Bridge Too Far?

 It's not all glamour, believe me. Please don't get me wrong; I love to go, and I'm honored to go. It's my jam, and I pinch myself every time I wake up in a foreign city, a foreign country, a place I've never been before. It's all possible because of the continued support of my incredibly talented staff, both past and present, and our wonderful clients who have entrusted us with their family treasures over the last thirty-five years. 

Here's a short story about my recent trip to Bergen, Norway. Regardless of what kind of images I manage to get on a particular trip, I consider it an unqualified success if I get home with all the stuff I left with. This hardly ever happens. Keeping track of camera bodies, lenses, tablets, cords, chargers, toiletries, underwear, phone, passport, and all the other assorted paraphernalia that make travel photography possible. It never happens. 

I made it as far as Schipohl, Amsterdam this time before things started going south. I was flying Delta/KLM, which is good, but the departure gate for Bergen changed three times. I studiously noted and reacted to two of the three changes, but missed the last one. Consequently, I was sitting at gate A12 as my flight was departing from gate A9.  

KLM was nice enough to put me on the next flight to Bergen, which, as it turned out, was six hours later –In addition to the 3 hours and twelve minutes I had already waited. My luggage had apparently gone on ahead. The eventual flight to Bergen went off without a hitch, and we pulled in shortly after midnight. I was so tired I wasn't even tired anymore, which is a sure sign of exhaustion. 

I had booked an all-day Train/bus/boat/train/train tour for first thing the next day, and so cabbed it into town, skipping the light rail. I hauled my luggage, camera gear suitcase, and backpack up the hill to the door of the AirBnB, got down on my hands and knees, fiddled with the combination to the lockbox and got into the apartment. I unpacked, got ready for the tour, double-checked my gear, and collapsed on the bed for what may have been 3 hours of sleep.  

Up bright and early the following day, still jet-lagged and groggy, I rechecked my camera gear, shouldered my pack and hot-footed it into town to the train station. I grabbed a coffee and Danish at the little cafe in the station and stood on the platform, wolfing it down when my upper bridge became loose, and I either swallowed it or spat it out on the platform. 

Either way, it was a disaster. I had no upper front teeth, so I had to do the entire tour, 13 hours, with my mouth shut. I suppose my fellow travelers presumed I was a monk who had taken a vow of silence, and I replied to all polite inquiries concerning my nationality, trip length, purpose, etc., with a grunt, grimace, or shrug. Who said Americans were loud?

The tour finally ended, and it started raining. Bergen is the raniest city in Europe, and August was the raniest August...ever. I walked back to the apartment in the pouring rain with no teeth, but I had gotten some great images of the Fjords and the Norwegian countryside. I decided that what I really needed next was a reindeer hotdog. 

Dress Rehearsals are Important

 I guess I'm a little rusty with the joysticks on my drone controller. I was at Granada Park taking pictures of the SpaceX launch the other night. I had two cameras, my phone, a drone, two leashes with poop bags, and a couple of cattle dogs to keep track of, but that didn't deter me in the slightest. 

We were at the upper lake with both cameras set up (one for movies and the other for stills), the drone was up in the air, my phone was out and ready, and I was counting down the seconds until the launch at Vandenburg, 530 miles to the west. Stella and Buddy sat nearby, patiently waiting for whatever was going to happen next. 

My friend Don (the homeless guy who lives out of his car at the nearby tennis courts) had warned me that the launch would probably be a big nothingburger because it was happening so close to sunset, but since I had dragged all the gear out, I was determined to forge ahead, even though it might end up just being a dress rehearsal. 

Don was right, of course, and I should have listened to him because the rocket's exhaust plume was so faint I could barely make it out; it didn't even appear on the camera shooting video. Regardless, I took dozens of still images with the other camera. The drone continued to record, and the denouement went exactly as Don had predicted. 

The non-spectacle was over in moments. With a sigh, I collapsed the tripods, packed up the camera gear,and put the phone back in my pocket. Next, I grabbed my controller and toggled the right joystick to bring the drone back in for a landing, but instead, I sent it in the opposite direction, crashing 20 feet up into a nearby pine tree, where it nested, blinking accusingly at me.

I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my ham-fisted error, but only a few dads were fishing with their kids nearby. They eventually packed up and asked solicitously if I needed any help, but I told them I would probably come back in the morning when it was light to get the drone, so they left. 

