Category: Photography

A Western Woman Attends an Eastern Wedding

I had been squeezed into the back of a car in rural Pengzhe, China for the four hour drive to the wedding of my husband’s colleague, Hanna. It was evening when Hanna’s brother Jia pulled into the driveway of their parent’s home. As he turned off the engine, gunshots exploded around us. I could not duck down, packed in next to Hanna’s boss Lew, and his wife Cindy. “For you!” Jia said proudly. Only then I realized the gunshots were fireworks that celebrated our arrival.

My husband Matt got out from the front passenger seat and extricated me from the cramped confines of the car. Firework shrapnel flew through the air, hitting my head. I felt unsettled. I had been to China twice before—never to the countryside. Tonight’s dinner in our honor was the first of many planned events on our three-day wedding itinerary and I was nervous.

I looked up and saw more than 100 people in an open double-car garage watching us westerners. In a whirlwind, we were introduced to Hanna’s parents, her fiancé Jerry, her family, and her neighbors. Matt and Lew speak Chinese, but I do not. I merely smiled and shook hands, bowing slightly in deference. Usually I speak some of the local language and for the first time anywhere, I was uncomfortable with my inability to communicate.

Two young nephews saw me, screamed in fright, and ran upstairs. One girl stared at me unwaveringly. Matt had warned me that Cindy and I might be the first Western women many of the family would have met. With my very short hair, I was even more of an oddity. I took a deep breath.

The garage room shined in the darkness like a lighthouse, banks of florescent lights mounted to the walls and ceiling. People moved toward ten rugged wood tables that were prepared for dinner. Each was covered with thin plastic wrap and had bottles of Sprite, orange drink, and Baijiu, the traditional Chinese liquor I do not drink. I’ve tried it. It tasted like I imagine paint thinner would.

With typical Chinese efficiency, we were ushered upstairs where two tables were similarly set. Hanna’s father made the first of many toasts we would partake in that evening. With Hanna translating, he welcomed us and thanked us for traveling so far. We were their guests of great honor. Matt and Lew thanked them for their gracious invitation and hospitality. I was grateful that as a woman I could toast with water.

“Ganbei Matt and Lew!” Jia called out. He raised his glass of Baijiu and looked at the two men. It was an invitation to accept. Jia filled their glasses to the brim, they replied “Ganbei!” and drank it all at once. Jia initiated several toasts that evening. Hanna said: “he usually does not drink.” Jia’s celebratory mood was infectious and soon Jerry, Matt, and Lew made their own toasts.

Hanna interpreted the conversation and the food. Her uncle, a chef, prepared 28 dishes for more than 120 people. A team of ten helpers brought up steaming bowls of rice, sizzling hot pots, and savory platters in rapid succession. “Not a big fan” Hanna laughed about several. The local cuisine was spicy. As I tried each dish, everyone watched for my reaction. I was pleased to like most of it. My favorite was a celery-like grass that grows only in a nearby lake, stir fried with fresh vegetables. Matt’s favorite was the butterflied fried chicken that went untouched until he ripped it into pieces manageable with chopsticks.

Common in China, dinner and the drinking ended as quickly as it started. Everyone went down to the garage room which had more space to play cards. Matt gave me cash to gamble with but I did not understand the game. A throng of spectators three deep circled the table. I surmised that watching westerners place bets on a local card game was entertaining. It was certainly a rarity. I stepped on a stool to take pictures and an uncle offered his arm to steady me. He remained by my side and helped me down when I was done. I felt as if he was tasked with my well-being.

The evening was cool. The garage doors were still open for fresh air I felt a soft tap on my back and Jerry’s cousin, Jia Hui smiled shyly and offered me a cup of hot water. I nodded my gratitude. Some aunts patted a nearby stool, grinned and gestured for me to sit with them. The aunts handed me tissues when they noticed my eyes watering from the omnipresent cigarette smoke. Their kindness needed no words. I warmed up physically and mentally.

After a while, the game finished abruptly. Appropriately, Jerry won most of the money. We were driven to the nearest hotel, twenty minutes away. Hanna apologized it was not nicer. She said it was the best one near her village. “Tomorrow’s hotel will be better.” She arranged the check-in and refused to let us pay. We were her family’s guests and to protest would have insulted them.

