Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  “I felt the same when I read those letters. Very moving,” she reflected.

  I was sitting in the world of heroes, taking in the world created by Schliemann, when she extended an invitation for me to meet with the Minister of Culture.

  When a meeting with the Minister of Culture of Greece took place that afternoon, I received permission to get a private viewing of Schliemann’s mansion in Athens, a palace called The House of Troy where kings and dignitaries of the late 19th century had gathered. I walked through where they had dined and danced and imagined myself in their world, their stories, their Victorian manners, and the formalities that must have been exchanged.

  I entered Schliemann’s beautiful office upstairs, designed in bright colors and frescoes that imitated ancient Pompeii. I sat quietly in his personal space, taking in what I could about what he wrote in his books, letters and his theories of discovering a lost world. It was a great privilege. I felt blessed for what my world was offering.

  I walked down that enormous stairway, where he must have come down greeting his guests with great arrogance when his fame had reached its peak. Later that year The House of Troy would be turned into the magnificent Numismatic Museum, continuing on with the world of the ancients. Schliemann would have been pleased.

  The next morning, I visited his gravesite in the First Cemetery of Athens. There it stood, high up like a miniature mausoleum. Its reliefs described his conquests and on top his bust overlooked the mighty Aegean where the great Achaean warriors set sail with a thousand ships and conquered Troy. Staring at the bronzed door, where behind it laid Schliemann’s remains, I dearly wanted to know how his body was interred. Like the myths he uncovered, it will be rediscovered again centuries from now, to be reinterpreted by different minds and greater technology. Later I spoke to the guards at the cemetery and they answered my question. Behind that door Schliemann was buried beneath the tomb, tiled over and above it, Sophia and her family’s remains.

  My next step was to see Troy for myself and explore the Homeric myths of the Great War and the love story of Helen and Paris that started it all. After a five-hour drive we came to the Dardanelles and crossed the waterway by ferry. An hour later we arrived at Çanakkale. From there a guide met me and on horseback we galloped across the Troad where the Trojan War took place. Like two ancient warriors we raced around and finally climbed up onto the mound overlooking Hissarlik. There it all was. Schliemann’s World. His sacred ruins where he brought to life Homer’s tales that carried him to glory. He was, in short, a born discoverer, and the discoverer, like the poet, is born, not made. Oh, those ghosts, and the battle sounds of long ago. If you listen hard enough that war is still raging.

  We sat there at the edge of this battled site and opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate man’s ability to go beyond himself and reach for his godlike being that inspires the passion within him. But what happened to the great love story of Helen and Paris that started this war? My guide looked at me sadly and shared that in Michael Wood’s documentary on Troy, he says that, “In the archaeological archives, love leaves no trace.”

  Ballooning Over the Valley of the Kings

  It was 5 a.m. in Luxor, Egypt when I boarded a small boat to cross the Nile River over to the West Bank. Luxor lies on the ancient site of Thebes, the capital of Egypt during its Golden Age. The Necropolis of Thebes contained some of the most incredible monuments in Egypt. The idea was to take a balloon ride over this entire splendor and experience it from God’s point of view.

  As we drove along in the early morning light we came across a pair of great statues standing ominously in the shadows called Colossi of Memnon. During an earthquake in ancient times parts of the faces and bodies had fallen off. What remained of these sixty-four-foot-tall statues was something so haunting, with expressions of such horror, only to enhance its mysterious presence. The original function of the Colossi was to stand guard at the entrance to Amenhotep III’s memorial temple. It was created for the Pharaoh 3,400 years ago so he could be worshipped as a god both before and after his departure from Earth. In ancient times the entire area of his mausoleum collapsed and disappeared beneath the sandy landscape, destroyed by earthquakes and floods. But today huge excavations are taking place, revealing all that had been lost.