I knew it was a lie as soon as the words came out of my mouth. I waited until the group had disappeared into the parking lot while I fumed silently and stared at the errant drone, balefully blinking high in the tree above me. Slowly, a plan formed. I walked over to the heavy-duty picnic table 10 yards away, grabbed it, and dragged it across the grass until we both rested under the offending pine tree. One of us was exhausted. 

Mentally calculating my path up through the tree limbs to the drone, I scissored my way up to the first branch, pausing momentarily to congratulate myself on my physical prowess, mixed with incredulity and awe that I had even made it that far.

The rest was pretty straightforward. Scrapes, tree sap, pinecones, and needles brought back wonderful childhood memories, and before I knew it, the errant drone was within reach! I snagged it, folded it up, and stuffed it down the front of my T-shirt so I would have both hands free for the descent. 

It was neither pretty nor elegant, but I finally dropped back down onto the picnic table with the drone intact. The shoot had been a total bust, but the rescue mission made up for it. Foolhardy, certainly, but way too much fun! That said, I hope I never have to do it again. 

Another launch is scheduled for Monday night just after 9 p.m. The conditions should be much better, so tonight was just a dress rehearsal.

Addendum: The Monday night launch from Vandenberg SFB got scrubbed at the last minute. My return to the same spot actually had three additional benefits: first, I got to do another dress rehearsal and located the real-time feed for the launch. Secondly, I did not fly the drone into the tree tonight! Finally, since I was flying, I got to work on my night drone photography and got this: 

   

Everything I’m About to Tell You Is a Lie

Who knew that saying you would lie and then telling the truth would even work? 

Bizarre, I know, but honestly, that's what happened. I was heading to London to photograph the Regent's Canal via bicycle. A friend told me that Photo London would be on while I was there and that I should check it out if possible. Since I had yet to learn where Photo London was being held, I filed that notion in the 'yes, sure, maybe' file. I was staying at the Nix in Holborn, and the following day, I decided to walk down to the Thames and check it out. 

I got several images, and heading back, I noticed that Photo London was right in front of me at Somerset House! The VIP preview would be the next day, but I wanted to sneak in and check out what was happening. I decided to stroll in like I owned the place, and the next thing I knew, I was dodging workmen, ladders, people aiming lights, hanging artwork, and putting little tags on the walls. I started going through the exhibit, and it was spectacular!

Almost immediately, though, a staff member approached me and said firmly, "You can't be here!" I remember asking what I had to do to be permitted to be there, and they said, "You have to be an exhibitor, and you have to be vetted, and have a pass and blah blah blah." So okay, I remember thinking. I got in the elevator, took it to the second floor, and approached a group of serious-looking people behind the main counter. I took a deep breath and uttered words I'd never said before in my entire life: 

"Everything I'm about to tell you is a lie," I said. Then I told them the truth: I owned an art gallery in Phoenix, had been in the business for over 30 years, and had mounted dozens of shows similar to the one they were putting up at that moment. Couldn't I get a sneak preview? (Most of the images had never been seen by the public before.) 

The stern-looking gentleman in charge slowly shook his head and returned to his computer. I thought, "What the hell, it was worth a shot."

The next thing I knew, he turned with a grin and handed me an exhibitor's pass with my name and Esprit Decor Gallery printed on it—pretty much the key to the kingdom. After thanking him and the rest of the staff profusely, I hustled back downstairs and went through the entire show – the day before it opened! 

The moral of this story (if there is one) would have to be, "If you're going to lie, always make sure you're telling the truth." 

It worked for me, but by all means, you do you. The entire portfolio can be seen here: https://www.patkofahl.com/Postcards-from-London

The Inhuman Condition

It was rush hour in Rome, and I was at a Metro stop near the Termini, maybe Cavour or Colloseo; I forget. It was crazy busy, and the cars were so full that it reminded me of the bullet trains in Japan, where a crew of pushers would physically jam people into the cars so the trains could leave the stations on time. 

Deciding that being crammed into a subway car with a hundred complete strangers was just the ticket, I jostled forward with the rest of the crowd on the platform. The cars were completely full, of course, but we pressed up against the phalanx of defenders at the open doors, confident that there would be enough room for everyone to board—and somehow, there was!

The doors closed, and we were off with a whoosh. Silence descended, and suddenly, the only communication was through wry smiles, raised eyebrows, shrugs, and hand gestures as we all began rocking slowly back and forth like penitents at a revival meeting. The hard-core locals exuded an air of quiet resignation as if to say, "Well, this can't last forever. Eventually, the riff-raff will get off, and we can return to some semblance of normalcy, perhaps even find a seat." 

