Easter Island Preview

So I’m gearing up for this year’s big vacation: Chile and Easter Island. I’ll try to blog it in “real time” with updates every few days, although that depends largely on time and internet access. But even before I go, I’ve gotten a lot of common questions so I’ll try to answer them up front.

Where is Easter Island?
Easter Island (which the natives call Rapa Nui or Te pito o te henua [“Navel of the World”]) is in the middle of the South Pacific. It’s owned by Chile but it’s really nowhere near Chile (2200 miles away/a 5-hour flight) and has more of a Polynesian influence. It is the world’s most isolated speck (63 square miles) of populated land, as this screenshot from Google Earth clearly shows:


Isn’t that the place with the big heads?
Yes—and they’re called Moai. They were erected during the height of the Rapa Nui civilization. There is a lot of mystery about these ancient people, a civilization that rose and fell hard in 1000 years. More on that when I’m there…


What language do they speak?
Spanish and Rapa Nui, the ancient language of the natives. The natives also had a rather cool-looking written language called Rongorongo, but this has never been deciphered.

Why are you going to such a weird and isolated place?
Because it’s such a weird and isolated place. It’s very mysterious and different and exotic, and I never really seriously considered it until I read a travel piece that the playwright Edward Albee wrote after visiting (click here to read it). I guess that made me realize that people can really just go there.

And why Chile?
Easter Island is owned by Chile, so the only way to get there is on LAN Airlines via Santiago (Easter Island actually has NASA to thank for it’s full-size runway because it was installed by the US government as an emergency landing option for the Space Shuttle). I initially had no interest in spending time in Chile, but as I read about it I fell in love—especially with the wilds of Patagonia. So I’ll be spending a few days in Santiago and the coastal towns of Valparaiso and Vina del Mar. Then I fly down to Patagonia, mainly visiting Torres del Paine National Park to see glaciers and penguins). Then 5 days on Easter Island. All told, I’m away a little over 2 weeks:


Is Chile the stupidest-shaped country in the world?
Yes:


Click here for a good brief summary of Easter Island or Click here for the article on Wikipedia.

One more word on Papa

A few of you have asked if you can make donations in my Papa’s memory. It is very thoughtful and of course completely unnecessary, but if you would like to do something then we are asking that donations be made to the Schepens Eye Institute. As my eulogy pointed out, my grandfather was nearly blind. He suffered from a rare, degenerative eye disease that struck him sometime before I was born and caused his vision to worsen throughout his life. The Schepens Eye Institute is an ophthalmology research center at Harvard Medical School; the information is below. My Papa's name was Dr. Max Henry Tischler, and please have them send the acknowledgement for the donation to my dad (Jeffrey Tischler, 21 Glenbrook Road, Monsey, NY 10952) who will be most touched.

Donations in his memory should be directed to:
Schepens Eye Research Institute
Development Office
20 Staniford Street
Boston, MA 02114

Donations should include a note so that they can acknowledge both the donor and the family. If you have any additional questions please contact:
Richard A. Godfrey
Volunteer Patient Liaison
Schepens Eye Research Institute
20 Staniford St., Boston, MA 02114
www.schepens.harvard.edu
(617) 912-2569

Remembering Papa

Always generous: Papa shares a sandwich with me in 1972.

As many of you may already know, my beloved grandfather Dr. Max Henry "Papa" Tischler passed away after a brief illness on October 18th at the age of 95. He leaves behind my Grandma (Elaine), two children (my dad and my Aunt Diane), two grandchildren (me and my sister Jessica), and three great-grandchildren (my beautiful nieces Alana, Ashley, and Chelsea)—not to mention countless other family members and friends who were touched by his gregarious soul. Below I have simply reprinted the words I spoke at his funeral on Sunday, which pretty much says everything I can at this time. עליו השלום

One of my favorite stories about Papa happened before I was even born. The family was flying up to Montreal for one of the Kattleman boys’ Bar Mitzvahs. There was horrendous turbulence; everyone was terrified. But while everyone else was hysterical with fear, Papa sat calmly with his eyes closed and his hands neatly folded in his lap. He served as the ideal example of calm under pressure as everyone said to each other, “Calm down! Look at Papa—he’s sleeping.” That is, until Papa replied, “I’m not sleeping…I’m praying!”

