The Movies of Robert Flaherty

Most of you know that one of the advantages of living in Washington, D.C. is that the vast majority of the city's museums, including all those which make up the Smithsonian Institution, are free to the public. One of the lesser known aspects of this is the Saturday afternoon movie series held in the overly comfortable auditorium of the West Building of the National Gallery of Art, and which we attend from time to time.

Last Saturday, we went to see three movies put together, directed and produced by Robert Flaherty, an American explorer turned film maker, who died in 1951. Flaherty's daughter, Monica, a charming woman who must now be in her upper 80s, provided a personal (and thorough) introduction.

Flaherty started his career as a mining engineer and explorer in the far north. He and his wife Frances, who accompanied him, were excellent photographers, when they decided to go into the movie business and make a film about Inuit Indian life. The film, Nanook of the North, was released to acclaim in 1922.

This is not a film we saw (it was shown several weeks earlier). This weekend's fare consisted of Moana: a Romance of the Golden Age (Samoa in 1926), Industrial Britain (1933), and Man of Aran (the Aran Islands of the West Coast of Ireland, 1934).

The films are all documentaries. In fact, we learned that Moana was the first film to which the term "documentary" was applied. Moana follows the story of a young man in Samoa, and shows his steps towards manhood, including hunting, fishing, and winning the attractive young woman. Prior to his marriage, preceded by an elaborate dance ceremony, he undergoes the important, and painful, tattooing ceremony, in order to prove his manhood. Throughout most of these steps, he is accompanied by his father, his mother, and his extraordinarily resourceful younger brother, who at, perhaps, age 8 or 9, climbs to the top of the palms to get the coconuts with the agility of a small monkey.

The Flaherty family spent two years living on Samoa, learning the culture and planning the film. The black and white movie is an artistic accomplishment, each frame being perfectly formed. It is certainly evocative of the island and lives being portrayed. We had never heard of Flaherty, and assume that most moviegoers have not, either. This is a shame.

The 1926 movie was, of course, a silent film. In 1980, Monica updated the film with sound. Going to great effort to be respectful of her father's creation, she recorded the sound on location in Samoa and in Hawaii, using Samoan dialogue and Samoan songs of the time. Her seemless additions to the film are equally an artistic accomplishment.

Industrial Britain is what you would call a propoganda film. It is a short (21 minutes), and purports to show the beauty behind the industrial grime of Britain, demonstrating that craftsmanship is not dead, just relocated. Shots of glass blowers, steel makers, and so forth, turning out useful and aesthetic products. With a powerful music score, it is again a beautifully designed and filmed movie.

The we saw Man of Aran. We were particularly interested in this film, having visited the Aran Islands last summer (where this movie is screened with regularity), and having seen a contemporary Irish-written play at Washington's Studio Theater last year, where the central character was a young man, who left one of these barren, poor islands to attempt to get a job as an extra during the filming of this very movie.

Man of Aran was a little surprising. I had expected more of a plot. It was more of a 75 minute struggle against nature. Cold and wind, and wind and rain, and water, and lack of soil for planting, and the fish that got away, and the fishing boat that was almost sunk in the unexpected gale. The tenor of the film - young man grows into manhood, has a cute younger brother, and two serious parents - was in many ways identical to Moana. But one family lives in Paradise, and the other lives in a cold hell. The same, yet opposite.

The film did show the same artistic professionalism as Moana, but was clearly less upbeat. Would it have seemed different they had not been shown on the same bill?

The June movies at the Gallery are all Indian. If we get there, we will report back.

Note to Commenters

Comments are really appreciated, but I cannot identify commentors who use a sign-in name, nor can I figure out how to contact a commenter.

So, if you give me a comment without a return e mail address, I cannot respond. (If there is a blogspot expert reading this who has a way for me to respond, let me know.

It's a beautiful day in your nation's capital, but the way.

Europe 1962 (Part 3)

Again, if you have not read Parts 1 and 2, now is the time to do so. This is the journal of my trip to Europe between my sophomore and junior years at college, as recollected 43 years later.

We left Berlin the same way we came in, naturally, again going through the various checkpoints. By now, the West Germans were my allies against the Communists, no longer were they Nazis out to get me. Unfortunately, the ride out was apparently not memorable, because I do not remember it. In fact, the remaining days in Germany are a bit sketchy in my mind. (I think we were in Germany for about 2 weeks of the 11 in Europe.)

Without attempting chronology, let me recall what I can.

1. We went to Cologne (Koln) for a brief visit to see the tallest cathedral spire in Europe. We saw it. This may have been our first stop after Berlin, although it would have been a long drive.

2. We went (not by boat) down (up) the Rhein. By this, I mean that we drove upstream, but down map, as the Rhein flows south to north. A number of things impressed me here. First, the scenery was beautiful. This was the first (but not the last) beautiful scenery we had seen in Germany. The northern part of the country (mainly, the former Prussia) is attractive and well tended, but not what you would call beautiful. As you go south, however, Germany becomes a visual fairly land.

The hills surrounding the Rhein and its various tributaries, such as the Moselle, are idyllic in their soft beauty; you understand why the vinyards here grow such fine grapes. The river itself, however, was probably the most trafficked river I had ever seen. There was a continuous procession of barges and cargo ships, putting the Mississippi at St. Louis to shame. The contrast between the industrial traffic and the bucolic setting was striking.

As you go down (up) the Rhein, you see castle after castle, each on a high hill or bluff with a river view, often in both directions. It is here that you can see Germany's history as a compendium of petty principalities, each protecting its own territory, and each concerned about enemies sneaking up on them. We toured a castle or two, and I remember my second venison meal in a restaurant overlooking the river. (Venison is still a favorite, but with my sheltered past, I think my two German venison dinners were a first for me.) I remember this restaurant for the wine (we had a lot of wine on this trip; it didn't seem to affect our driving; I do not think that the concept of a 'designated driver' had been invented yet.) and the deer meat, and also for the older (must have been at least 40) American couple having dinner there, and the husband saying to me: Be honest now, wouldn't you rather have a good cheeseburger? He became my idealized version of an Ugly American. My view was that there must be thousands like him, going into the finest restaurants of Europe and berating the waiter because there was no cheeseburger on the menu.

We also passed Die Lorelei, the rock made famous, or more famous, by Heinrich Heine, and which for centuries had siren-like cried out to and enticed boaters on the river. I was expecting something memorable. It turned out that it is a memorable sight, that is, it is memorable for not being memorable at all.

3. Bonn, then the capital of West Germany, is on the Rhein. It seemed modern, work-a-day and non-descript. You can see why the government was moved back to Berlin as soon as the wall fell and unification achieved. I understand that Bonn was Konrad Adenhauer's choice, because it was an easy commute from his house.

4. We then went to a suburb of Frankfurt (I only remember driving through Frankfurt, although we might have stopped) to the wealthy suburb of Bad Hamburg. This was a major event of our trip for me. For a number of reasons. Including:

a. I had no idea there were wealthy suburbs in Germany, with large, new brick one storey houses of at least the quality you see in west St. Louis Country, and at least as modern (perhaps more modern). Today, this would not surprise me, of course, but I had not seen anything like this (a wealthy residential area that looked more new-world, than old-world) in Europe.

b. We went there because E______ had had a German foreign student stay at his house for a year in Annapolis, MD, and we were going to visit him and his family. This was my first time in a European house. (Maybe that is wrong. I think we might have visited some friends of E____'s parents in London.)

c. While the exchange student (don't remember his name; E____ will remind me) looked like a normal 19 year old, his parents looked like the epitome of Germanic German Germany. Particularly his father, who was tall, stout, totally bald (probably shaved, I now realize), had a big German shepherd (do they call them German shepherd's in Germany?), and after lunch took a walk in the woods at a brisk pace with his dog and his walking stick. I don't remember how his mother looked, but I remember she served for lunch boiled beef and boiled potatoes. Perhaps this was their "Let's show 'em we are German" day. No one could do that every day, could they?

But this was only the cake; here was the icing. In a hallway that connected their living room to, maybe the kitchen, or maybe the bathrooms, or bedrooms, they had a wall of ancestor photos and drawings. OK, so a lot of us have something like that, but not many of us have two of the photos of men in Nazi uniforms, do we? I saw this after lunch and after our walk (both of which had already brought back my nervousness), and I wanted out as quickly as possible.

I also recall that the father was the General Counsel (?) and a Vice President (?) of BMW, and I think had worked for BMW during the war. BMW was one of the biggest user of slave labor during that period. (Who would have guessed that 43 years later, I drive a BMW?)

We left fairly soon, and I believe that E_____ stayed a few days and we returned and picked him up. When we did so, we and E_____'s friend went out for lunch or a beer or something, and I could stand it any longer, so I confronted him about the (to my mind) storm trooper pictures on the wall. I did not know what to expect (I was not nasty about it, but wanted to make my point), but assumed I would get some sort of defensive reaction from him. After all, I was attacking his parents. But I got no defense whatsoever. In fact, E_____'s friend broke down and started to cry. Once again, the feeling that I was in a land of enemies left me, and from then on, I have harbored no bad feelings about individual Germans who I meet, and have never had any problems traveling to Germany.

5. Without remembering chronology, I know we were in Stuttgart (looked very modern), Nurnberg (made no impression), Heidelberg (I liked the university area), and Rothenberg Ob der Tauber. I remember the campsite at Rothenberg, which was outside the walled town, and I believe down a steep hill. Rothenberg looked like it did in 1500, perfectly kept up or restored, a small town, dedicated by that time to tourism. I did not know, I do not think, about Meir of Rothenberg (my knowledge of German Jewish history was pretty weak), but I remember that we saw some extraordinary carved wooden altars in churches, including one outside of the walls, and near the camp. I am trying to remember the name of the artist. I think it started with an "E", but cannot be sure.

6. Except for a short trip to Berchtesgaden, our last stop was Munich. Berchtesgaden is closer to Austrian Salzberg than to any Germany city, in a small spit of Alpine country which juts into Austria, but is in fact Germany. This extraordinarily beautiful spot is where Hitler maintained his country residence and bunker. It is where you see pictures of him with Eva Braun enjoying tea in the outdoors. For this reason, Berchtesgaden is cursed and, I believe still, remains commercially relatively undeveloped.

7. Munich of course is the captial of Bavaria, and the mountainous Bavarian countryside is exquisite. You are clearly still in Germany, but it is a different Germany. Even more beer, if you can believe it, and more lederhosen, and beautiful villages, with their painted buildings, paintings of flowers, of scenery, and of people. The Bavarian village is very distinct from what you find in the central and northern parts of the country.

I do not remember if we found the famous Hofbrau Haus in Munich or not. Perhaps we did; perhaps it didn't exist; perhaps we found it and were disappointed. (As I thought I knew: Im Munchen steht ein Hofbrau Haus; ein, zwei, g'suffa: I have never known what, if anything, g'suffa means) Munich was a friendly city. We saw the Frauenkirche (I think that was the name of the twin spired church) with the glockenspiel that danced on the hour each hour. We went to the university district (Fasching?).