For those visitors who had braved the heaving, shoving mass of human flesh jammed into the cars, it was a great experience, not unlike the mosh pit at a rave. Imagine scores of perfect strangers, all crammed together, barely able to move, hurtling along in the dark, underground, like Space Mountain at Disney World. Men guarded their wallets and cell phones; ladies, their purses and virtue.

Finally, with a tortured screech of the brakes, the train arrived at my stop, and I was spat out onto the platform like a wet watermelon seed. The experience had been so unique and surreal that I turned at the last instant, raised my cell phone, and captured that moment for this blog post. Oh, and those white streaks on the windows? It's exactly what you think it is. 

Pushing the Envelope

   Once upon a time many years ago, I was a jet engine mechanic in the United States Navy. I volunteered when I was seventeen. It was the Vietnam era, and I came from a military family. I never even got a draft card. I said I would go wherever I was needed. The Navy assigned me to duty at Naval Air Station Barbers Point, Hawaii. So, in addition to tearing down Allison T-56 turboshaft engines,  demonstrating my lock-wiring skills, taking apart and rebuilding Hamilton Standard propellor controls, and handing out technical publications, I learned to body surf. My favorite break was at Makapu'u Beach on the South-Eastern Shore, and I spent countless hours learning the rhythm of the ocean, how an offshore wind held up the waves, the timing of dropping into a wave, the frequency of sets, and all that jazz. 

   As Thomas Wolfe famously said, "You can't go home again." He was speaking metaphorically, of course, but there's no fun in that, so I bought a wetsuit on Amazon, snagged a GoPro 12 on eBay, found a great fare on Hawaiian Airlines, and booked a flight to Sydney, Australia. I'm staying somewhere in Chinatown. I also decided to take one of my drones.

   My purpose is to prove that Thomas Wolfe was wrong. I've been to Steamer Lane at Santa Cruz and managed to get this: 

And this:

And this:

And with the drone and Mother Nature's help, I got this:

And this:

 And this:

   So, I can set up my tripod and camera on the beach and get shots of the action offshore, and I can steer the drone out to get some aerial images, but what I really want to do is get some surfing shots from the water, so that's the plan. It's a totally different type of photography, and who knows? Maybe you can go home after all. We'll find out.

If You Think Breaking Up is Hard to Do...

 If you think breaking up is hard, try murdering your children (Note to kids: I'm speaking metaphorically here!) Easy to say, but hard to do. And yet, the simple truth is that most photographers' shots never see the light of day. Why? Because, for whatever reason, they don't make the cut. Even if you have six excellent versions of the same subject, five will probably have to go. Call it curating, editing, culling, or whatever – it feels like cutting away your own flesh and blood. We've been trained to ingest the gist but never the entire story in all its ramifications and nuances, so we should get on with it!

Some shots are throw-aways: out of focus, blown highlights or blocked shadows, angles that didn't work out the way we expected, preliminary or practice photos, whatever. It's akin to the cinematic metaphor of the cutting-room floor. It's where the also-rans, almosts, and close-but-no-cigar images go to die. But, for better or worse, it's a skill that every photographer must eventually master if  they don't want their portfolios to be compared to the old vacation photos we used to have to sit through as the next upside-down and backward slide slid into the viewing slot of the carousel projector. Thank god for alcohol!

Nowadays, it's Instagram, TikTok, Reddit, Twitter, and Facebook, and if it can't be viewed, consumed, and critiqued in 10 seconds or less, then it's ignored, so you'd better make it count. We're all terrified that we might miss something as we blithely shovel information into our brains. 

So what's the point here? I was talking with another photographer a while back, and our relationship is at the stage where we can speak freely in support of each other's work, knowing that the suggestions will be taken in the spirit that they were offered. He told me, "You have too many images on your website." This is absolutely true, and one of these days, I will go through and weed out a bunch, but not today. Because you never know. I put up a drone image I had taken of the 51 freeway that cuts through the center of Phoenix. It was at dusk, and not exactly the most artistic image, but guess what? Bloomberg News bought it and continues to pay royalties for it each year, and that image has been a huge moneymaker. So the point is that you never know. Just like life. 