The next morning Hanna, Jerry, and her family picked us up for the first reception. As tradition in China, there were two receptions, lunch with the bride’s family and dinner with the groom’s. Jerry’s family lived four hours away and I was thankful Matt and I were in one car, Lew and Cindy in another. Seven black luxury SUVs were adorned with red ribbons. The bridal car even had a large rose arrangement on the hood. A videographer stood through a sunroof to record our departure.

Fireworks again announced our arrival to Hanna’s family home, this time to honor the bride and groom. Hanna changed into her white wedding gown. Jerry wore a nice black suit. Most of the other guests were dressed casually, many in jeans and sneakers. All still had on their winter coats, which were never removed. Months ago, Chinese colleagues guided me on what to wear—red and white was reserved for the bride, black was ill-advised. I went with a blue dress and high-heeled sandals. There was always a hand to help me navigate the slippery stairs.

Hanna’s uncle prepared many of the same dishes as the previous evening. We ate with a similar rhythm, but due to the long car ride, there was less drinking. Others were still eating when we were summoned for pictures with Hanna, Jerry, and her parents. They presented us with a hand painted China vase from the region, for which the county was named. At Hanna’s request, we gave her parents our wedding gift of cash in a red envelope.

“Let’s go!” Hanna said a few moments later. She clapped her hands for attention. “It is time.” We found our cars and the motorcade left for Jerry’s city of Shangrao. This time, our driver was a friend of Jerry’s who spoke no English but had an app on his phone that translated when he wanted to tell us something. We enjoyed listening to its computerized voice mispronounce English words.

Four hours later we hurried into a brightly lit hotel ballroom with a catwalk down the middle and tables covered in red. Three hundred people were already eating when we arrived. They stopped to stare at us as we took our reserved seats near the stage. On the table next to the Baijiu, I was thrilled to see a bottle of red wine. Children played on the catwalk while adults chatted as they ate. A projector displayed the elaborate wedding pictures Jerry and Hanna had taken months before and emailed to everyone.

Bruno Mars’ song “Marry You” played. During the third repeat, the lights dimmed and Hanna and Jerry walked down the catwalk under streamers and confetti. At her request, I was taking pictures. An emcee was very excited, but without Hanna, I had no idea what he said. They exchanged rings, lit a unity candle, and drank wine with interlocking arms. Jerry’s father spoke with obvious happiness while his mother tried and failed not to cry. Hanna asked us four to stand for applause. They kissed, and it was the longest kiss I’ve seen at a wedding. Finally, they posed for pictures. Guests snapped photos with their phones like the paparazzi. Holding hands, Hanna and Jerry then quickly departed.

We were eating hairy crab when they returned. Hanna had changed into a stunning red gown signifying happiness and good fortune. She and Jerry toasted at each table. Once they had finished, the other guests left en masse. Only our two tables remained. I asked Hanna to translate for me. I wanted to toast her sisters, brother, and their spouses, to say thank you for showing me such kindness. “Xie, xie, ganbei” I lifted my glass of wine to them.

We were invited to the Honeymoon Suite to play cards. I played hide-and-seek with the nephews who shrieked with laughter when I found them. After they went to sleep, I joined the card game and won almost $200. Suddenly, we spotted fireworks that Jerry’s friends had ignited in the hotel driveway, 15 stories below us. I grabbed my camera. We ran to the windows and watched as the flaming sparks reached our height and then soared above us.

Jia had put the wedding gift money into a red suitcase. The next morning we all went to Jerry’s parent’s house to watch them open it. Surrounded by family, a relative of Jerry’s unlocked the suitcase and we were surprised at how much money it held. Hanna had told us that they would give the money to their parents.

We stayed for tea and snacks. Jerry’s parents gave us bags of the local oranges and rice bars that were our favorites. Jerry’s father gave us a tour of the nearby boarding school where he teaches math. After lunch at a local restaurant, we caught the train back to Shanghai.

My seat belt was securely fastened for takeoff home on Chinese New Year’s Eve. I thought about a little boy in the elevator of the hotel. He had stared at me, of course. I smiled at him and he shyly stroked my arm, as if to make sure I was real. I remembered a toddler who wailed on the train until he saw me. The shock stopped him instantly. The upsides to sticking out.