There was one bit of embarrassment in Munich that I recall. I asked the attractive young lady at our campsite how to get to the Opera: in my best, mid-west accented German, I said: Wo ist die Ahpra? She could not understand me, and I repeated myself again and again. I couldn't figure it out. Then she starting laughing at (not with, unfortunately) me, and said "Ahpra? Sie mussen Oh-Per-Ah sagen, nicht Ahpra!"

Well, we got to the Opera (I think it had just been reopened; I do not think we saw a performance) as well as to the (if I get it right) Old Pinkothek, the major art museum in the city.

End of Part 3. Next part, Austria, Italy and beyond.

Slow News Day?

It must be. The Washington Post has one article taking up all of the news space (there are a lot of ads, as well) on pages A6 and A7. The headline on A6 is

Illinois Elephants' Fate Remains Uncertain

(At first, I thought the Illinois Elephants may be a cricket or polo team, but no.)

As if that is not tantalizing enough, the full page banner headline on A7 is

Clash is Emblematic of Larger Issue of the Elephant in America


Remember Groucho in "Coconuts"? Paraphrasing: elephants may have problems all over, but particularly in Alabama, where the Tuscaloosa.

Today's Washington Post - First Section

It is rare that I have time to read an entire section of the newspaper, but I did read through the first section of today's Post.

What did I learn?

First, I learned that Frances Fagos Thompson is Bush's top advisor on terrorism (not sure who she is), and that office is related to, or perhaps within, the National Security Council. Then, that there is a top post at the State Department on countering terrorism, and that it has remained vacant for the past six months (not sure what its official name is). And, that we have a new National Counterterrorism Center, without a chief, and that this is somehow being brought under the new Director of National Intelligence, as a constituent body. And nothing in the article on the development of a new terrorism policy mentioned Homeland Security. The focus of the article related to whether our goal was still to counter Al-Qaeda or if there were new challenges to be met. I also did not know that we have a National Nuclear Security Administration, which is supposed to be developing a new nuclear policy, starting from, as they say, ground zero.

Second, I learned that it is very hard work to be in the kitchens of busy Washington residents and that you probably are not qualified for the jobs if you do not speak Spanish. I learned that many of the employees work several jobs, and are therefore exhausted, that they make about $8 per hour (so said the article before saying that the employees of the unhappy-I-am-sure-to-have-been-featured restaturant, Merkado, make $12-$15 per hour), but I did not learn if they are lega or not. I did see that many are ex-cons and ex-gang members, and many have ambitions to have their own restaurants. Also (is this universally the case?), they get no sick leave, vacations or health care; that does not sound good.

Third, I learned that there are some things on the very first page of the Post that, to me, do not warrant first page attendance. Do we care how much pork House Speaker Hastert has brought to Aurora IL? Or that IM messaging can get kids into trouble? Or even that 20 snakeheads in the Potomac might spell ecological disaster (how many times have I read that story?)

Fourth, I learned that the first names of some apparent run-of-the-mill criminals in New York City are Awiey and Huquan, but that the police sergeant on the case is named Norman Horowitz.
And, referenced in first section articles, are people such as Clay Bird, Reed Super, Bob Corker and Thad Nation.

Fifth, that the current West Point graduating class, which arrived at the academy just before 9/11, has 911 members.

And, finally, in the miscellaneous categories: When most Americans think about Haitians in America, they think about Miami (wanna bet?). That orthodox Jews are the most conservative (how can the conservatives counter that claim?), and that orthodox Jews who are being accused of letting down their religious allies of other faiths by supporting embryonic stem cell research "did the Christian thing and turned the other cheek" (thank you Dana Milbank). That being Senate majority leader is "like walking across hot coals as other members throw kerosene on your feet while carrying just a couple of ice cubes in your hands". That there are 2,000,000 refugees in Darfur province (I think I knew that), that rural homes in Finland are red or yellow, but that there are only 5,000,000 people in Sweden (less than Baltimore-Washington) in a country the size of Germany, but there are 12,000,000 in Niger, or whom 3,600,000 are chronically short of food and no one seems to be doing much about it, and that there is a lot of natural gas under Bolivia, but people are fighting as to who owns it, and who should control it.

On to section two.

Modigliani at the Phillips

The Modigliani exhibit at the Phillips Gallery in Washington (it originated at the Jewish Museum in NYC and had an interim stop in Ottawa) was clearly worth seeing. There were approximately 100 works of art, the largest Modigliani exhibit ever displayed.

Modigliani, Italian and Jewish from Livorno, died of tuberculosis related pneumonia at age 35 in 1920 in Paris where he had settled. As he was part of the circle that included all of the Parisian artists (Picasso, Miro, Cocteau, Chagall, etc.), it makes you realize how lively the Paris art scene was during the first two decades of the last century, and what a small and close group comprised it. Everyone, clearly, knew everyone.

Modigliani's portraits and nudes, with their elongated faces and bodies, are one of a kind, yet show the influences of his predecessors. The subject are interesting, the colors and shapes captivating, the lack of detail intriguing. But, did Modigliani paint the same painting again and again? His style was clearly only one style, and although the personalities of the subjects may come through, one must wonder. Not that the style is not top notch, but variety is one thing Modigliani lacks.

In addition to the oils, there were many drawings and sketches, which I found less appealing, and five (of the twenty five still in existence) sculptures of heads of women, arranged together on individual pedestals, in a grouping which I wish I could put in my garden.

The detriments were the layout of the show (the chaos of not being able to follow the exhibit from A to Z, but having to backtrack and backtrack again) caused in part by the layout of the museum, and the poor signage which was written in a font small enough that I could not see it from my normal two feet and had to get within a few inches looking through my glasses, but which was so low that you also had to bend down, so you were both uncomfortable and conspicuous. Also, the mechanical auditor guides, which said, over and over again, "Modigliani was Jewish and Italian (or Italian and Jewish) and therefore felt like he was "other" in Paris."

It was good, however, that everyone pronounced his name with the Italian Modiliani, and not Modigliani, as Americans normally tend to.

This was the last weekend of the exhibit, and if you missed it, too bad. To repeat, the nudes and the portraits make everything else seem unimportant.

Grandparents

Some of you have asked about my grandparents. Here they are, from my memory.

1. My mother's father was a pediatrician, a graduate of the Washington University Medical School. He lived in University City, Mo., and practiced off Grand Avenue, in what was known as mid-town St. Louis. He came home for lunch every day. He was a conservative doctor - if you even thought you were sick, you should stay home, etc. He made house calls with a black doctor's bag. He always drove an Oldsmobile. I felt bad when I learned that some of my friends went to another pediatrician. One year at the doctors' golf tournament, he received a prize for having the highest score. Everybody liked and respected him. He was born in the Ukraine, and came to St. Louis when he was three (p.s., he came with his parents). He had a lot of brothers and sisters. I think they all lived in Metropolitan St. Louis, except for one in Louisville, one in Dayton, and one in Michigan City, Indiana. After he died, his practice was transferred to another doctor. My sister and I went to this doctor, but my cousins went to another doctor. I thought that was disloyalty, but I am sure they had their reasons. I was ten when my grandfather died. This was really traumatic for me.

2. My mother's mother was born in St. Louis in about 1890. She also had many brothers and sisters. All, I think, were then in St. Louis, except for one brother who roamed around, spending some time has one of Jack Dempsey's seconds and some times as a magazine foot model. She was a very good cook. After my grandfather died, she moved in with my aunt and uncle for the next fifteen years or so. She gave up her friends (including her regular card groups, etc.) and only saw family. Whether she even saw her sisters or brothers, except with my aunt and uncle, or my parents, I do not know. Everyone said that her personality changed, and she became much less self-confident. In addition to her family, she seemed most devoted to "Search for Tomorrow", which she watched religiously five times a week. I was 26 when she died.

3. I never knew my father's father, who died three years before I was born. He was from the village of Srednik in Lithuania (in case you are wondering where in Lithuania, Srednick is about 30 (I think) miles down the River Nieman from Kaunas, or as it was called in real time, Kovno), and came to this country when he was about twenty, starting in Mobile, Alabama. He and my grandmother eventually moved to Galveston, then Kansas City, then St. Louis. He was given traditional religious training in Srednik, and destined to become, like he father and grandfather, etc., a chazzan (cantor) or rabbi. Instead, he (the only one of his brothers to do so) veered totally away from religion. I am told he did a lot of reading and could converse on many topics. He never figured out how to make a living.

4. My father's mother was raised by her mother (her father having been killed at a young age in a tunnel collapse) on a small dairy farm, outside of Lvov, then in Polish speaking Austro-Hungary, and now in the Ukraine. Because it is in the Ukraine, it is now called Lviv. When it was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, it was Lemberg. She was educated in convent schools, and had few Jewish connections. She was quite sophisticated and spent several years traveling through Europe as an assistant to an opera singer. She met my grandfather through a match-maker. In this country, in addition to having eight children, she operated a small retail business in Kansas City, and was an expert seamstress. She was a costume maker for theatrical companies in and visiting Kansas City. She was very independent. She lived to a very old age, and died when I was 29.

Thanks to Everyone

who have sent me their best wishes on today, my half-birthday.

Statistics (and More) of Note

These are from the May issue of the "Atlantic Times", the English language German paper, and I thought they were worth noting:

1. Germany has no minimum wage; it is a matter of continuing debate. The minimum wages in countries like France, Belgium, Holland, Britain and Ireland are approximately twice that of the United States. Ours in on a par with Greece.

2. There are currently 4,880,000 unemployed in Germany.

3. Adidas and Puma are both German companies, and were founded in 1948 by brothers, who had been in the shoe business together, but had a falling out. If you want to visit the factories, go to Herzogenaurach.

4. The U.S. accounts for 25% of global energy consumption, and Germany 3%. But their energy sources are similar: oil accounting for 40% and gas between 20% and 25%. 12% of American oil comes from Middle East; 17% of German oil does.

5. In the U.S., taxes equal 2% to 6% of the cost of electricity. In Germany, 40%.

6. A recent German poll had the following bizarre results: the country with whom Germans felt the closest ties was France, followed by Russia, and then Austria and the U.S. Up until this year, the U.S. always was first.

7. After the end of World War II, during the "denazification process", 3,500,000 people were indicted in West Germany, and 950,000 trials were held. There were 1,549 "major offenders", 21,600 "offenders", 104,000 "lesser offenders" and 475,000 "followers". In East Germany, 200,000 public workers were dismissed, along with 1/2 of the school teachers in the country. Denazification ended on March 31, 1948.

8. 80% of Germany regard the end of World War II as a day of liberation; 9% as a day defeat.

9. The deaths of two Germans are being recognized this year by various programs: Schiller (200 years) and Einstein (50 years).

10. "Maglev" or magnetic levitation trains are the future. In Shanghai, since 2003, a train runs from the airport to downtown (approximately 20 miles) at 267 mph. That means Washington to New York in 90 minutes. Or Washington to Baltimore in 17.