Here is the image that Bloomburg icensed:

Arizona State Route 51 and Environs

 And this is the "artistic view that I thought would be much more popular:

Sunset at Granada Park

But you never know. So that's one reason why there are so many images on my website.

We'll Always have Paris

 A million years ago (before the pandemic), I had this concept for a portfolio. Famous cafes, bistros, and watering holes in Paris. So, I did my due diligence, scouted the city via Google, and listed 43 potential candidates. I paid for a hotel on the Left Bank, bought an airline ticket, and got ready to go. 

The pandemic struck just before I was ready to head off to the City of Light. Nobody knew what was happening. People were dying so fast that hospitals were forced to stack corpses in refrigeration trucks. Needless to say, the trip went into the ashcan. 

After being told there wasn't a problem, we were advised to put bleach in our veins. Next, it was horse paste. I could go on, but finally, science prevailed. A vaccine became available, and folks lined up by the millions to get inoculated. Some refused, insisting it was a government plot. Sadly, many of them died. 

But enough history. We aren't necessarily living happily ever after, but things are somewhat back to normal – the new normal, whatever that is.

It's time to complete the concept I dreamed up all those years ago. So, I'm going back to Paris. I know the city pretty well, can get around, have a plan, and speak passably good French. Now, If the weather cooperates, I should get some good images. Wish me luck!

Old Dogs/New Trix

 The last five years have been some of the most revolutionary in the history of the world. We went through a pandemic of unimaginable proportions, which crossed the world like a lightning bolt, infecting the far reaches of the globe seemingly in an instant. It changed us. Permanently. We staggered and recovered, only to become engaged in a war threatening to engulf the world.

Politics (regardless of your point of view) has become more bitter, contentious, and consequential. We have been told to doubt our foundations, political system, and understanding of reality. Sadly, none of this will be going away anytime soon. 

Despite all this, technology has pushed us forward into unknown territory. "AI" has become a contemporary buzzword. Like every new technology, it has engendered fear and misunderstanding and hammered home the idea that the dangerous unknown is directly in front of us. 

But isn't that how it's always been? We've never known what was in store for us, so why should today be any different? We're a plucky lot. With confidence and an optimistic spirit, we will move forward, embracing the changes on our doorstep and finding our way through the seemingly bewildering maze of the future. As the great Transcendentalist and Unitarian Minister Theodore Parker said, "I do not pretend to understand the moral universe; the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways; I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see, I am sure it bends toward justice." 

Art, in general, and photography, in particular, is simply a catalyst for one of humanity's oldest, most universal, and most profound needs: storytelling. Methods and means change with the times, but the essentialness of storytelling remains. From the first hushed, late-night huddle around the Paleolithic fire to the virtual reality and artificial intelligence of the moment and near future, storytelling was and will continue to be one of humanity's most essential undertakings. 

Part of the expression of our humanity is the need to share our vision with each other through theatre, dance, painting, sculpture, music, and the like. We are also eager consumers of all this storytelling; it enriches us in ways that commodities and wealth cannot and fills a need in the soul that completes us and makes us human. 

The image of an old photographer and visual storyteller was created using a cutting-edge contemporary AI tool called Midjourney, thus conflating one of our oldest and most cherished disciplines with one of the latest tools to find a new way to tell a story. And so, life goes on. In addition, I also edited this post using artificial intelligence! And so this story continues...

On The Marrakech Express

 Morocco is a land of wonder, from mysterious Casablanca to the marketplace of Jemaa el-Fnaa in Marrakesh, to the dunes of the high Sahara at Merzouga, the labyrinth of the Medina at Fes,  the blue pearl of Chefchaouen, high in the Riff mountains, to exotic Tangier. 

We did it all. We flew from Phoenix to Madrid and on to Tangier.  From there, we took the Jet boat to Gibraltar because the Pillars of Hercules was a bucket list item. From Gibraltar, we flew to Casablanca and to Marrakech, where we spent several days in the Medina and visited the famous Jma al Fnaa, a market and gathering place that has been going nightly for over a thousand years. 