  I stopped to take photos of these amazing relics only to be halted by guards protecting the finds. As soon as I offered money my actions were forgiven, though their expressions silently revealed that it was not enough. I ignored them and began taking more photos. Approaching the balloon we could see enormous flames pushing the hot air into the fabric. I was a little nervous, knowing there had been accidents with balloons before, and I jokingly thought I had not left a will or said any goodbyes.

  Within fifteen minutes, I climbed on board along with twelve English tourists. The captain of our airship kept squeezing the lever, blowing the flame into the belly of the balloon. How it didn’t catch fire was a miracle.

  As we prepared for takeoff, the captain gave us directions and an explanation of landings for a smooth and effortless flight.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Before we take off, remember, stay in the boundaries of the basket. We normally experience three types of landings. The first is what we call the American landing: you come down hard. The second is the British landing: you come down hard but get dragged along anyway. The third is Arab: CALM.”

  And suddenly there we were, rising so fast and so effortlessly that I forgot my fears. I had never known such silence. In the distance the sun was lifting itself above the sand reflecting its morning light along the banks of the Nile.

  There below us were the great monuments of Egypt, something the ancients could not have seen at this height. To my left were the sacred tombs of the Valley of the Kings. In this light it looked so mysterious, and yet I remember that in 1997 a group of terrorists jumped out of the surrounding cliffs and murdered sixty-eight tourists, stuffing pamphlets into their mutilated bodies. It brought Egyptian tourism to a halt for many years. It’s very hard for me to shake that memory.

  Up in the balloon the strong winds pushed us along. The Luxor and Karnak temples came into view like pillars of a stone forest. How grand was the scale of these images and their presentation to honor the gods in the afterlife.

  As we descended, I spied a young girl running through the cane fields. She looked up and waved and smiled at us. I reached into my pocket and threw some paper money into the air. I will never forget the expression on her face. So excited, she scrambled around catching and collecting all of it through the cane fields. Her exuberant cry was so loud, as if she were receiving blessings from Allah.

  As we were coming to the end of the journey, the balloon literally just missed some apartment buildings; it was so close we could almost touch them. We held our breath. One woman screamed, but our captain seemed to be enjoying himself, as if this were a perfectly normal occurrence. We came crashing down hard. But there was more to come. The balloon went up with great force and then crashed down again, dragging us along the cane fields that thankfully softened the otherwise harsh fall. I cried out, “British landing!” They were not amused. The English were frightened and unleashed their fury, screaming at the captain while I laughed it off as another experience.

  Colossi of Memnon. (Author’s Collection)

  Ready to balloon in Luxor. (Photo: Jack Betts)

  Among the new discoveries at the site of Amenhotep III. (Photo: Jack Betts)

  Ballooning. (Author’s Collection)

  Ballooning over the East Bank of the Nile. (Author’s Collection)

  We were finally on the ground, the basket on its side. A donkey appeared out of nowhere and on its back sat a man in white with his feet almost touching the ground. “Hello,” he said with a smile, as if lying sideways in a cane field was perfectly normal. In my mind I was looking up at Joseph with the Holy Family not too far behind.

  A truckload of men arrived and began pushing the balloon upright. I looked at the
captain and said, “I was hoping for an Arab landing, obviously, but the British won again, damn it!”

  I didn’t tip him, following in the British tradition. I loved it, drama and all. After all, what’s a good ride without a bump? But a year later I read that English and German tourists had been involved in a balloon crash at Luxor airport as the strong winds took them off course where most of the tourists broke their arms and legs. Ballooning in Egypt came to a halt for the next two years. But the flying resumed after investors pressured the government, complaining there had been too much money invested in this highly popular and lucrative adventure. I’d fly the balloon again but only when the winds are calm during the early hours of dawn.