11. Members of the European Parliament from Italy make 10,975 Euros per month. Those from Hungary make 805 Euros per month. The rest are in between, at all levels.

Apologies to the Bard of Avon

But, in my first Europe 1962 post, I forgot that we (D______ and I) also went to Stratford-on-Avon (between our Chester and Cambridge stops).

Highlights were (1) the swans, of course, (2) Shakespeare's house and especially Anne Hathaway's cottage, and (3) seeing "The Taming of the Shrew" at the then-new main stage. It was sold out, but was here I realized for the first time (naive young man that I was) that you could always get into a sold out theater, because someone was always ready to give away extra tickets.

My memory tells me that Vanessa Redgreave played Katherine, but memories played tricks. As VR is now in DC playing Hecuba (is that right? what's Hecuba to her, or she to Hecuba?), maybe someone can ask her if she was Katherine in 1962.

At any rate, the play was extraordinary and, I believe, the first time I had seen REALLY exciting theater.

Cheers.

Europe 1962 (Part 2)

N.B. Before Reading this Post, you probably want to read my earlier post of Europe 1962. This is my trip through Europe in the summer of 1962. The first post covered Britain, France, Belgium and Holland.

When we left our hero, he was driving eastward in his white Opel Rekord station wagon, with the Danish plates, on top of the Zuider Zee heading towards Germany. Having seen many aspects of the small country of Holland (modern Rotterdam, the canals of Amsterdam, the elegance of The Hague, etc.), we were now seeing sparsely populated rural Holland which was flat (surprise, surprise!), and filled with wind mills (even if no one wore wooden shoes). As we drove, on our right we could see forever (ok, so I exaggerate), but on our left our view was blocked because the land rose, perhaps ten feet or so (but memory plays tricks), so all we saw was a grassy berm. "Stop the car", I said and, for one of the few times in my life, someone listened. I got out, climbed the berm and what do you think I saw? [This is a question. You cannot expect a blog like this to give you all of the answers. We are a bare budget operation here, and not yet able to charge the prices for advertising that Matt Drudge can. If I remember that I asked you the question, I will provide you with an answer at the end of this Posting.

We arrived at the German border (die Grenze). Now, entering Germany for me was a little different than entering Belgium, as you might imagine, although I cannot say I was particularly conscious of this until we got into the country. I noted immediately that we were no longer in Holland; things seemed a little different. Not that the Netherlands was a dirty place. Far from it. But Germany seemed especially neat and tidy. Everything in its place. Every village just scrubbed. Was I imagining this? Or was it so? I was not clear, but I felt a bit spooked. (I do not know how, E_____ (who kindly commented on the last Post), D_______ or P_____ felt, I being the only Jewish member of our troup, and we certainly did not discuss the subject, which was not then on my conscious agenda).

This was to be a very short transit visit through this part of Germany, on our way to Denmark. Our longer German visit was to come after we came back from Denmark.

We stopped in Bremerhaven for our only night. Bremerhaven was one of Germany's biggest ports (perhaps it was its biggest port), and the campgrounds were located across a body of water (probably the mouth of the Weser where it empties into the North Sea) from the port itself. So we had the adavantage of a rather rustic camp, well of any normally traveled road, but we had a view of ships and port facilities across the river. It was like being at a drive in movie with an enormous screen. I found it mesmerizing (until the first whistle blew on a ship well before I had planned on getting up the next morning.)

We had supper (details not ever to be recalled, I am sure) and then I went with one of my friends (identity equally erased from memory) for a short walk on a country road, leading away from the campground, and away from the port facilities. It was just a normal road, one or two lanes, gravel or barely paved, with trees and fields, and maybe a house here or there. It was a dark night. The road was not lit.

I became very frightened. I was sure that behind every bush or tree was a Nazi ready to jump out and take me, and I would not be heard from again. (Typically, I will walk anywhere with no fear whatsoever.) I had to get back to the campground. and did.

My memory says that the next morning, we drove to a ferry port in a city called Travemunde, having driven quickly through the old city of Lubeck, with its austere red stone walls and gates. Lubeck, a city of the old Hanseatic League is equally as well now to My Blog readers as the home of novelist Thomas Mann, and of my instructor at the Goethe Institute. (I understand that the world at large recognizes Lubeck as Mann's home, more than it recognizes it as the home of Frau R_____, but for blog readers it is 0% for both, I am sure)

For those who have followed my posts carefully, you will probably quickly realize that, with the exception of crossing of the English Channel, I had never been on a ship. And I should tell you that the boat that crossed the channel was bare-bones transportation, an overnight trip on rough water on a ship with all of the amenities of a Cape May Ferry. You can sit below deck on a hard wooden bench (or lie on the floor), or sit on deck, if the weather permits. (Of course, on an English channel crossing, weather that anywhere else would not be acceptable, is considered more than adequate for sitting up all night in the rain and mist. Which is what I did.)

At any rate, the Travemunde to Denmark ferry was something of another species. It was, to my mind, an extraordinary ship, very large, and with better (and certainly more) food than we had seen yet on our trip. It was on this floating restaurant that I first learned that in Denmark, we would be getting variety upon variety of smorrebrod (pardon me if I mis-name something), and when added to the salads and raw and smoked fishes of incredible variety, the smorrebrod created a smorgesbord. I then learned that I smorrebrod is simply a sandwich with the top bread missing, and that for the next several days, this is what we would be eating. (I did not know that the Danish diet was semi-Atkins; neither did Atkins, I am sure.)

I think we landed south of Copenhagen and drove through bucolic farm country, making me think that I would like Denmark. And I did, but when I got to Copenhagen, my reaction was different from that of the other places we had visited. There was nothing there (outside of the Tivoli Gardens) that I wanted to see. I knew there were museums, and palaces, and all of that, and you could take a side trip to Elsinore, but it all seemed rather meaningless to me in the historical big-picture of things, and I guess I was ready for a rest. So I hardly did any sight seeing there. I recognized the place as a "I'd like to live there, but have no need to visit it" sort of place.

And, unfortunately, the Tivoli Gardens, which I thought would be very exciting and loads of fun, were, to me, very bland.

A few final comments on Copenhagen. The Danish girls, like the Dutch girls (in contrast to the English, French and Belgian) were all very attractive. (I thought it might be places where the ethnic adjective started with "D"; perhaps I should have made plans to go to Dahomey or Dubai? No, probably not Dubai, unless I brought my x-ray glasses). But it was more than attractive. They all wore short, but full skirts, and when they danced, which they did each night in the Tivoli Gardens, their skirts swirled up to reveal their underwear. Which were all in colors or patterns meant to be seen. I am talking , I think, about teenage girls, or maybe those in their young 20s. I thought it very strange, but obviously visually exciting.

I remember we did go to one concert in the Tivoli (we heard quite a bit of music on the trip). It was a full evening of pieces by the Danish composer, Nielsen. Boring, boring, boring, I thought. No wonder no one outside Denmark listened to his music.

Copenhagen is on an island, and we drove across the bridge (?) back to the Danish mainland, and then down to Germany through Schleswig-Holstein. I was very excited to be in a place as well known as Schlewig-Holstein, but I couldn't remember why it was well known. Still not sure. Think it has to do with the Treaty of Versailles, or is it Bismark?

Then we stayed in Hamburg the next night before venturing on to Berlin. I was still in my fear of Germany mode, and this was heightened once again, when we went to the Zillertal, a well known beer hall. Long wooden tables and benches. Overweight serving women, with blond hair and peasant dress, serving mugs of German beer. All beer in Germany then was German beer, and I am not sure any of it was bottled. I am not much of a beer drinker, and Germany beer was to me less drinkable than the barely potable Budweiser, because it was so much richer. It tasted alive to me (I can still taste the taste I tasted then) and I did not like it.

At the front of the enormous Zillertal (and I mean it was big, and full, and noisy) was a stage, on which was a continuously playing leder-hosen clad oom-pah band. They were playing what I would call all German drinking songs (although a drinking song afficianado would probably tell me I was generalizing), and would have "guest conductors" come on stage. The guest conductors were men (all were men) who were too drunk to realize that their pals at their tables (who were generally family memebers, egged on by the women) wanted them to make a fool of themselves, which they did.

The patrons all knew the songs and sang along, and there were loud, unisonal (probably not a real word) "Prosts" from the standing crowd for each staggering conductor (of course the conductors and the music being played were not related).

Again, I was scared to death. Everyone was having a good time, enjoying the festivities. But that is the problem. Everyone. My feeling was that this showed the German proclivity for acting in unison, and joining the crowd. Whether it was "Prosst-ing" a drunk, or killing the Jews, I thought they all would join in.

And that was not all we did in Hamburg. There was more. Hamburg had a notorious district, which I think was called St. Paul. It was filled with "night clubs", each one raunchier than the last. I have to rely on my friends to tell me if I am imagining what I am going to say next, if I may have read about it, or if it actually existed. I remember a bar, where the entertainment was was women mud-wrestling. And I remember a bar where there were horses inside. Possible?

From Hamburg, it was on to Berlin. Not many people went into Berlin in those days. Of course, Germany was divided, East and West, and Berlin was itself internationalized (English, French, Russian and American zones) but inside East Germany. After the 1948 Berlin airlift, road access was available by autobahn, but if you got off on the wrong exit, you were clearly at risk. You would be somewhere you had no right to be.

When you got to the East Germany border on the autobahn, you needed to go through East Germany customs. It was there that I learned a little about Communist occupation. It was clear that western travelers to Berlin were not to be encouraged, and the customs house was set up avoid encouragement. I remember there were three lines: You had to go to each, although all could obviously have been done at one. One line was passport control, one was money control, and one was baggage control. There were three windows. You started at the middle window, then the left, and then the right, meaning that people were continually walking in front and in back of you (or you were doing the cutting), creating as much chaos in this otherwise overly organized Germany society as possible.

When we got to Berlin, which although still showing some war weariness was already a thriving city, we followed the directions to the campgrounds. It took a long time to get there, and the location was more suburban than urban. It was clear that the area known as Berlin and open to international travel, was more than just a center city.

What do I remember about Berlin? Mostly the Brandenberg Gate, formerly at the head of Unter den Linden (now in East Berlin), the shell of the Reichstag as you approached Brandenberg (burned by the Nazis in 1933 and not yet restored), the monument to Soviet War dead and the Russian guards which were in the American Sector, as luck would have it. The active restaurants and shops on Kufurstendamstrasse, which I think I had my first German venison. The zoo. The Berlin Wall, only about a year old. Checkpoint Charlie, one of the (I think) 3 checkpoints into East Berlin.

And I remember what happened.

1. First, I remember trying to go to the zoo in our Opel, turning onto a road marked "Tiergarten" and driving along as the road became narrower and narrower, only too late realizing that we were driving along a foot path leading to the zoo, but no one seemed to mind.

2. I remember going to a nightclub near Checkpoint Charlie, which was an old established place of entertainment, or perhaps a new place built as a replica of an old, I don't remember. The gimmick here was that every table was connected to every other one by telephone, so if you saw someone who looked interesting to you, you just had to pick up the phone, dial and say hello. Rumors of what happened through the phones at this club were everywhere.