Next, we rented a car and drove out of Marrakech over the high Atlas Mountains, where we picked up a stranded Arab motorist who had learned flawless English by listening to the BBC and drove him to Quazarzate, had tea and met his uncle Ali, carpet dealer extraordinaire:

Uncle Ali

On the way out of town that evening, we stopped for dinner at Restaurant Douyria. Uncle Ali must have called ahead because we were treated like royalty!  We were ushered through a long, dimly lit bar, out the back, and upstairs to a private dining room, replete with silk brocade cushions, starched white linen tablecloths, candles, Oudh incense, the works. The space was empty except for a small group engaged in animated conversation in the far corner. We started chatting with them, and it turned out to be Amal Essaqr, a famous Moroccan TV personality with her producer and assistant. We found out that she has over 2 million followers on Instagram and bears a striking resemblance to Mata Hari. They were absolutely charming, and we exchanged stories and lies far into the night.

Amal Essaqr

We pushed on to Skoura, where we spent the night in the middle of the oasis of 10,000 acres of palm trees, pushing east the next day at sunrise to Merzouga and the high Sahara desert at Erg Chebbi, where we began our camelcade into the Sahara.

A Two Camel Caravan

 We overnighted in the desert camp of Uncle Ali, enjoying the best tagine in all of Morocco, prepared by our Berber guide, and falling asleep under an inky black sky punctuated by a million blazing stars. The next day, we returned to Uncle Ali's desert outpost, where we said goodbye to our camels and the oasis crew and headed north through Erfoud,  Errachidia, and on to Midelt, between the middle and high Atlas Mountains. After a brief overnight, we headed to the walled city of Fez, the second largest city in Morocco, a city of mosques and madrassas. It contains over 10,000 alleys, 400 mosques, and a culture dating from the late 700's. 

The Music Man – Fez

After a lovely stay in the ancient Medina, getting lost dozens of times, waking daily to the Adhan or call to prayer echoing across the rooftops of the Medina, we left Fez and made our way to Sky City, the Blue Pearl, Chefchaouen, high in the Riff mountains. On the way, I got a speeding ticket, photo radar, guilty as hell, paid on the spot, and we were on our way. I framed the ticket, it now hangs on the wall in my office.

In the Backstreets of Chefchaouen

 

In the Spanish diaspora of 1492, many Jews left Spain, crossing the Straight of Gibraltar and settling in Chefchaouen,  in the foothills of the Riff mountains. Almost the entire city is painted in various shades of blue, giving it the moniker the Blue Pearl. We spent several days exploring this charming outpost, reluctantly heading back to Tangier, Madrid, and home. 

Here's a link to images from the trip: https://www.patkofahl.com/Morocco/

Cycling in London, part 1

 The Regent's Canal runs through northern London, starting in the east at the Thames river, not far from the Limehouse Cut, and snakes north past Mile End to Bethnal Green, turning east to Islington and Camden Town and ending up past St. John's Wood and Maida Green, just north of Paddington Station. 

The best way to see it is by walking or on a bike, and I chose the latter. The problem was I was in London and didn't have a bike. Gumtree to the rescue! It's the English version of Craigslist. I found a bike, the same make, and model I ride here at home, and bought it outright. The problem was that it was far across the city near Kew Garden. I was in Holborn, miles away. 

I hopped on the tube, then a bus, and finally, shoe leather express to reach my destination. The bike was suitable, so we sealed the deal with Venmo; I strapped on a helmet and put in my AirPods, cued up Apple Maps, and headed East, following the instructions being whispered in my ear by Siri, whom I absolutely did not trust to get me back to the Nyx hotel. 

She was on her best behavior, and I made it smoothly through London rush hour traffic. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of my home-away-from-home.  I approached the front desk with some trepidation, but they unflappably suggested I take the bike up to my room, so I did. 

To be continued...

The Lessons of History

 If history teaches anything, it is that we forget, and in the forgetting, we forget what we forgot. It's a clumsy way to say it, but also proof that AI didn't generate this post. Put simply, human memory is ephemeral, yet photography can be both documentary and expository. Here's a case in point: 

I honestly don't recall a whole lot about that day over eighteen years ago. Jocelyn and Mark were about to have their first child. There was quite a crowd at the hospital; family, friends, medical staff, etc. Everyone got a chance to hold that little bundle of joy and marvel at the miracle that had been brought into the world. 

Just the other day, I got to take his high school graduation photo, and again I marveled at all the amazing moments during the intervening years that had brought so much joy, love, anguish, trepidation, and celebration to every life he has touched. Now he's off to Hawaii with his friends, and another page has been turned in the chapter of our lives. 

These images document that journey through time and help us recall those moments that might otherwise be obscured by the mist of time and memory, something AI will never achieve. 

I'm not worried. I know this is real. 