I thought about Hanna’s family, of their kindness and generosity. The honor I felt to have been invited, to have been a part of a family experience few Westerners get. As our plane ascended I saw flares of fireworks scatter like popcorn, tiny at this distance. Surely their driveway was a riot of explosions. They invited us to spend the New Year with them, but we needed to return home. If we had stayed, the fireworks would not have scared me.

Our DIY Shore Excursion in Puglia

I should have known better than to expect our schedule to go according to plan in Italy. I hate to play into the stereotype that things happen slowly in Italy; in this case, it was true.

Matt and I, along with Butch and Karen, a couple we had befriended two evenings ago, set out for our self-made shore excursion. Rather than take a packaged tour from the cruise line, or hire an expensive private driver, we created a DIY adventure. We rented a car in Southern Italy, which sounds insane. However, we were in Puglia, the heel of Italy’s boot. Unlike the Amalfi Coast on the West, the roads here looked relatively approachable with minimal hairpin turns. I ordered a giant road map, not trusting GPS after our experience in Valpolicella.

First, we had to get to the airport from the small port of Brindisi, which has no car rental facilities. Upon going ashore, I assumed we would see the usual line of waiting taxis, one of which could take us the ten minute drive to the airport. The first to disembark (we had a schedule, you know) we walked through the industrial-looking port and to the street with…no taxis. It’s pouring rain, by the way. Not atmospheric drizzle, but cold, unrelenting, sideways-blowing rain. The four of us huddled under our umbrellas looking rather lost and unsure of what to do, which is because we were both.

The only Italian speaker in our group, (and therefore weighted with being the tour director and wanting everything to go well and be perfect), I approach a man in a uniform in a port building, smile, and in my best Italian, asked nicely where we could find a taxi. He makes some gestures, looks around, and then asked me to wait as he disappeared. I returned to our group,
as the rain intensified.

I should mention that Karen and I were sick. I had a cough that could wake the dead, a sore throat, and a headache. But we weren’t going to miss this day! I wondered where everyone was? I did not see any busses lined up for shore excursions. Or anyone from our ship for that matter.

Just as I thought we were in the Twilight Zone, our uniformed man returned holding his cell phone and smiling. He had called us a taxi and it would be here in a few minutes. I felt enormous gratitude for the kindness of strangers in a new place. Our taxi arrived and only then did I recognize that we were four Americans, one of which was well over six feet tall. We piled into his small sedan and set out for the short ride around the bay.

I had not factored in road construction, the morning rush hour, and typical Italian driving, which leaves a lot to the imagination. It was a good opportunity for me to practice staying in the present because we were not headed anywhere else fast. Arriving at the airport, our driver gave us his card. After confirming he had trunk space for my planned purchases we arranged to meet at five o’clock for a ride back to the ship.

We then waited in line for our Hertz rental car. And waited. And waited some more. At least we were indoors. I watched pools of water form on the floor under our umbrellas. Even the Italian man behind us muttered “Dio Mio” with a frequency that started to concern me. There is no express “Gold Canopy” service at the Brindisi Airport. Time passed waiting seems to go by even slower when you’re already late to begin with. I glanced over at Butch and Karen, waiting on a bench, and felt bad that we had invited them to come along with us to wait in line.

Finally! Our turn at the window, and it went surprisingly fast. In the space between the clerk’s rapid Italian and my slow comprehension, I unwittingly agreed to pre-paid fuel and all the other options that easily tripled our once reasonable car rental price. He muttered space venti and we set forth in the rain to find stall twenty. We saw twenty-one and twenty-seven, but no sign for twenty. It did not exist. We wandered around lost again, in the rain, searching for a black car.

We overheard the “Dio Mio” gentleman behind us in line mumble “venti” as he emerged to retrieve his car. But we were stall twenty?! As he looked hurriedly for his car, we realized that the Hertz employee gave everyone the same stall number! Perhaps our line moved so slowly because they were busy watching hapless travelers locate their cars. Eventually, after clicking the remote furiously, we found our car wedged between several others and thus undertook the exercise that is Italian Parking Lot Driving.