The club was crowded, and the four of us sat at our table all night. We of course were too shy to call any other table, and no one called us. But it appeared to us that everyone else was calling everyone else, and that they were all having a terrific time and we were nothing but lowly American wallflowers. (In retrospect, it is comforting to say that we only imagined that to be the case, but in fact I think that was exactly the case.)

At any rate, I remember leaving very late at night, to find two of our college classmates (one of whom was Steven V. Roberts of journalism and wife Cokie fame) also leaving and lacking transportation, beseeching us for a ride back downtown (even though we were not going downtown). Of course we took them. If they had any gratitude for not leaving them stranded at the gates of Checkpoint Charlie, they never showed it, and I do not trust Steve Roberts to this day.

Dropping them off at some late hour, I recall getting back to the campsite about 3 a.m. (in Berlin in July at 3 a.m., the sun is already beginning to rise). The gates to the camp were closed (many European campsite had lock-down times), so we figured that we had to break in to our tents and sleeping bags, by climbing over. The wire gates would have been pretty easy to climb over, but were were afraid of being spotted, and shot on the spot, so we decided to move away to a more secluded spot.

We found a spot where the fence was stone and rough enough that it seemed like we could climb over it, that there would be a place to lodge our feet. No sooner had we started, however, than big searchlights focused right on us. We then realized that we were about to climb over the Berlin Wall (not downtown where it was well known, but in this far-suburb, as the wall surrounded all of the Berlin area), and to be the only four American students ever to be shot trying to enter East Germany over the wall (East Germans who attempted to climb to Berlin were in fact being shot).

I am not sure how we spent the rest of the night. But that ended our climbing attempts, I think.

3. Of course, I wondered what every middle aged German adult had done during the war. I remember thinking this as we had our venison on Kurfurstendamstrasse. Our waiter was an older man, so naturally I thought the worst of him. He asked us where we were from and we told him. He then told us that he had been to the United States. Asking him where and when, he said he was in South Carolina during the war. He was surprised that we did not know that there were prison camps in South Carolina (and perhaps elsewhere) where German prisoners of war were incarcerated during the war. I felt very dumb.

4. Having seen where Checkpoint Charlie was, one day I took off on my own to explore East Berlin. I went to Checkpoint Charlie and checked myself in. This was not a smart thing to do, going into East Berlin by oneself, because if anything happened to you, you were out of contact with the world. I realized that East Berlin contained the center of old Berlin, the most elegant of commercial and residential areas (and today is re-finding itself as the center of a combined Berlin), although they had clearly seen better days. I saw how bland everything was compared to the excitement of West Berlin. I saw some of the old museums, which were well metained. Crossing near one of them (Ethnological Museum? Is there such a building in Berlin?), when about six soldiers walked out of a door (I was crossing a Platz in front of the museum) and began, at a very fast pace, goose stepping towards me. I froze. Once again, I knew I was a goner. And I was more than a little surprised when they marched right past me (I could have reached out and touched them) as if I was invisible. They were changing the guard at some monument nearby. My heart skipped many beats.

Later that day, I was taking a picture of a building that I thought impressive, and I actually was stopped by two East German soldiers, who told me that it was forbidden to take a picture of that particular building. I played dumb saying, in English, "I was just trying to take a picture of that particular building". They wanted to confiscate my camera and film. I did not want to lose either, for more than obvious reasons. But I also did not want to arrested (and in my mind therefore killed) for failure to obey an order. I simply repeated my mantra: "I was just trying to take a picture of that particular building". I could understand most of what they were saying and was more than a little relieved to hear them say, "let him go". I went directly back to Checkpoint Charlie.

5. We were driving down the road to the Brandenberg Gate, when all of a sudden there was a police siren behind us, and we were clearly being waved to the side of the road. I was driving, I think. I did not know what we had done, but again feared the worst (we were in West Berlin, of course).

When the policeman walked to our window, I was very concerned, but he said "I didn't mean to scare you, but noticed you had Danish plates. My wife and I are going to Denmark for a vacation next month. I wondered if you can give us some tips."

We were sort of dumbfounded, and he was extremely embarrassed when he found out we were not Danish. He told us that he wanted to do something for us to make up for stopping us, and asked us if we wanted to see the Reichstag up close. Of course, the Reichstag had been closed and off limits to all tourists since 1933 (it is now restored and again the home of the German parliament, which was in 1962 meeting in Bonn). We said, sure, and he said "Follow me", and we had a police escort, siren blaring, through the streets of Berlin on our way to the Reichstag. We went past the police barrier, parked our car, went in with him, and saw the charred and totally ruined first floor filled with Russian graffiti (it was the Russians who first entered Berlin at the end of WWII), sort of 'Kilroy was here' writ large. He then took us to the top of the buildng, where the British (it was in the British zone) maintained a military observation point, with telescopes, etc., pointing over the wall, watching what was going on in East Berlin. I remember being asked if we wanted to look through the viewing equipment but do not remember if we did or not, before some British officer came on the scene and was dumbfounded to find us where we were. There was no question, but that we had to leave immediately.

Once again, I think I have written more than enough for one post. So we will have to finish Germany, and move on to Austria and Italy, later. You are probably wondering if I remembered to answer the open question I left you with about the ten foot berm in the Netherlands. Unfortunately, I have not remembered. Perhaps you can remind me.

I Needed Diversion

So I picked up a copy of "Memorial Day" by Vince Flynn, his 2004 thriller.

Radical Islamicist terrorists plant a hydrogen bomb where it will totally destroy the United States government infrastructure (and all of Washington DC and environs).

Ruthless CIA operatives, each with their own agenda, in alliance with others of mixed motives, try to foil the plan.

Diverting.

"A Time to Die" by Robert Moore

This is the story of the sinking of the Kursk, the Russian submarine that suffered a torpedo explosion while on military games in the Barents Sea in the fall of 2000. The entire crew perished.

The book, written by a Canadian journalist, provides an interesting view of the Russian northeast, the Russian fleet, and the ordinary Russian sailor and family. Following the collapse of the USSR, money was very tight, and the Russian military showed signs of weakness, as the cost of equipment upkeep became too much. Even the cost of military salaries at times was beyond the financial ability of the nation.

During military exercises, a poorly maintained torpedo exploded on the underwater Kursk, a large (500' long) submarine, technologically up to date, killing a larg number of the crew instantaneously, and trapping about thirty others in a rear chamber of the ship, where they were slowly dying due to decreasing oxygen, and then were instantaneously killed by a flash fire. The thought of their several days of waiting for rescue or death is hard to bear.

And rescue was possible, except for two things. First, the Russian rescue equipment was maintained as poorly as the torpedos, and failed to lock on to the submarine to create the necessary seal for a possible rescue. Second, although American, British and Norwegian rescue teams were ready to join the effort (and, belatedly, did), they were hampered by the fear of the Russian military bureaucracy to let the westerners in on the secrets of the Russian submarines for fear their effectiveness would be compromised in time of war. The Russian command was clearly divided, between those who would open up all secrets to the rescuers for the sake of the men and their families, those who eventually welcomed the rescue effort but wanted to cripple the rescuers' abilities by controlling exactly what information they would be given, and those who were adamently opposed to any international help.

For these reasons, delays of days and days were endured, and the rescue effort failed. By the time the submarine was reached, and the bodies removed, all were dead and, at the same time, it was clear that an earlier approach would have saved their lives.

The book is well written and not hard to read. It provides a lot of insight, I thought, into a part of Russian society not normally discussed in the west. The picture of the lives of the sailors and their families in barren northern port cities is depressing. The courage of the men impressive. The obstinancy of the bureaucracy perhaps not surprising, but not always kept in mind.

And, what may be most interesting of all, are the men who rescue others from sunken ships for a living. Nothing would appear to be more dangerous. Why they do this (and of course how they have the skills that they have) is unfathomable. It obviously takes all kinds to make a world. And their kind has very little relationship to folks like me.

Robert Moore, "A Time to Die" was published by Random House, Canada, in 2002.

Lurkers

Two commentors have signed in as Anonymous and called themselves "lurkers". Because privacy is an old American value (or at least it used to be), I have to respect their right to remain anonymous. But I think that they owe it to me (the creator of vehicle they are using for their lurking) to be able to identify them in some manner.

I would request therefore that they adopt a stage name or, as they say en francaise, a "nom de lerc". Maybe Lurker-I and Lurker - II, for starters.

That way, each lurker would develop her (I imagine them as hers) personality and individuality. Individuality is also an American virtue.

In Detroit

I am in Detroit for a few days. No sightseeing. Only work.

Recommendations: Stay out of Greektown if you want good food. Go there if you want Greek food that is so-so. We ate at Hellas and at the Monroe Grill. There are probably another 15 restaurants on this two block strip.

Downtown construction. There is construction activity everywhere downtown, but it is impossible to say what is being built or accomplished. They say it is in anticipation of the superbowl. That seems pretty weird.

Signs: On various downtown streets, there are new signs that make their point, but don't get an A for spelling: "No busses".

And on one downtown building there is a big sign that says: "May is Water Drinking Month in Detroit".

Detroit is clearly a hockey town: so much so that everyone is so busy rooting for the Red Wings that they don't know the season was canceled.

There appears to be three casinos downtown; they are all called Greektown Casino. I am told they are separately owned. You can park for free in their garages, just by going in and getting your ticket stamped. Across the street, at our hotel, parking is $15.

Most of the downtown streets are one way, and designed so that, in fact, often you really can't get there from here.

There are a couple of nice new buildings, and a lot of nice new parking lots downtown.

That is what I have learned, so far, by spending 28 hours in downtown Detroit.

Europe 1962

Because of the extraordinary excitement created by my narrative on my first real trip in 1958, it occurred to me that my first REAL trip, Europe over the summer of 1962, might also be of interest. In fact, I am sure it will be, so please read on:

My geographic horizons had broadened somewhat since Spring 1958. My Washington trip in Spring 1959. Boston and New York in the Fall of 1960. But it was my 11 weeks in Europe, at the age of 19, between second and third year at college, with three friends, that was my first REAL trip.

1. It started in the basement family room (we called it a ratskeller; no one seems to use that word anymore; maybe it was only in St. Louis?) where I was sitting with my parents over Christmas break, 1961-1962, when I said to them: "I've saved up enough money; I think I will buy my own car." You would have thought I had said I was going to purchase an atomic bomb: the reaction was the same. My father told me that if I both was going to Harvard and had a car, he would be embarrassed (figure that one out; I couldn't), and my mother, who in such instances was more laconic and more emphatic said "No!!!!" (I think I have about the right number of explanation points).

So I, in my usual way, decided to try retreat and diversion, as opposed to hand-to-hand combat (not much has changed, right?), and said: "OK, then I will take the money and go to Europe this summer." My goal was to have my mother add even more exclamation points to her "No!!!!", and for my father to suggest: "Why don't you just buy a car instead?"