  Colossi of Memnon, Luxor. (Author’s Collection)

  Dreaming of Casablanca

  When I wagged school on occasion at the age of twelve, I got caught up with the revival of the 1942 film Casablanca in Sydney. In order to pay admission I had to comb the alley and search every nook and cranny where drunks slept the night away on cobblestone streets. I would collect their empty beer bottles and sell a sack full of them to the bottle yard with just enough coins to see a movie and buy some chocolate and popcorn. No one knew until I got caught a couple of years later forging a letter to my principal that I was too sick to attend school. I shrugged it off as character-building. Frankly, it was worth all the scolding I received, especially from my mum, because in that Victorian theatre I was free to dream in the dark where nobody could see me.

  I fell in love with Casablanca and longed for the day when I could step into that city (although I knew the film was really shot on the Warner Bros. back lot). The characters lived through my mind my whole life.

  It was a perfect story with iconic dialogue:

  “Of all the gin joints in the world she had to walk into mine.”

  “We’ll always have Paris.”

  “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  “I think this is the beginning of a great friendship.”

  Bogart and Bergman—there has never been a pairing like them. Years later, at a New York party, Ingrid Bergman asked me to dance. What a special memory—she was a part of my youth and now she was dancing in my arms laughing, just as I remembered her with Bogie.

  Finally, some years later, my time came to journey to Morocco and led me to sit at the actual Rick’s Bar in Casablanca.

  My first leg of this trip took me to Milan, then on to Valencia in Spain and finally to Morocco for New Year’s. It was the Christmas season and the streets were filled with people shopping for gifts. Milan was beautifully decorated, abounding in lights, and the sound of Christmas carols permeated through the city. I stood there in the square taking it all in with hundreds of pigeons in a feeding frenzy, swirling around me and landing on my open palms. It was surreal.

  I walked through the arcade and bought some beautiful Venetian glasses for my friend Enrique Senis-Oliver in Spain. He was an extraordinary painter of Renaissance style. I’d known him from Los Angeles and spent a great deal of time watching him paint. Now he lives back in Valencia where he was born. His expressions are a thing of beauty, and I couldn’t wait to see him and his new work.

  I checked in at the Duomo Hotel. When I opened the windows in my room, I came face to face with the Duomo Cathedral. What an amazing work of Gothic architecture. The church took nearly six centuries to complete, starting in 1386 and evolving into a Renaissance masterwork that stands as the heart of Milan, with its spires reaching for the heavens.

  What a view—the carvings and the steeples, no wonder it took so long. I was compelled to see the inside, the soul of the place. Through the massive cathedral doors I stepped into this enormous space, filled with the sounds of a Christmas Mass. The voices that echoed throughout gave me the rare chance of feeling innocent, but cheeky. Like it was a new beginning, and it was fun. Ah, the smell of candles, the icons of saints, people expressing their faith. I held on to those moments where all the elements connected and you feel incredibly alive. You know you are back on track when answers you’ve been searching for surface and you’ve once again awakened your inner core. As I walked around the immense structure, I discovered so many artworks I’d never seen. Some were heavy in their setting. It’s that guilt thing that arrives when studying martyrs. Religion can have its downturn. And there were some very rococo images, quite bloody, that I could not connect with. Heavy Spanish influence, I would say.

  I recalled that in 1875 Oscar Wilde, the British writer, sent a letter to his “mummy” that the cathedral was an awful failure. He also said, “Outside, the design was monstrous and inartistic and so many details stuck high up where no one could see them, however it’s imposing and gigantic, a failure and too elaborate in its execution.” So much for taste. I thought it remarkable. I only remained in Milan as a stopover. My schedule was tight, as I would stay with Enrique in Valencia for Christmas and Marrakech, Fez for New Year’s, and finally, Casablanca. The journey to new cultures was always invigorating and in some regards challenging. The unknown plays a great part in the excitement, and there is always the energy of apprehension when stepping onto new soil.

  I arrived in Valencia that afternoon with Enrique and his manager David embracing and welcoming me to Spain.