Matt skillfully behind the wheel, a few harrowing minutes later, we exited the lot without mishap and found the autostrada. The rain persisted, adding another layer of adventure to our excursion. Proceeding northwest, we saw the wheat fields, olive trees, vineyards, and produce farms, that reflect the bounty of Puglia. To our west were the hills to which we were headed. I was certain it looked stunning in the sunshine.

Our destination was the Trulli area near Alberobello, about an hour from the airport. Another UNESCO World Heritage Site, the trulli are white round buildings with conical-shaped stone roofs. There are about 1500 of them, dating back to the 16th century. The idea was, residents could quickly dismantle their roofs when they heard the tax collector was coming to avoid paying taxes. Upon his departure, they would replace the roof. In the afternoon we would tour Alberobello.

But first, we had two appointments. We were of course, still running late for the first, with Vincenzo Lucarella for a tour and olive oil tasting at his family’s factory, L’Acropoli di Puglia in Martina Franca. As it so happens, I have been searching for two olive oils. A delicate one to dip bread in and make salad dressings, and one for cooking. I was zero for three on the last bottles I bought at the local Italian speciality store and frustrated. When researching what to do in this somewhat off-the-beaten-path destination, I stumbled across their website. Eager to see how olive oil is made, I was excited to try it at the source.

Vincenzo was gracious and welcoming, despite our tardiness. He gave us a tour in English, which my sore throat appreciated. Founded in 1889 and in the fourth generation, L’Acropoli di Puglia is a blend of old and new. The family uses timeless methods such as hand picking the right olives, crushing them in a large mill, mixing the paste onto mats, and then finally pressing the mats under hydraulic pressure. They age some olive oils in huge underground cisterns that we could see through a window in the floor. Others are stored in gleaming stainless steel vats. Modern bottling and labeling equipment readies it for market. They sell internationally and I was thrilled to learn they have a distributor in the US.

We learned “Extra Virgin” refers to olive oil that has no more than 0.8% acidity. Regular Virgin olive oil can have up to 2% acidity. All of Vincenzo’s olive oils are Extra Virgin. Vincenzo taught us how to taste olive oil properly. We had to slurp. While making sucking sounds. With the oil in our mouths we had to touch our tongue to the back of our teeth while inhaling. It sounds difficult because it is. Finally getting the hang of it, we tried four different varieties of which two were perfect for my needs. I bought One Liter tins of the “Amabile” for bread and dressing, and the “Florido” which I use almost daily.

We then dashed to our difficult to obtain reservation for a tour and tasting at Cantina Albea. I had called for an appointment in my limited Italian and was concerned our late arrival would coincide with their lunch closure. I learned about Cantina Albea from the esteemed book Gambero Rosso, which undertakes the enviable task of traveling Italy to rank the best wines. The book had many good things to say about this winery. One of their wines attained the highest honor they give, and the others were highly regarded. Cantina Albea also has a small museum dedicated to wine making in the Puglia region, with tools and machinery donated by the owner, Dante Renzini, and others.

Mr. Renzini himself gave us a quick tour of the winery, owing to our late arrival. He spoke faster than I could translate everything, but his pride and passion needed no translation. Modern equipment ensconced in carved stone pay homage to the trulli of the area. After a visit to the museum, we tried their unique wines along with some local meat and cheese. While buying six bottles of wine, I asked for a lunch recommendation. We were all hungry. I had visions of wandering around aimlessly in the rain with Butch, Karen, and Matt trying to decide which non-touristy restaurant would appeal to all of us. An insider’s recommendation would greatly improve our afternoon.

We were not disappointed. Il Pannacolo was superb. We would have walked right past it on our own. Tucked down a pedestrian only side street in Alberobello, it was in a trullo. It looked unassuming from the outside. We walked in to a crowded cavelike room and my hopes were dashed. No empty tables. “Avete un tavolo per quattro?” I asked hopefully for a table. The waitress, smiling cheerfully led us outside, where we saw a delightful patio. For one horrible moment, I thought they would have us eat in the cold rain. Thankfully, we proceeded around a corner, down some stairs into a charming basement area with open tables.

Pugliese cuisine is known as la cucina povera. Cooking of the poor, it is simple, fresh, and local. Orecchiette, ear-shaped pasta, is one of the regional specialties and I had never had it with a tomato sauce before. It was delicious, served with two types of meatballs and topped with the most fragrant basil I’ve encountered. A dumbwaiter delivered our food from the kitchen above, which was fun to watch. We all ate well, paired with local wine. No longer late for anything, we had a free afternoon.