But they both simply said: "That would be a good idea", like a Greek chorus. And I answered: "OK, so I will", saying to myself "What did they say? How am I going to go to Europe? I just wanted a car."

2. I went with two of my roommates, D____ and E______, and our good friend P_______. Before we left, we all had supper at the home of another of my roommates, B_____. B_____'s father was a physician and a man of great generosity, so I was not surprised when he said: "You never can tell what will happen in a place like Europe. So I have prepared a first aid/medicine kit for you", and he gave us a large box filled with all sorts of things, including all sorts of bottles of pills. Never having been a pill person myself, I wanted to know what these various things were for. So I pointed to the first one, and he said: "That's for diarrhea." To the second, he said: "Oh, that's for diarrhea." The third and fourth? You guessed it - "diarrhea".

I felt my leg being pulled (he did not seem to have anything in the box for pulled legs), so I said: "Dr. N________, what if we get constipated?" No problem, he said, in Europe, the cure for constipation is food at any restaurant." He sounded like he believed it.

Luckily, I remember neither constipation or diarrhea as a major hindrance. I also remember that E______ had a number of bad stomach aches, that the medicines did not seem to touch. We were a little concerned, but life went on. Of course, one morning that fall, back at school, E____ was missing from his bed, and no one could locate him. Turns out he had another such pain, and it was appendicitis. Could have happened there, I guess.

3. We flew from Boston Logan to London Heathrow. I think it was a special Harvard Student Agencies charter; I remember the round trip was under $200, a bargain even in 1962. Again, this was pre-commercial jet time, and we flew a BOAC constellation. BOAC, for those who don't know, was the English overseas airway, which along with a couple of other British carriers was later combined to create the now British Air. But BOAC (British Overseas Air Carrier, or something close to that), along with TWA and PanAm were the major English language airlines flying over the oceans (PanAm specializing in South America and the Pacific).

4. The only thing a remember about the flight is the scotch. No sooner that we had left the ground, it seemed, fairly late at night, that the stewards (not stewardesses, but stewards) asked if anyone wanted a drink (included in the price of the flight). I asked for a scotch. (Today, it is hard to believe that I drank scotch when I was 19, but that I think was my drink of choice from the time I first drank anything (17? 18? earlier?) until I was, say, 30 or so. But I digress........) The steward did not seem to be pouring jiggers of scotch; it was more like tumblers of scotch. I had two. It is a miracle I did not tumble out of the plane.

5. When we landed at Heathrow, it was dawn. I remember two things. First, I could not believe it. There is no other way to say it. To be on the other side of the ocean, in England, was something that was completely beyond my comprehension. Secondly, I am not sure what I expected, but modern Heathrow airport (I think a new terminal had just opened; obviously not today's) was not it. I had expected more of a time travel experience, I think.

6. Somehow, we wound up at Victoria Station. And we went to look for a bed and breakfast (we had no reservations anywhere, but were planning on camping everywhere but Britain), which we were told was the thing to do. We found one in an old row house, which was very English and quaint and old fashioned. It was my first experience on a feather bed (you recall from earlier posts that I had not been permitted to attend sleepovers, so my only real mattress experience was at my house (no feather bed), and in camp bunks and college dorms. I hated the feather bed, largely because I could not sleep.

7. Being used to St. Louis summers, the cool London weather (almost every place was cool that summer) was depressing to me. "The poor Europeans", I thought, "get cheated out of summer."
Boy, has my opinion on that one changed.

8. I loved London. In 1962, the English still dressed like English. Men wearing dark pin striped suits and bowler hats, carrying walking sticks, and the like. Hippie-dom just starting up. English ladies (who all looked alike to me, and seemed passably attractive, but certainly not glamorous) dressed in dresses (certainly not in trousers). The black taxis. The cars in general, not only driving on the left, but also of tremendous variety in those days, Rovers, Morris', Vauxhalls, Jaguars, Rolls-Royces, and (what a strange thing, I thought, English Fords).

I think we just did all the typical first time tourist things in London, and found we could go to the theater for virtually nothing. (Our budget was obviously limited, but in those days never seemed to create a problem for us; we particularly splurged on food, since we were going to save so much on lodging.) I remember we saw The Mousetrap, which even then had played for years and years (E______ had been to Europe before, and seen The Mousetrap already.). I have seen it since; it is an extraordinary play since, not only do you not know 'who did it' when you see it the first time, you have forgotten by the second time you see it, so you can see it an indefinite number of times, and each time is like the first. I think this is why it played for 40+ years.

We ate at the Cheshsire Cheese (oldest restaurant in London, or England, or the world, or something) and had a Wimpyburger at London's first fast food hamburger restaurant (awful, awful, awful). We ate at the Hotel Montana (I remember it only because of the name) and on the subway were verbally accosted by some London toughs, one of whom, in a pretty good cowboy accent said: "I bet you are from the wild west of Kansas." I decided not to give him a geography lesson.

British Museum, Tower of London, National Gallery, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey. Everything you would think. Surprised to see Abe Lincoln's statute across from Westminster in front of a court building. Went in the building, and actually sat through a day of a criminal trial. Lawyers in wigs, and all of that. Did the teenager break into the store at night, or not? Did not stick around to find out, but it was as good as tv.

Went to a BBC prom concert at Prince Albert Hall, and saw a violin soloist - Herman Szering. I think he died shortly thereafter.

9. Then, we split up for a week. E_________ and P______ went to Ireland, while D____ and I explored southern England and Wales. By bus.

Salisbury Cathedral (for some reason we did not go to Stonehendge - reason is we probably never heard of it) for an hour or two, and the first night in Exeter. No good reason for that; it was a bust. Only restaurant we found open was Chinese. It was like being in the U.S.

But then on to Wales. I think we stayed one night in Aberystwyth, where we saw the National Library and an extraordinary number of English families camping (maybe ten million), then on to Colwin (small town with a mountain in back), Llandudno, Carnaervan, and who knows where else. D_____ and I found a bed and breakfast in Carnaervan where the family was actually speaking Welsh. That was a shock. [It was more of a shock when they showed us to our room, and we saw it contained one bed. We are not sure what they were thinking, but it was too late at night in a place where people spoke Welsh to go back out on the street. We contemplated possible arrangements and decided that a head to toe relationship would be acceptable.]

Then back into England proper, with the first stop in Chester, where on a rainy afternoon, we went to see Rio Bravo, which I hated. The English loved it. And we went on to Cambridge, which I thought was absolutely extraordinary. We toured some of the colleges, walked along the Cam, etc.

Then back to London, meeting up with our friends, and the train/boat/train to Paris.

10. Ah, Paris. First, we had to pick up our car, which had been ordered. A white, Opel Rekord station wagon, with Danish plates (this becomes important later in the story). Then, we went somewhere and bought two pup tents and whatever else we thought we needed for our camping. Then we found our first camp site, in the middle of the Bois de Boulogne.

Here, the story gets interesting. Our car was a stick shift. We didn't even think about that possibility (naive, huh?), and I for one had never driven a stick shift, and really had no more intention to do so than to captain a diesel train. But, now I was stuck. So here I was, having to learn to drive a manual transmission on the streets of Paris. I assume that, had I decided to learn this skill in St. Louis, it would have taken me twenty years. When you do it on the streets of Paris, I learned that it took about 3 second to know how to upshift, downshift, use the clutch, and everything else. No problem, once those 3 seconds were up. But for those few seconds, I was sure we would all die.

In Paris, again, we were first time tourists, doing just what you would expect. That included the museums, cathedrals, Eiffel Tower, Versailles, and a day in Montmartre, where we saw the painters painting their paintings, and I bought one for about $20. A Montmartre scene, but I thought very nice. Still have it. But I did not plan very well, because after I bought it, my friends asked where I thought I was going to keep it while we tooled around Europe. The four of us and our gear and luggage made our car pretty crowded. I was not sure what to do, and when we made our last visit to Paris' American Express (in those days, pre-cell phones, etc., communications were made generally through American Express; you could get your mail directed there, you could meet people there, and so forth; it was a virtual community center for young American travelers like ourselves), I asked a young woman who worked there where I could store the painting. Did they have lockers? Or a luggage room like a train station? No, she said, there was nowhere at American Express to leave the painting.

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, because I had already become very close to this painting (as you can see, since 43 years later it is still hanging), and she must have sensed this and taken pity on me. She said, "If you want, I will take it home. Tell me when you are going to be back in Paris, and I will bring it in for you." Extraordinaire, I thought, and left her the painting, not expecting ever to get it back, but confident that, come what may, the painting would have a good home, and that someone in Paris would remember that once I was there. (I have already given away the punch line. Eight weeks later, on the appointed day, I walked into the American Express office expecting nothing, and there she was, and there it was. Extraordinaire.) As I usually say, girl from Paris, if you are reading this blog, please say hello.

11. After a half day diversion to Chartres, we drove north from Paris, had lunch in Soissons, and crossed into Belgium. It was cold, and windy, and rainy, and Brussels did nothing to me, at all (we had first gone through Antwerp and saw where the diamonds are cut). In fact, I have not been back to Brussels, although I know it is now reputed to have the best food on the Continent. We found a camp site in a suburb called Uccles (did not know how to pronounce it then, and don't know now), which was a fair way out of town, in an uninteresting suburb, but run by a crazy couple who wanted to be everyone's best friend, and had parties and other social events. They were sort of a kick.

I think it was in Brussels that we met the four Australian girls, about our age, who were doing the same thing we were doing, but for longer than 11 months (they may still be there, as far as I know). I think they were very excited to meet four Americans, but I didn't want to give them any ideas of long term companionship. We had places to go, and did not need to be slowed down by the need to negotiate among eight, rather than four. They were very nice and fun, it is true, but I couldn't wait to get out of Brussels and away from them. And besides, whoever heard of girls from Australia (remember, for me, Minnesota seemed exotic). I was surpised that they didn't have flat tails and pouches.

(There was a later entanglement, and unfortunately, I cannot place it geographically. D_____, at one point, met the love of his life. She was blond and Danish, and camping with her family, but they seemed just as happy to have D_____ take her off their hands. They were from Odense, and for a while, if my memory is correct (D______ ?), he even contemplated leaving the group and going to Odense for the rest of the summer. We were aghast at this as a possibility (and of course a bit jealous as well). Then, it turned out that she was only fifteen years old. That spooked even D_________, and that was the last we saw of her.

12. While in Belgium, we did go to Bruges, Liege and Ostend, all of which seemed like very nice places to me (especially Bruges, of course), so I decided Belgium was not all bad.

13. And so we moved to Holland. Loved it, even though the weather was still Belgish.

Rotterdam had been totally devestated by the Germans in World War II (remember, the war had ended only 17 years ago - that would be today like 1988), but the port had already been totally rebuilt, and it was the most modern city I had ever seen. Amsterdam's canals and bicycles and museums surprised me. Visited the Anne Frank house, and saw that a good friend of mine from St. Louis had signed the guest book two hours before we arrived. Tasted the cheese. Wondered why the girls were all so pretty (much more so than France, England or Belgium). Went to an avant garde ballet, or was that in Brussels? (Now I am confused, it was Maurice Bejart's Ballet XX Siecle; sounds like it should have been in Brussels. Probably was).