  My arrival brought back a vivid memory from the last and only time I was in Spain. It was about a decade earlier and I was refused entry because my visa was not stamped on my passport. Their policy had changed a few weeks earlier because of an incident in Australia with Spanish tourists. Now I was persona non grata and the immigration official blurted out, “I don’t give a fuck who you are. You will remain at the airport and in twelve hours catch a fight back to London and get a visa.” There was no argument.

  When I landed in London and asked the authorities why they did not catch the visa issue, one replied, “Give the gentleman a nice hot shower and a cup of tea so he can relax.”

  “That’s it?” I responded.

  To which the official said, “Yes, what else can we do?”

  “Take responsibility,” I replied. The man just stared.

  “Well, you can take the tea and shove it up your ass,” I cried with exhaustion. I was angry and I was frustrated.

  Feeding pigeons in Milan. (Author’s Collection)

  He was not pleased. I was dumbfounded. I had been up for thirty hours and now another eleven to get back, let alone the expense, and all they offered for their mishap was tea. Anyhow, now in the present, and all that past melted away, sort of.

  Enrique was so happy and I felt content for he always brought out the best in me. I just loved him for his essence. He lived to create. Life for him was driven by passion. I had not seen him in twenty years, yet it was like yesterday. But you always know that when relationships have great memories, and most of all trust, there are no adjustments to be made.

  We arrived at Enrique’s glorious apartment at the center of Valencia. It was previously a loft where beautiful art deco ceilings were uncovered. The walls were displayed with his exquisite art, and great French furniture in bold colors was situated in the rooms. Above all, the scent of paint floated through the air, evidence of an artist constantly at work, interpreting life as he saw it.

  After all these years it was amazing to see so much growth in his work. We sat up till four in the morning outlining a commission of an icon of St. George. My mother had always hung a small one of the saint above my bed since I was a child. She believed he protected me from negative energies. Now I wanted a triptych, because in my environment in Hollywood you need a large one to fight those Machiavellian forces.

  We decided on a canvas, four feet by four of St. George fighting his mythical dragon. As Enrique had never painted a religious work before, this new idea challenged his imagination. It took him three months, but not only did it double in size, the result was an inspiring execution of such fine detail that when it arrived at my home I hung it on the center wall of my eighteen-foot-high living room. It took six men to lift it. When an
art dealer saw it, he offered me three times what I paid for it. I couldn’t give it up, as it now became part of my history. I have four of his paintings and he was pleased that I was a collector of his work. For me, it was a reminder of things well done, and that always put a positive spin into the living energy of my house. He threw a wonderful dinner party showing off his friend to his guests who were from all walks of life.

  The next few days were spent seeing the city. The new architecture was evolving with Europe’s modern era.

  These new structures affected me, like the Louvre’s glass pyramid in Paris. It doesn’t always work. Aesthetically beautiful, but for me it doesn’t warm the eye; it’s a clash of cultures. I loved the city’s main cathedral with its Spanish molding dominating its façade. Inside I came across the mummified arm of John the Baptist in its caged display. Was it real? I was told it was. I found it hard to pray to an arm but found the relic fascinating and revolting at the same time. Besides, I thought his head was cut off and supposedly sitting in the great Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. Religious relics are abundant, and there are some that exist in triplicate, each claiming to be the real one. But it’s the sacred myths of these pieces that illuminates and helps people’s faith when in need, serving a higher purpose, and from the expression on the people’s faces it succeeded.

  My last day was spent watching the artist at work. What a process it was sharing ideas with the painter and watching them come to life. His training, just like an actor, is always in the process of becoming. I loved to interpret his paintings and he always embraced my insight. I told him that “Inside the depth of his work was a monk with arousing thoughts.” We had a good laugh. It was a fulfilling short stay and I was sad when I left him. It’s at those times you realize how people who use their God-given talent wisely make a difference, and because you’re sharing it, leave the better for it. I miss that energy, it’s rare and hard to find.