We ventured into the unrelenting rain to stroll the streets lined with trulli. Some were shops selling souvenirs and local liquors. Many offered a “free” view from their balconies, assuming you’d buy something. Some were private residences. They were all white with grey stone roofs. Whitewashed symbols on the roof were the only distinction among many of them. We bought a postcard to decipher the ancient symbols, most of which were religious. A funeral was about to start at the trullo Church. Despite the tourism, people still live and work in these unusual structures.

The last highlight for me in Puglia was calling our taxi driver to let him know we were ready and waiting for him. I knew all the words in Italian. At five o’ clock, we were there, and he was not. We considered walking to the taxi stand at the airport but did not know where it was, how far away it might be, and we had 2 liters of olive oil and eight bottles of wine. It turns out, he was on his way and arrived shortly. Traffic, you know…

As we reached the port, the rain stopped. We walked to a pharmacy for medicine for Karen and me. This area of Brindisi was appealing. Clean and residential, we saw locals emerge from indoors all day. Taking dogs for a walk, catching up on gossip at the cafe, arguing about soccer. Birds chirped from the palm trees that lined the streets. It was all very relaxed and pleasant. We would not have seen it taking a group tour by bus. Our sense of adventure was richly rewarded in Puglia.

A Photographer Focuses on Venice


Venice was founded by fugitives fleeing barbarians, grew with traders who had a penchant for thievery, and flourished under strong rulers whose independence drove the Pope to excommunicate the entire city. From a fledgling temporary community of wooden huts in the Fifth Century AD to an opulent trading center that once ruled the seas, Venice’s unique history gives it an incredible presence almost mythical in nature. It defies rational explanation. You can almost feel the curiosity that is inherent to this city of Carnevale masks and labyrinthine alleys. History seeps from the porous cracks in the foundations of old buildings that perch precariously along the Grand Canal.

Planning for my trip I was skeptical that Venice could live up to her reputation. Too many tourists, too busy, too loud, too expensive, too smelly, too much weird food, I worried. As an artist I followed Venice’s siren song as many have before. I was not shipwrecked upon arrival but I was wrecked. My worries, as most are, were unwarranted. The gorgeous photo opportunities I wanted were in abundance. The tourists are plentiful but easy to evade. The only smells I encountered were delicious fresh foods, pastries, and coffee. The prices were lower than I anticipated. The still of the silence with no vehicles was a welcome respite and upon leaving the lagoon, vehicular traffic was jarring. Only the weather was just okay.

Venice receives 20 million tourists annually. Many of them leave in the evening with departing cruise ships, but it felt as if they were all at St. Mark’s square the afternoon we arrived. I’ve never found a sea of heads in a throng very photogenic. We did not see the inside of St. Mark’s basilica and the sarcophagus holding his stolen body. We did nothing on my list of tourist sites to visit. Having lost our appetite for traditional traveling we succumbed to the sheer delight of discovering the hidden Venice that lies beneath the surface. Winding our way back to the serenity of the Santa Croce neighborhood where we were staying, beautiful pictures presented themselves in rapid succession.

Before dawn the next morning, thinking we would have the Piazza San Marco to ourselves, we hurriedly walked the meandering path to the Piazza to create “the” iconic sunrise picture. Imagine my dismay upon finding street sweepers cleaning up garbage, hundreds of tourists already there, several other photographers with the same idea, and many intrepid runners braving the cold to prepare for the upcoming Venice marathon. It was still dark. Rather than attempt St. Marks, I jockeyed to position my tripod to shoot the gondolas nearby, quite ready to duel if another photographer wanted to encroach on my territory. Snapping the shutter, my initial disappointment turned to fear that I would leave Venice with no good pictures. Most of my photography reconnaissance was for naught. I learned as I went and hopefully you can benefit from my experience.