Also, the Hague, and the museums there (looks like Kalorama in DC, but I did not know that then). Volendam (miniature city), Harlem (Franz Hals museum), Schevinengin for the beach (sort of like Rehoboth in March, too cold and windy), and drove along the dykes and across the Zaijder Zee on the way to Germany.

THIS POST IS ALREADY TOO LONG, SO I WILL END IT HERE. GERMANY, DENMARK, AUSTRIA COME NEXT. THEN ITALY, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, FRANCE AGAIN, AND ENGLAND. YOU'LL HAVE TO WAIT.

Games People Play

Except for word games (read: Scrabble), I have never liked games, and have never seen their attraction.

Cards are the worst. When I was in school, I learned to play bridge probably six times; each time I would forget the most basic rules by the time I woke up the next morning. I used to play gin with my grandmother (you remember, I grew up in a house with seven adults), and vaguely remember something about the number eleven. I assume the difference between five card stud and seven card stud is two cards, but I have no idea what the difference between stud and draw may be (I used to know), or what either is. I know when you play Go Fish, you say Go Fish, but for the life of me I cannot think of why. Solitaire is probably the hardest of all for me to play, because (if I remember correctly) there is no one to ask if you can't remember the next move, or why you made the last one.

Board games are really a waste of time, I think. Occasionally, a game of monopoly might be OK, if you are playing with people who don't care, and all you are really doing is being sociable, but if you have even one serious player, I am outta there.

Checkers is OK if you are playing with an eight year old. And I have always like the idea of chess, but when you try to do it on a board, reality sinks in, as does boredom.

I have no idea how to play backgammon (learned 12 times), parcheesi (learned 8 times), or dominoes. At a casino, I can understand the slots, but not craps or roulette or blackjack (I know that has something to do with twenty one).

But, I do like exhibits, so I decided to go to see the Asian Games exhibit at the Sackler (closing on Sunday). This was a large exhibit of game pieces/works of art from China, Japan, India and other parts of Asia. I was not certain that I would like the exhibit any more than the games, but it was worth a lunch hour.

Old dice (squares and cylinder shaped, with all sorts of numbers for all sorts of throwing games), pachesi boards (the Indian ancestor of parcheesi, with boards made of leather and beads, as well as wood, and in very bright colors), liubo sets (never heard of that, huh? an example of a game that died out, although for 500 years in China it was the rage.

A "chutes and ladders" room with games akin to today's Chutes and Ladders, including many story lines, some involving progress in school, and one terrific Chinese version, allowing you to progress from being a lowly peasant to the highest ranking Mandarin. The boards of each of these games (not suprisingly) designed with extraordinary skill and care.

Backgammon from Iran. And of course, chess, from Persia and India. The ornate inlaid wood boards, and the ivory pieces, some stained or painted, some natural. The most interesting pieces being from the time of the English Raj. Ornate mounted soldiers, elephants and other animal pieces. And, if chess is getting old hat, try to Chinese versions, Xiangsi or Shogi.

And of course there is Go, played in China for at least 2500 years, and later in Japan, and considered an intellectual sport so complex that no world class champion has ever been defeated by a computer. The game is too complex. (Unfortunately, I could not stay long enough for the 1:30 how to play Go exhibit by the American Go Society. At 1:30, it was too late for Go. I was Gone.).

A room devoted to Sri Krishna Raja Wodeyar III, ruler of Myore, 19th century collector of games and game history, and inventor of games. Cards of all sorts, square, rectangle and round. Tile games (but did I miss the mah jong?) and dominoes. Japanese shell games (hundreds of similar, but not identical, shells, painted almost, but not quite, alike; try to match them).

Ball games. Throwing games. Old soccer-like sports. Pitching games (such as pitch the arrows into the vase). Badminton.

And an interesting room of equipment and works of art devoted to the king of sports, polo (yes, it was interesting and Asian, but did it belong).

Then, go round one more corner, to the "Game Over" sign.

I still don't like games. But exhibits of games are, I guess, something different.

"Who Says Powder Has to be Chalky or Pasty?"

An attractive young woman with a very serious demeanor interrupted a morning news show today, to ask me this question.

I was very embarrassed, because I had absolutely no idea.

I might have learned it in third grade, or something, but honestly don't remember.

Was it Marx or Lenin? Or Custer?

I don't think it was Jesus, but I could have been asleep that day.

Question: Who are Marcella, Stephanie and Michelle?

Answer: My only commenters.

Come on, guys, speak up.

I am told if I retire

I stand a good chance to become a contestant on American Idle.

(Another show I have never seen)*



*There is really a long list.

"Everyone Loves Raymond"

It's final episode is showing on Monday, May 16.

It has run for nine years.

It has been a very popular show.

I have never seen it, and have no clue what it is about.

My question: Since I cannot love Raymond, not knowing who or what he/it is, the title of the show cannot be correct.

Should I try to contact the network and have them change the title or, because there is only one more show, should I simply let sleeping dogs (could Raymond be a dog?) lie? [note the double entendre]

Andre Kertesz at the National Gallery

The exhibit of Andre Kretesz' photography ends May 15, so hurry up. It is on the first floor of the West Building.

The photos are virtually all black and white. (There are a few color poloroid pictures that the exhibit could have just as well done without.) The earliest was taken in about 1915, and the latest in about 1980. They were taken with a variety of cameras. The earlier pictures are very small (maybe 2 1/2" by 1 1/2") and, unless you are a miniaturist, or carry a jeweler's eye, are not easy to see.

The photographs were primarily taken in three places: Budapest, Paris and New York.

They are not snapshots. They are almost all works of art.

How to explain? The two strong points of the photos are (a) composition [i.e., they each are composed like a painting and many of them, although they are quite realistic, have the composition of a surrealist painting, a Picasso or a Braque] and (b) lighting [sunlight, shadows, gloom, time of day, all are apparent].

It looks like he worked very hard on these photos. The first in the exhibit is a small photo of a barn in Hungary at night. The explanation on the wall includes a quote from Kertesz about how hard it was to print this picture, and keep the sky from just looking too black, and how eventually (and I do not understand the photographic process, which I ascribe primarily to magic) he realized that he could put a dark red coat over that portion of the paper on which this was being printed, and then wipe it down, and how that gave texture to the night time sky. It looked like he went through something like this (at least through a very detailed planning process) on all of the paintings.

These are not action photos. They are not grand landscapes. They are not photos of oddities. They are not sexual.

There are buildings, and people (not famous people), and street scenes. A lot of it is composed to look geometric, to fool you like an Escher drawing. He has photos of Mondrian's apartment that look somewhat like - Mondrian.

These are very professional photos. You have under three weeks to see them.

Sir Walter Raleigh: Ubermensch

We all know that there are some people who appear to have multiple talents to such a degree that they operate on a different level from most of us. Reading Roy Jenkins' biography of Winston Churchill shows, not suprisingly, that Winston Churchill was one of these individuals. They have intellectual brilliance, charisma, charm, athletic ability, creativity, perseverence, and dedication, and they face defeat by simply moving on, and on, and on. This does not, of course, mean that Ubermenschen are perfect human beings. In fact, their shortcomings are sometimes as strongly negative, as their talents are positive. And often these negative qualities stem from their strengths. They tend to have a certain arrogance and disdain towards mere mortals that lead to their own eventual decline.

Until I read The Shepherd of the Ocean by University of Utah professors J. H. adamson and H. F. Holland, I did not know that Walter Raleigh was also a Ubermensch.

In fact, my knowledge of Sir Walter was embarrassingly limited. I recalled that he put down his cloak in order to let the Queen of England keep her feet dry (my image of this was that his cloak got so dirty that it could never be properly cleaned). And I knew he had something to do with a lost colony in Virginia, and the mysterious word "Croatan".

That was it.

Walter Raleigh was born in Devon, which along with its further neighbor Cornwall, was still frontier country in the 16th century, where Celts and others had retreated after the Norman conquest, and which was just beginning to show some economic development with the growth of oceanic trade (and piracy). Nothing is known of his childhood. It appears that his family was neither poor, nor wealthy, and young Walter did spend one year (no more) at Oxford, until his wanderlust got the better of him.

England was, of course, Protestant, but not for that long, and Catholic-Protestant hatred was at a high point. When the French Protestants, the Huguenots and the Catholic majority were at war with each other, England backed the Huguenots, and the sons of England went to prove themselves in battle. Walter Raleigh was one of these young men.

He later wrote of himself in battle; there is no corroboration, but no reason to doubt his account, either. The time he spent in France was very important in his development. He developed self-confidence, a degree of intellectual maturity, respect for talented and charismatic leadership, and knowledge of how wars are, and could be, won and lost.

Raleigh was away from England five years. He was not that long a soldier, and it is not clear what else he did during that period, but he came back to London and enrolled at the Inns of Court, but apparently with no intention to complete the studies and activities needed to be elevated to the bar. It was here, however, that he developed his social skills, his reputation as a bon vivant and racanteur.

He also became close to his older half-brother, Humphrey Gilbert (his mother's son by an earlier marriage), who had gained a reputation for audacity and courage and who was sent by Queen Elizabeth (how he gained the queen's favor, I do not know) to help English troops in Holland withstand attacks by French and Spanish Catholics. Walter went with them; the mission was a disaster.

But now Walter was ready to aim for bigger things. The first of his many projects was to locate the Northwest Passage, through the New World to China, going with two of his brothers. Again, failure and, worse, a sea battle with a Spanish warship. The glory went to rival, Francis Drake, who sailed to the orient and back.

Raleigh now decided to try his luck in the wilds of Ireland (England was trying to pacify the Emerald Isle and its Catholic population, and the Irish were objecting; not much has changed, has it?). Attempts at colonization; brutal battles.

Having enough of Ireland, he, along with brother Gilbert, now decided to colonize the New World, and it is here that the colony at Roanoke was started, amongst great hope, and attempts at good relationships with the Indians, the goal being to become the favorite colonizers of the western hemisphere by avoiding the brutality of the Spaniards. But the colony was not successful, weather problems, crop failures, and an Indian policy that did not quite succeed. Gilbert and most of their ships were lost.

But meanwhile, Walter had met the queen. Queen Elizabeth, apparently truly the Virgin Queen (hence "Virginia") had a series of young, dashing favorites, one at a time. Now it was Walter's turn, and he and queen became inseparable. According to the authors, what made Raleigh different from the queen's previous favorites was his intellect, his ability to speak on such a wide variety of subjects, to be able to talk about warfare, religious conflict (although he himself does not appear devout), Ireland, and America.

While spending time with the Queen, Walter (not yet "sir") began to write poetry, and some of it apparently not bad, although perhaps not as good as the writings of two his close friends, Edmund Spenser and Christopher Marlowe. He became interested in religion as a study, and in the sciences, as they then were.