Today we’re the ones saying prayers, and this time for Papa.

What can I say about Papa? How can we summarize 95 years of life—not just of life, but of living—in just a few words? My earliest memories are of visits to 2314 Avenue S, and—when we were very lucky—to his office downstairs from Aunt Judy, where we could play with tongue depressors and reflex hammers. Sometimes I would get to sleep over at their house in Brooklyn, and by the time I’d wake up Papa had already brought back fresh bagels and bialys. It’s funny the little things you remember, like the smell of those bagels with butter and hot coffee, or the sound of the floors in that house creaking as everyone woke up and came down to eat them while morning sun streamed into the kitchen.

By the time I knew Papa he was already a senior citizen; most of his life had already passed. But from old photos and the vivid stories he would tell I came to know a boy who lost his mother to breast cancer at far too young an age; a teenager who played football like a champion (or so he claimed); a young man who pursued his dream of becoming a doctor by going to medical school in Scotland when quotas prevented his admission to a school in the US because he was a Jew; a handsome bridegroom; a stern but loving father; an always-dapper gentleman-about-town with a wife who was as beautiful and as special as him, inside and out; a man who gave us one terrific Aunt and the best father in the world; and a man of conviction and strong opinions who always spoke his mind and appreciated the finer things in life (not to mention the Mets).

Henny Youngman once said, “My grandfather is over eighty years old and still doesn't need glasses. He just drinks right out of the bottle.” well, my grandfather did need glasses: he was practically blind for as long as I can remember. I know it frustrated him, but it didn’t change the way he felt toward the world. In fact, it might even have helped. In the book The Little Prince, the fox tells us the most essential secret of life: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; the most important things are invisible to the eye.” Maybe because Papa had no choice in the matter, he knew that better than anyone. He was the ideal grandparent: he loved my sister and me unconditionally. He seemed to relish and appreciate every minute he had with us. When we would visit Grandma and Papa in Boca Raton, they doted on us—and then on their delicious great-granddaughters. Even when I visited him last week, as he lay dying in the hospital, his only worries were whether I’d had enough to eat (as if that were something to be concerned about!) and that I wouldn’t miss my flight home. And while it was sad to see him so ill, there was a wonderful hour when he recalled for me and Jessica some of our favorite stories from “the olden days”—about Lundy’s and Flatbush Avenue and the such—and we all smiled, and we all laughed, and that sparkle of life came back to his face one more time.

The day I learned that he passed away, I cried a lot. But when I got in bed that night and thought about so many of the times we shared, in Brooklyn, and Somers, and Monsey, and Boca, and Cape Cod, I could only smile and chuckle instead. And that’s how I’ll always try to remember my Papa.

Even on a sad day like this, I’m very lucky. At 35 years of age I still had three of my grandparents. I never knew the fourth, my Grandpa Hirsch. And while I’m sad that I never knew him, I never felt cheated: Papa was the only grandfather you could ever need, and he had all the love for me that I could ever want.

It may seem inappropriate to quote a musical at a funeral, but I can’t help but ask: “Papa, can you hear me?” I don’t know where you are right now, but I do know this: you have a dry Beefeater martini in one hand, there’s golf on the television, and you have enough love to keep you warm for all eternity.

I love you. I miss you. Goodbye.


The whole mishpacha:
the family all together for the last time in May, 2007.

Barcelona Nights

…Finally, I went to my first international meeting for SUTENT—ECCO. This is the largest European cancer conference this year it was in Barcelona. I’d never been to Barcelona, and people always rave about it, so I was excited to see for myself what all the hoopla was about. Being a busy time back at work, I wasn’t able to add on any personal time, but I did manage to squeeze in a little sightseeing between sessions.