Venice is an excellent city for photographers. The locals are accustomed to camera-toting tourists and are used to being in pictures. The residents are particularly accommodating if you walk over to the side of the street to take pictures rather than stopping abruptly and causing a pedestrian pileup. Everyone we encountered in Venice was gracious and friendly. Watching the children play and listening to the dogs bark in the local campo provides photo opportunities most tourists miss and also gives a flavor of the community. At only two square miles in size, it is easy to walk or take the waterbus and navigate away from the busier areas. The influence of art is also appreciated by locals and visitors alike. Venice has more artistic masterpieces per square mile than any other city in the world and is still home to many talented working artisans. The creative energy is palpable and inspiring.

The narrowness of the canals and the intensity of the light can make for tricky pictures. It is also common to find one side of the canal brightly lit while the other is dark. Getting the proper exposure can be a challenge when the light is so varied. Setting everything to manual, I took meter readings from the areas in the scene I wanted the focus on. I also bracketed many shots. We added more time to get anywhere because I was constantly taking pictures, and they took a while to take. I used a polarizer often and packed a neutral density filter but did not use it. For developing, I used Photoshop to tone down highlights in the sky and to bring out details in the shadows. Always ready for the moment, I wore my camera all day thanks to my Black Rapid strap. If you see a scene you like, take it immediately because it can be hard to find your way back later. Have patience when composing images. Wait for people to leave your scene, or for better lighting conditions. Above all else, comfortable walking shoes are a must as the waterbus, while lovely, can be slow.

Do not anticipate getting an excellent picture of the Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto Bridge, or other famous sites. There are many people with the same idea, and the Bridge of Sighs is currently under renovation and covered with advertisements to pay for it. The Rialto had areas covered in scaffolding. Graffiti was not something I expected to encounter everywhere, even churches, but it is rampant. St. Marks was strewn with garbage at the end of the day even though eating there is forbidden. Beautiful sculptures and buildings are affixed with utilitarian spikes to discourage the infamous pigeons. Buy a postcard of the famous sites and focus your photographic efforts on something you find uniquely beautiful. There will be many, I promise.

For terrific photographic opportunities, better meals, and local ambience, wander the back alleys of the neighborhoods. Venice is extremely safe and treasures wait to be found. A great view of Venice can be seen from across the Canal from the campanile at San Giorgio Maggiore rather than wait in line for the one at San Marco. The outlying islands are a quiet antidote to the bustle of Venice. Burano especially is a photographer’s delight, and the boat ride there is included with your waterbus multi-day pass. The fishermen on this island painted their houses in bright colors to see them from sea and the tradition continues to this day. The ubiquitous hanging laundry adds to the atmosphere.

The sunset light was stellar and as a benefit of being there four days we were able to determine excellent locations to experience it. The fading sun’s rays illuminate the buildings and the Grand Canal like a Boroque light show and the scenes are achingly beautiful. Near the train station the views over the canal from the Ponte dei Scalzi were among the best at twilight. The way the wide Canal wends, good sunset vistas are plentiful along the Grand Canal. The smaller side canals are darker so head towards the Grand Canal at sundown.

Riding the waterbus down the Grand Canal it’s easy to marvel while viewing the marble palazzi built atop ancient wooden pylons that Venice had humble origins in a malarial swamp. Vestiges of the trading and shipping empire Venice once was are still evident. The proud Lion, St. Mark’s sign and the symbol of the city fly proudly on the Venetian flag flown everywhere. The booty brought back from Venetian raids overseas is still on display. Ever-changing reflections in the many canals subtly remind you that Venice’s very existence is inextricably linked to water. Carnevale costumes evoke the ribald past enjoyed by people from many cultures. Byzantine influences abound that speak to the long-held tolerance that attracted peace and trade from all corners. With a zoom lens it is possible to capture some of the breathtaking beauty found here. But a camera can’t see the unique spirit of this singular city. It must be felt.

Welcome to Gray Matters…

Welcome to my new blog!!
~ Gray Matters greatly in Photography, my creative passion.  It is the neutral point by which everything is measured.  I will explore how photography metaphors change lives.   How photography changes lives.
~ Gray Matters because it is not a popular shade, especially on the Internet.   It represents the murky middle ground wherein the truth is mostly found.  It often requires heavy thinking and makes for bad entertainment.  Down this path, I ask you for a deeper examination of compelling concepts.
~ Gray Matter is your brain, which is comprised largely of connections.   New connections will be made using the unparalleled combined power of images and words.   Their importance should not be underestimated.