To allow him to increase his wealth, Elizabeth gave him a wine monopoly over a portion of the country, and then put him in charge of the tin mines. He was knighted. He was put in charge of the revenues of Cornwall. He was made a member of the elite Privy Council. He dressed in the best of style. He began to make enemies.

He then turned his attention back to military affairs. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that, while England could never hope to raise armies of the size and strength of those exisiting on the continent, it could create a navy that would control the seas. Raleigh helped create that navy, not only in encouraging increasing ship building, but in helping design new kinds of ships, for new kinds of battle. The defeat of the Spanish Armada, though not a battle in which Raleigh himself took an active role (Elizabeth did not want her favorites in harm's way), his development of naval stores and naval theory was crucial.

Throughout all these years, the English navy, the pacification and colonization of Ireland, the colonization of the New World and the search for the wealth of the world, all remained activities in which he, sometimes simultaneously, devoted great energy, and a large part of his new found wealth.

But eventually, Elizabeth tired of him as favorite and turned her attention elsewhere, particularly to the Earl of Essex, Robert Devereux, who became Raleigh's rival in so many ways.

Raleigh's relationship with one of the queen's ladies in waiting resulted in a pregnancy, and not surprising knowing Raleigh's sense of devotion and duty, a marriage. In fact, the marriage was apparently very strong, and lasted his entire life. They dared not tell the queen, for fear it would estrange her from him more, and clearly his livelihood depended on continued good relationships. But, through Essex she found out and had Raleigh imprisoned in the Tower of London. He was later released, when the queen decided that a certain job of protecting the cargo of a Portuguese treasure ship was pulled into an English port.

More attempts at colonization, this time heading further south, to Guiana, looking for gold in the jungles of South America. Failure one more time, but extraordinary adventure along the way, for a man no longer young.

Then again fighting with Spain and Portugal, bringing the Spanish empire to its end as a power. Decisions of strategy being made, now by Raleigh, now by Essex, now by the entire council the queen had appointed, of which the two were members. Raleigh appears by now to have developed the reputation of an adventurer, who has had too many failures, and thus the failures of these battles, when they occurred, were laid to him. Both Essex and Raleigh commanded ships. Their relationship was contorted, however, because Essex was in charge of the fleet in battle, but Raleigh ranked higher in overall control of Naval affairs.

Throughout most of this time, Sir Walter was also a member of Parliament, and the authors give a good account of his achievements, in policy and oratory, there. He became expert in economic policy, and respected in that field, as well as becoming an authority on the treatment of religious dissidents.

With the death of the childless Elizabeth imminent, succession became the question of the day, with a number of possibilities. Essex became mentally unbalanced, was accused of treason, tried, convicted and hanged. King James, the relatively weak successor to Elizabeth, was also convinced that Raleigh was a danger, had him arrested and again put in the Tower of London.
This time he stayed there 25 years.

But, while there, he developed a business of harvesting herbs from the New World, experimenting with them, drying them, and having them sold for medicinal use. Like the Birdman of Alcatraz, he had his own business within the walls of the prison.

At the same time, in addition to continuing to write poetry and short articles on all kinds of subjects (you know he would have had a blog if they let him have a computer), he became his ambitious multi-volume history of the world. And, because of his charm, he became the confident of King James' wife, Queen Anne (of Danish royalty) and their son, the crown prince. It was to Prince Henry that his history was dedicated.

Tragedy struck, and the Prince (in spite of the use of Raleigh's medicinal herbs) died. The Queen (and, I am sure, the King) were heartbroken, as was Raleigh, who looked upon himself as a surrogate father to the young man.

King James' kingdom was in terrible financial straights, and it was decided that Raleigh could be let out of the Tower, for the sole purpose of leading another expedition to Guiana to locate Spanish gold. Raleigh assumed that success would bring him freedom.

Of course the attempt, again, was a failure. Worse than that, Sir Walter's son, young Walter, a sailor on the expedition was killed.

When Raleigh got back to England, time had run out. The full sentence had to be carried out, and Sir Walter Raleigh died of hanging. You would think that this would not have been the end of such an illustrious career, but it seems par for the course in those days (and we are not talkng so very long ago).

Everything he did was not a success, as we see, but he did so very much, that there is no question that he was a human being of super human capacity. How could one person do so much in so many different fields in so many different places, at a time when everything conspired against him, and he spent 25+ years in the Tower of London? It seems uncanny. And I thought all he did was put his coat down (unnecessarily) to gain the favor of the Queen.

I Would Be More Normal, If.....

1. I hadn't lived for the first 5 years of my life in a house with seven adults and me.

2. My parents had let me sleep over and friends' houses, or let friends sleep at mine.

3. Earl cut my hair, rather than Ralph.

4. I could wear Red Goose or Poll Parrot or Buster Brown shoes, and not Kalithenics which were (as it turned out not) better for my feet.

5. I was allowed to stay up beyond 8:00 sometimes.

6. I was trained to be a Cardinals fan, and not a Browns fan.

7. We had hash brown potatoes at my house, like everyone else did.

8. I had learned to ride a bicycle before 4th grade.

9. I wasn't the only kid I knew who went to my dentist.

10. I wasn't the only kid I knew who went to my doctor.

11. I didn't live at the very edge of my elementary school district, so that all myhome friends went to another school.

12. I liked hamburgers.

13. I had a chance to have a milk shake, at least once.

14. I had as many comic books as most of my friends.

First Flight: Washington DC 1959

Only a year after my first road trip, I had the chance to go on my first flight. It was my high school's junior trip to Washington DC. In fact, in previous years, the trip had been by bus, and had gone both to Washington and New York City. But for some reason, this year, it was decided to drop New York (obviously that did not make me very happy), and to go by air (which both excited and frightened me).

We left on two TWA chartered planes. Of course, they weren't jets. There were no passenger jets in 1959. I believe that the planes were what was called "constellations". They were full sized, and at the tail had a short horizontal piece with a vertical piece on each end. They had four propellered engines, two on each wing (obviously).

You would think I would remember something about the flight, which I don't. In fact, my memories of the entire trip, as important as it was to me and even though I have a number of photos from it, are relatively meager. And, there are important things I don't remember, and meaningless things that I do.

Here goes:

First, I had a good time. I think we all had a lot of fun and, though we were shepherded everywhere, felt much more free than we did in suburban St. Louis. Of course for me, this was my first time in Washington (second real trip in my life), and I think this was the case for most of us.

Second, we stayed in two hotels on 16th Street, near Meridian Hill Park. Both are now apartments or condominiums, I believe, although one of them I cannot identify. The girls stayed in a hotel that was an all-women's hotel; we stayed a block away and across the street. By and large, we kept to our assigned quarters, although there were rumors (never verified) of unauthorized, after hours, through the windows visits. I know which building the girls stayed in, but none of the buildings in that location look like where we stayed. I have tried many times to figure it out.

I did not go into Meridian Hill Park. I assume we were told not to, but am not sure about that. We certainly did roam the neighborhood a bit, particularly around Crescent Place, which still had the "castle", an old house built by a 19th century Missouri senator and now the location of all of those townhouses on the west side of 16th Street across from the park. In addition, Eugene Meyer, the publisher of the Washington Post (and father of Katherine Graham), lived in a big house on that small street. So, as a neighborhood, it made for interesting exploration.

In addition to the government buildings, I was most impressed by three things. One was the tunnels. We went under the Scott Circle tunnel every day, and also went under DuPont Circle. St. Louis had no tunnels. They were a marvel. Another was what appeared to be ubiquotous black Cadillac limousines. I "knew" that they took diplomats from place to place, and were a sign that I was really in an important place. In fact, I have no idea what those Cadillacs were. I did not imagine them, but when I returned to Washington the next time (4 years later) they weren't there, and they have never re-appeared. Third, the Potomac. Comparing the Potomac to the Mississippi at St. Louis, they are so different that it is hard to realize they are both made of water.

It was very hot (not like spring 2005) and I did not like that. Even though I was used to St. Louis summers, I figured that if April was as hot as it was (in the 80s), Washington in the summer must be in the upper 100s, and not the place to be. The heat was especially oppressive, as I remember, on the Mall. And, as to the Mall, I thought it very unattractive and an extraordinary waste of space. Why did people always talk about the Mall, I asked?

Most of the things we saw did not mean much to 16 year old Arthur, whose knowledge base lacked depth or sophistication. I know I went in the Smithsonian museums (of course, Air and Space was not there yet; I am trying to remember if American History was there or not and can't. I gotta look that up.), but think that they left me cold, except that somehow we were in the Natural History Museum where they keep the insects, and someone who worked there showed by all of the drawers were there were dead bugs, and I realized that they had millions of dead bugs, all identified, formaldehyded, and stuck with stick pins in little box-like enclosures, and I knew that if they had all those bugs hidden away, they must have other things as well.

We went to the National Gallery (East Wing of course not built) and what really impressed me was the diaphonous painting of Salvador Dali's "Last Supper". I thought that was the greatest painting ever made, stared and stared at it to try to figure out how you paint something that is transparent, yet apparent. I even bought a print of it, feeling somehow that I needed to tell people that my attraction was artistic, and not religious.

On our way to Mt. Vernon down the Parkway on a beautiful day (on probably the prettiest drive I had ever been on), we suddenly heard sirens. Our first thought was that we were being pulled over by the police, but quickly we saw one of those black limousines, with flags in front, and various police escorts heading down the road at enormous speed. We were impressed, but couldn't figure if out, but when we got to Mt. Vernon, we saw that we were not the only ones there. King Hussein of Jordan (newly crowned) had decided to meet us there. We saw him, which was exciting, but there was a downside. They closed the house, and we could only see Mt. Vernon from outside.

[The juniors from Clayton High School, our neighbor and rival, took their trip a few weeks later, and chanced upon the visiting Fidel Castro, during that very brief period when he was persona grata, and talked with him, got their pictures taken and so forth. Hussein was not as forthcoming.]

On our last evening in Washington, we had our "banquet" at the Shoreham Hotel and, wouldn't you know it, the Jordanians (minus royalty) were there again. This time, a number of us did talk to some members of the king's entourage. One of the Jordanians seemed particularly attracted to one of the girls in our class (today that seems a bit far-fetched, since she was only 16, but.....), and spent a large part of the evening in deep conversation with her. Of course, he did not know that her (quite wealthy) father was the national chair that year of Israel Bonds.

I am sure we did more, but it is all a blur. I know we went to the Capitol, I think we got to have our two minutes in the House of Representatives gallery, I know we went up the Washington monument, and I remember a rather uninteresting White House tour (haven't been back there since). But I have no detailed memories.

The flight back was more memorable than the flight there. In part, this is because we flew back after dark, which upped the fear factor quite a bit. I was also amazed that there was a fair amount of smooching on the plane (and some of the couplings were unexpected) and the faculty advisors completely ignored it. The lights on the flight were turned off.

That's it. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. They might trigger some long repressed memories.