First, the lounge at JFK…and why ich liebe Lufthansa:


The meeting actually began on Yom Kippor. Michele Markus, her husband Ken, and I all attended services with a congregation (ATID) in Barcelona. It was certainly a different experience. They held services in a hotel where security was tight—the location was very secretive and I was almost strip-searched before they would let me in. But the services were certainly interesting: Hebrew, Spanish, and a little Catalan (according to Ken, who speaks Spanish—personally I can’t tell the difference). The crowd was very casual and friendly. Here’s the Amida in Spanish—my favorite part is that the “House of God” becomes a “Pueblo” (as always, click on any photo to enlarge):


We broke our fast with some decidedly un-Kosher tapas. Actually, first we broke it with the odd, individually wrapped jellybeans that were in abundance at our hotel:


In addition to Yom Kippor, it was also La Mercé, which is the annual festival for the patron saint of Barcelona. Needless to say, the city was hopping that night. We came out of the subway in massive crowds, which at that moment were enjoying a parade of fire-breathing dragons and firecrackers. Here’s a quick photo I snapped before we ran for our lives:


Finally, the tapas. Legs of Jamón Ibérico—a special, absolutely delicious ham available only in Spain—were hanging overhead:


Some other options:


Nothing like pork sausage wrapped in bacon to break the fast:


Random point…a lot of signs are bi-lingual in Spanish and Catalan. Barcelona is the capitol of the semi-autonomous region of Catalonia that sees itself as distinct from Spain (some even advocate independence). But “bi-lingual” signs like this really don’t help to make the case:


Then ECCO began in earnest—several days of morning-to-night symposia, sessions, posters, and spying. Here’s Michele, raring and ready to go. She’s the one on the high Cs…HAHAHAHAHA!!!!:


One day when I did have a few hours’ break, I went on a walk to some sights. The Barri Gòtic is the old section of Barcelona, filled with tight streets and alleys:





It’s a local tradition for businesses to paint their grates:


The one wide-open street is the famed Las Ramblas, a busy, wide, pedestrian thoroughfare with all the best and worst that Barcelona has to offer. Along it is Barcelona’s opera house, the Gran Teatre del Liceu:


There are a lot of street performers ready to take photos with tourists:



When I took the photo of the large “woman” he/she noticed me doing so. so I felt compelled to give him/her a coin…whereupon he/she treated me to a flash of his/her gigantic fake boob and then made lascivious gestures toward my ice cream cone. I was sexually harassed! But this wasn’t the only time this happened to me on Las Ramblas because on our last night there I was solicited by a prostitute. Good times, good times.

Time for some Gaudì…his famed apartment building, the Casa Milà:


And his most famous creation-in progress, the Sagrada Família. This massive church has been under construction for about 100 years and still has a ways to go. They’re hoping to have it done by 2028 but that already appears unlikely. As you walk around, it’s interesting and easy to tell which parts were completed in his lifetime and which were completed by subsequent artists (since he left no blueprints). The original façade looks like it’s melting:



…while the newer façade is much more angular (and clean):



By the way, I didn’t put the “ç “ in “façade” above, that was my spellchecker. Fancy! Anyhoo, that night we went out for anther tapas crawl. Along the way I noticed this random man in clown makeup leaning against a church and eating ice cream:


Me and Ken in cute little bar where we enjoyed a local drink whose taste resembled that of American lighter fluid.:


Michele and fellow CDM friend Angie Horn in the same bar, reflecting:


Odd store display of a headless baby:


A little fun with camera effects in the cab home:


Angie tries to get Michele on record with a saucy comment:


Back at the convention…here they are, ladies and gentlemen, the world’s most brilliant physicians and scientists:


One night Angie and I returned to the Teatre Liceu for a performance of Andrea Chenier. It was actually the premiere of a new production there. The interior was much more impressive than the unassuming exterior:



Bows at the end. The performance was musically well done, but the production was terrible and filled with symbolism that was heavy-handed to say the least. When the production crew came out for bows with the cast at the end, there were some rousing boos. Exciting!:


Back at the convention again. For those of you who think that it’s all fun and games, I made this short (1 minute) video to give you a little taste of the TRUE ECCO experience. Just click the little triangle in the lower left-hand corner to play:


As the convention neared its end, we needed to ship home all of the scientific and competitive materials we collected. FedEx has no facility in Barcelona, so we went to a regular old post office in a local shopping mall. Here’s Michele on the floor packing and labeling:



Of course with FedEx we have an account, but at the post office we had to pay out of pocket. The final shipping bill was over 1000 Euros—that’s nearly $1500!! And they only took cash!! So here’s me at the ATM in the shopping mall, maxing out my credit card cash advances:


But like all things, ECCO eventually came to an end. On the last night we went out for our final tapas, walking first past the Sagrada Família once again. Here’s Michele trying to bust in:


My favorite “water with gas”. That makes it much more fun (and Doug-appropriate) than calling it seltzer:


Another tapas favorite—patatas (potatoes) with a spicy garlic sauce:


The whole gang at our last hurrah:


I like this photo of me. I look strung out and/or anxious:


Sometimes when you bring a global cell phone to another country, you get a text message from the local service provider saying something like “Vodaphone welcomes you to Germany and wishes you a pleasant stay. If you need any phone assistance while you’re here, just dial blah, blah blah.” Well in Barcelona these messages came from a company called “Movistar”. And I say messages because instead of just one, they sent us literally 20 or 30 a day!!!! Here’s Michele trying to be a movie star herself:


Finally, we passed a lot of vendors selling a local ice cream treat called “Maxibon”. Angie seemed particularly fascinated by it and its inappropriately suggestive advertising:


In fact, I have a few photos of her at the Maxibon booth, so I put them into an odd little video I call “Angie’s Maxibon Dance” (again, click the lower left-hand corner to play):


So that was our time in Barcelona. I didn’t love the city like so many other people seem to, but I did like it very much and certainly had a good time with good company. And I’ll leave you with one more video. Not an original production, but certainly unrivaled: “Barcelona” sung by gay Queen front man Freddie Mercury and operatic queen/Spanish woman Montserrat Caballe—perhaps the oddest couple of all time:


Olé.

Getting High (One Mile, To Be Excruciatingly Exact)

…after Baltimore came a day in Denver. Again, I timed my flights so that I would at least have a little time to walk around (though I’ve been to Denver before). The entertainment began right after I landed and jumped into a cab: the taxi was filled with teddy bears! A little cute, a little freaky…:








Here’s my reaction to the Teddy Cab…I felt a little like Gulliver and kept a wary eye:


That was just about as exciting as it got. After a day of research I hit the hay, and then had time for a walk the next morning. My hotel had a nice view of the Rockies (and Mile-High Stadium…oh, excuse me, “INVESCO Field at Mile High”):


I walked past the house (now a museum) of the “Unsinkable” Molly Brown, famed philanthropist, Titanic survivor (Kathy Bates played her in the movie), and musical subject:


The Colorado State Capitol is nice and at the heart of the city:



Truth be told, I always thought that “the Mile-High City” was just a nickname. But apparently it really is exactly one mile high! When the statehouse was built about a hundred years ago, the fifteenth step in front was engraved with the words “ONE MILE ABOVE SEA LEVEL” because that’s where they thought it was:


But since then more accurate measurements placed the 1-mile mark first at the 18th step and then, most recently and supposedly most accurately at the 13th step—both of which are also indicated:


Truth be told, who gives a crap?! Just pick one and stop spending our tax dollars on this!

Finally, the convention center in Denver appeared to be under attack by an 8-story tall bear:


…but I didn’t have time to worry about that because it was time to move on to Barcelona!!