Serendipity

When I visited Florence for the first time, I was amazed. The people, the food, the history, the art and architecture were all incomparable. Not only was it the heart of Tuscany, but also the heart of the Renaissance. Go see for yourself. I was so enchanted that even though I had no place to stay and had already purchased a train ticket to Nice, I knew I had to stay an extra day to soak up more of everything the city had to offer. So I did, with no regrets. 

I managed to book my hotel for an extra night and found I could exchange my train ticket for the following day. I showed up at the ticket booth with loads of time to spare and was told that I had to change trains in Milan and that there was only a ten-minute layover to catch the train for Nice. No problem! I thanked the kind lady, took my ticket, and boarded the train for Milan, congratulating myself on my good fortune. The departure time came, and nothing happened. A half-hour passed before we finally got going, and I realized there was no way I was going to make my connection. As it turned out, I was right. When we pulled into Milan, the train to Nice was long gone. 

Dragging my suitcase through the gravel around the side of the station, I got in line at the taxi rank. When it was my turn, I asked my prospective driver if he spoke English because my Italian was limited to grazie, prego, vino, and pizza. "Sure, no problem," he said and smiled. Since the next train to Nice left in about two hours, I asked for the one-hour tour of Milan, and off we sped, blasting through the city, accompanied by the appropriate horn-honking, gesticulating,  hand waving, and running commentary, which was much more entertaining than either Frommers or Lonely Planet. 

Who knew, for example, that Milan boasts one of the top Chinatowns in Europe? Or that The La Scala opera house also housed a museum, or that at Giuseppe Verdi's funeral, thousands of people lined the procession route singing "Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate" / "Fly, thought, on golden wings"? It was a very moving and educational detour.

Eventually, though, it began to rain. As I stood at the foot of the statue of Leonardo Da Vinci in the Piazza della Scala, I noticed at the foot of the great master a white rose covered with raindrops. Like almost everything else in Milan, I found it charming.. I raised my camera and recorded it to share with you. Here it is:

Not every detour is a disappointment. In Florence, I had fumed at the delay; little did I know what awaited in Milan. Adventure and enlightenment were everywhere. All I had to do was embrace it.

Return To Oz

Phoenix – Honolulu – Sydney – Cairns – Melbourne – Sydney – Honolulu – Phoenix. It was quite a trip, and all in 10 days! Plus, I got to dive the Great Barrier Reef, visited the Daintree Rainforest, learned how to throw a boomerang, saw koalas, kookaburras, and kangaroos in the wild, sampled the wonderful Melbourne coffee culture, toured the city by bike, took an excursion to the Great Ocean Road, feasted on amazing Thai street food, ate shark, hovered over a 150 million-year-old rainforest and got to see it close up and personal, made a bunch of new friends, took over 9,000  photographs, and traveled over 20,000 miles.

Now I'm home, sorting through all the images and putting together a portfolio of the trip. It's entitled Australia, and I hope you like it. Here's a link:

https://www.patkofahl.com/Australia

As with all my portfolios, Australia is  a work in progress, and will change over time. Some images will be edited, move or disappear as I continue to build the portfolio in an attempt to make a more compelling and cohesive story. Thanks for your patience, and for joining me on this incredible adventure!

Sunset at Cairns, Queensland, Australia

Amsterdam: A Simple Reason To Gogh

For all intents and purposes, he was a flop. His life was one big failure after another: he failed in sales. Failed as a preacher, and failed to sell a single piece of his own artwork in his lifetime.  A social misfit, he had few friends, and quarrelled bitterly with those he had. he was subject to fits of depression, despair and rage, and rightly so. Couldn't they see his genius, share his vision, comprehend what he was trying to say? 

Perhaps not. Like many other visionaries, he was ahead of his time. An e-mail intellect in a snail-mail world. He saw things others missed: color, light, form, composition, value, hue, temperature. He screamed at the top of his lungs, becoming increasingly manic in his work, more excited, more primal, more simplistic in his artistic statement. He despaired that he was yelling into a void that returned nothing but the echoes of his own cries. 

As it often does, despair finally triumphed. He surrendered, body and soul. He left this world and traveled onward into the void. But, he left behind a legacy, a fire so bright that is has awed contemporary viewers and critics alike. Now we understand, as Don Maclean so brilliantly put it in his song Starry, Starry Night:

"Now I think I know, what you tried to say to me, and how you suffered for your sanity, and how you tried to set them free..."