Automobiles: A Personal History

Starting today, and working backwards, I have had a:

BMW
Volvo
Acura
Acura
Subaru
Subaru
Pontiac Firebird
VW Beatle

My wife has had a :

Volvo
Volvo
Volvo
Volvo
Volvo

My father, in 60 years of driving, had a:

Buick
Buick
Chevrolet
Chevrolet

My wife's father had a

Mercury
Mercury
Mercury
Mercury
Mercury
Mercury

Who said genetics don't count?

The New Nickel

Just got my first one.

It looks very nice, as long as you don't think about what it says:

1. Thomas Jefferson, the Deist, is next to the slogan 'In God We Trust", something a Deist would have no reason to think about, one way or the other.

2. The buffalo, who formerly numbered millions and millions, and then was hunted almost to extinction, is next to the slogan 'E Pluribus Unum', or 'from many, one'.

Government planning at its best?

My First Road Trip

We never traveled when I was young. I never quite understood why, but we never went anywhere. Friends traveled with their parents to places like Florida, California, Michigan and the Rocky Mountains, but we never went anywhere. In fact, until I was 15, the only times I had ever been out of St. Louis were on occasional (I remember two) daytrips to see my aunt and uncle in Centralia, Illinois (75 miles of flat cornfields to the east), an overnight with my father to Jefferson City, Missouri, to see him argue before the Missouri Supreme Court (I thought the justices were very impolite to him, asking all those probing questions), and during the summers when I attened Wiggins Ozark Camp (you're kidding, you did, too?) in Lesterville, Missouri (Lesterville being about half way between Ironton and the Johnson Shut-Ins State Park).

But sometime during the winter of 1957-8, my parents told me that we were going to take a road trip during my spring vacation. That we were going to spend five nights, or so, at the Edgewater Gulf Hotel, in Edgewater Gulf, Mississippi!!

Where????

So, it wasn't the Rockies, and it wasn't California, and it wasn't even Florida, but at least it was a trip.

Here is how it went.

My mother, my father, my sister (she was 10 when I was 15) and my maternal grandmother piled in the 1957 Ford station wagon, and headed off. I was unbelievingly excited. I was actually going somewhere. Something I had never done before, and something that I wanted to do more than anything else.

We drove south on US Highway 61. Now Highway 61 is part of the Great River Road, and his broad and fast. Then, it was two lanes, and simply a quiet country road, through flat, non-descript country, geographically (but not visably) near the Mississippi River.

We left the road in St. Genevieve to see the oldest buildings in the state of Missouri in this former French colonial outpost. I was excited when we entered Ste. Genevieve (knowing me, I was the reason we made the stop), but I was very disappointed at the unattractive town that is was. (Since then, I believe that a number of the buildings have been restored, and maybe it is something of a tourist site. More important than that, it is home town of Rush Limbaugh. Or is Limbaugh from Cape Girardeau, a little further down the road? Or does anyone care? Does even Limbaugh care? I don't care, I know that.)

Eventually (boy it took a long time), we entered Arkansas. Since I had only been in Missouri and on one road in Illinois, entering Arkansas was like penetrating Bhutan. I don't remember anything very noteworthy in the northeast corner of that state (in fact, the lack of anything noteworthy was itself somewhat noteworthy, so does that mean that there was something noteworthy, or not?), except that immediately upon crossing the state line, the surface of the road was a reddish brown, rather than a light concrete color. I think there were also "colored people" (that's what they were called then, in polite society) selling peaches by the side of the road, and that we bought some. That could, however, been on later trips, because eventually, I did go to a lot of places, and a lot of the same places a lot. There were also a lot of unapinted wooden shacks. I was told that they belonged to "sharecroppers". Not wanting to appear stupid, I didn't ask what that meant. Not wanting to appear stupid, I bet the others in the car were just as happy that I didn't ask.

Our first night goal was Memphis, where we had relatives. This, I was really looking forward to, because, as you now can see, I had never, ever been in another city before.

I remember crossing the Mississippi from West Memphis, Arkansas, into Memphis. West Memphis was less than a spot on the map then, but Memphis was a real city. It looked like St. Louis, but didn't look at all like St. Louis, if you know what I mean.

Memphis was not as big as St. Louis, and had few tall downtown buildings (remember, this was 1958), but had a real downtown. I remember that on the main shopping street downtown (I want to call it Main Street, but this may be wrong), all the stores had Jewish names. I don't mean some of the store, or a few of the stores, or even most of the stores. It seemed to me, it was all of the stores.

Then I remember we found Poplar Street, and headed east to my mother's cousins house, a very nice, ranch-style house in a subdivision called something like Hedgemoor, or Heathrow, or something like that. It was clearly a very nice part of town. And my cousins' house (which I was in a number of times in succeeding years), although relatively new (I think) was already the stuff of legend in my family because it had a wall in the master bedroom, from which you could turn on any light anywhere in the house, and maybe open the garage door, and maybe do other things as well. At least, this was the legend. Facts, I do not remember.

My sister and I and my grandmother were going to spend the night at our cousins' house, while my parents were going to spend the night with my mother's aunt (grandmother's sister) and uncle.

The evening was very eventful, although I can only speak for my parents and myself, not my sister or grandmother.

I went with my cousin and her date (boyfriend?) and a friend of my cousin who became my date to a party at a "roadhouse" out in the country. I remember we picked up my date (someone in the crowd was 16, although my cousin is two years younger than me, and must have been just 13 or 14!) on Walnut Grove Avenue, or something like that, and drove out of town to this road house where there were all these kids talking, dancing and drinking!! I never went to parties like this in St. Louis. I couldn't believe it. How could all of their parents let their kids do this? Did it happen all the time? Did they know what went on in road houses? Was this the difference between the south and the midwest? This was really something.

(On a sad note, I remember one young boy, maybe my age, sort of short and outspoken, who I thought was more out of control than even the others. I learned a year or so later, that he was killed in an automobile accident. It didn't surprise me, but I thought that maybe I should have said something and it could have been prevented.)

(On a less sad but equally interesting note, my cousin tells me that she does not even remember this party, or maybe only slightly, and that she had a vague memory that there were roadhouses around, but if the party is as I described, it was clearly a one of a kind event. For me, it was astounding.) [Hopefully, she will read this article and add her recollections]

My parents' night was eventful in a different way. My father apparently did not like to stay with relatives. I did not know that, of course, because he didn't go anywhere, but it was true, so staying with my mother's aunt and uncle was a real concession on his part. My great aunt and uncle had a one bedroom apartment. They also had a sleep sofa in the living room. Their plan was to give my parents their bedroom, and they would sleep in the living room. My father would agree to know such thing (of course, had it been the other way around, my father would have been the first to give up his room for them), and said that he refused to sleep in their bedroom.

Apparently, they almost came to blows and argued until 3:00 a.m. I think my aunt and uncle gave up, and my parents took the couch. I was mortified the next morning when I was told of this. (I do not think there was any lasting bad feeling between them.)

So, the next morning, we headed south into Mississippi. I remember my mother being very careful where we ate, and where we went to the bathroom. She was convinced that most places were beneath her sanitary standards. She would only eat at restaurants connected to motels with swimming pools.

Mississippi was clearly very poor. (It was also very segregated, but then again so was St. Louis, so I didn't really notice a difference there. This is just the way it was. It never occurred to me that this made no sense.) I remember driving through Granada (and being surprised it was pronounced Granayda) and thinking that it looked like a very nice place with a lot of white buildings. I remember Canton, Mississippi (it was the hometown of my father's brother-in-law, who lived in Dallas, but I am not sure we knew that as we went through it) with its collonaded and arcaded town square surrounding its courthouse. And then, I remember, the road, for the first time the entire trip, about 20 miles north of Jackson becoming a divided four lane highway (reminded me of Highway 40 in St. Louis, the only road like that I knew), and how the highway actually traversed ground that wasn't totally flat, and that it had some new large buildings along the way (I don't remember any new, large buildings in Memphis). I decided I liked Jackson.

(Interesting, I still like Jackson, and Canton is still largely like it was around the town square, as my wife and I visited there a few years ago. Granada I have not seen since 1958.)

The Edgewater Gulf Hotel was a sister hotel of the Edgewater Beach in Chicago (where of course I had never been). It was a large old-fashioned resort that even then had seen better days (it has now been torn down). It was situated across U.S. 2 from the beach about halfway between Biloxi and Gulfport. They had tennis courts, swimming pools, badminton, shuffleboard, children's activities, teenage activities, etc. Except for the pool and beach, I ignored them all.

I am not sure how we spent our time down there, except I remember going to Gulfport and seeing more modern hotels/motels than I had ever seen anywhere, and Biloxi, which did not have the same resort appeal. I was very jealous of the people staying in the modern Gulfport hotels and thought we were really stuck out in the boonies, which we were.

It turned out that there were two girls in my class who were also on the Mississippi Gulf Coast for spring break. Who would have guessed. We ran into one in Gulfport. The other, actually a good friend, was also at the Edgewater Gulf. I forget if we knew they were going to be there; we probably did.

We took my friend out to dinner one night to a seafood restaurant on a cove somewhere away from the beach. I had never been to a restaurant like that before, so that was exotic. The food was good, but the highlight was when the lobster fell off the waiters tray and landed on my classmate's lap.

We also (maybe with my friend's family) took a boat to Ship Island, where we spent the day on the beach collecting very interesting shells. We went and saw something called Bellingrath Gardens (if I remember that right, I deserve a prize). And we saw Jefferson Davis' retirement home, and the creek and bench where he would spend his time thinking about the country that no longer was.

Another highlight was driving to New Orleans for dinner. (I think it was about a 2 and one half hour drive, so it was late when we got back.) We spent a lot of time in the French Quarter. I think it was a Sunday. We were in Pirate's Alley looking at the artists' display (another first for Arthur), when we ran into the mother of a third high school friend. She told us that she had driven down to New Orleans for a few days from St. Louis by herself. My parents thought this odd. I thought it neat. They were probably more right than I was. Shortly after her trip, she shot and killed herself at home. Her daughter (who disappeared eventually from school) was never the same (again, that is my memory).

We ate at Antoine's. My father hated it. "If there was a restautrant this old and moldy in St. Louis, the health department would shut it down." Right.

While on the Gulf Coast, we also saw the brother of my uncle from Canton, who owned a drug store in Biloxi, and the divorced wife of my grandmother's brother. She lived in Ocean Springs (is that the name of one of those towns?).

On the way back north, we stopped for lunch in Meridian, because there was some very famous restaurant there. I thought a diversion for a restaurant was crazy, but remember that I thought the food very good.

I was looking forward to going back to Memphis and seeing family again, but my father announced that, instead, he had always wanted to see Jackson, Tennessee, which is about 50 (100?) miles east of Memphis. No one had ever wanted to see Jackson, Tennessee (and we saw why) and it was clearly out of the way, but my father did not want to get into another couch-bed dispute. That much was clear. My mother and grandmother were very disappointed.

We drove back up on the Illinois side of the river, going through Metropolis (no superman there) and Chester, and crossed somewhere south of St. Louis where we could hook up back to Highway 61.

That was our trip, as I recall. Thanks for reading.