Africa and African-Americans

I started at the Museum of African Art, a very tasteful underground museum on the D.C. mall, wanting to see a showing of art of the Urhobo tribe of Nigeria. Not surprisingly, the museum was not crowded today, so I got to spend about 45 minutes looking at the four galleries which comprise this recently opened display.

Not that I had any idea who the Urhobos are. In fact, I still don't, and if there is anything I would fault the exhibit on, is that it really did not tell you very much about the Urhobos, at all. There is a study room at the end of the exhibit, in which there is a small book case with a number of books on the Urhobo and a copy of the exhibit catalog, prepared by the Museum of the American Indian in New York in 2002.

From the books, I learned that the Urhobos are one of the tribes found on the Niger River, near where it flows into the Atlantic, and that they were one of the last tribes to be studied by the Europeans, with no real attention paid them until, maybe 1930. That is all I learned. Had I wanted to really learn more, I could have paid more attention to the computer in the study room, which was locked on the website of the Urhobo Historical Society, and which contained a large number of scholarl papers, but no user-friendly information.

Most of what was on display was wood. The only metal was a group of copper bells, which were apparently found where the Urhobo live, but which are not connected otherwise to Urhobo art. That is all they said about the bells.

There were ancestor-totem poles. There were "male aggression" statutes (generally a fierce looking man in a rigid pose, standing within some sort of animal (not really riding it, but more like the man and the animal, and the objects held in the man's hand, were one thing). The male aggression statutes (deemed to give courage and ward off evil) were of all sizes, as were the ancestor or family figures that apparently adorn Urhobo houses. There were statutes of young brides, nursing mothers and old wise women. There was a boat with passengers, making the journey from life to death.

None of these items were dated; I don't know if they were 50 years old, or 500. There were a number of videos showing Urhobo customs (the curator was the director of the videos). They were interesting (welcome dancing, young girls dancing, the celebration of young brides), but it was not clear to me if they were showing contemporary custom, or simply traditional custom.

Interspersed within the exhibit were several contemporary graphics by Bruce Onobrakpeya, an Urhobo artist. They were just fine.

Outside the African Art Museum, still underground in the passageway to the Ripley Center, were 25 black and white photos taken in South Africa in the 1930s by Constance Stuart Larrabee, who apparently now lives in Chestertown, MD. Her 5000 South African photos (taken before she emigrated from there) were donated to the Museum. If these 25 are representative, I would like to see all 5000.

Finally, within the Ripley Center itself, there is a unique exhibit that I want to look at again. 91 (by my count) full size movie posters advertising films with "colored" casts, in an exhibit called "Close Up in Black". They are artistic, varied, and fascinating. I certainly have not seen very many of the movies, and was surprised at the number of older ones and the breadth of their subject matter.

For a change, I caught these exhibits early rather than late. Plenty of time. But hurry.

No one speaks English

in Washington any more. I was out for about an hour today, and heard more Spanish than anything else, followed by a number of African and Asian languages, along with occasional French. If I needed directions, I do not know whom I would ask.

In August, I am going to Europe. Looking forward to it. There, everyone speaks English.

Speaking of Challah

When I was young, we had homemade challah every Friday night. It was not baked in my home, but in the home of my grandfather's aunt (my great, great aunt) Gitel.

Gitel was a small old woman, who wore hear hair (actually a wig) under a hair net, and spoke with a heavy Yiddish accent. So heavy, that you never really knew what she was saying, but you didn't care, because it probably wasn't very important and, besides, her role was to create the Friday night challah, not to discuss the news of the day.

She lived with her husband David (pronounced 'Doovid', and known as Fetter Duvid) and her daughter Myrtle and Myrtle's husband Oscar, who owned the Happy Hollow Liquor Store, which even as a five year old I knew was a ridiculous name for a store.

The challah (which I can still taste) was 50% flour and 50% sugar, with a few eggs thrown in for good measure. There used to be arguments as to whether challah was a type of bread, or a type of cake. Those who knew Gitel's challah would always take the cake side.

My father would pick the bread up for the entire family on Friday evening on his way home form work (Gitel lived only about two blocks from us). In addition to the large loaf that our family got, I (and every other under-13 year old male in the family) got my own small private loaf. [This was a clear tradition for Gitel. Whether or not, other young Jewish boys got their own private challah, I do not (and did not ever) know; this was not a subject of general discussion.]

After Gitel died and the bread stopped coming, my mind goes blank as to what would happen on Friday nights. I think we may have stopped having challah, and that we may have switched to Sunday morning bagels instead.

In St. Louis, the white flour pastry and bread capital of the world, this would be an easy switch. Bagels were so plentiful they grew on trees. So did challahs, but they tasted a lot like Uptown Bakeries' challas. Who wanted that?

Marvelous Market

ain't so marvelous anymore.

This Washington DC chain had always been primarily a bakery, with add-ons (like premium canned goods, non-alcoholic drinks, and ready made sandwiches and salads) added on in increasing variety over the years.

The breads were high quality (even if too many of them were sour dough based for my taste), and the market was especially busy on Fridays, because that was the only day they sold their plain, poppy, sesame and fruit challas, which were of extremely high quality.

Last year or so, the chain was sold, but nothing much changed. A month or so ago, however, the new management made its presence felt by announcing that they had closed their bakery, and were now going to buy their baked goods from Uptown Bakeries, a local bakery that services many venues around town. This meant a different variety of breads, and a different variety of pastries in general. It also meant that Marvelous Market was no longer unique.

Uptown also makes Friday challas, although only in two varieties (plain and sesame-poppy), but the quality, while not low, is not extremely high.

Because there are no other convenient quality challah outlets, our Friday night table is very different now. In fact, without high quality challah on Friday night, is there any reason to remain Jewish any more?

That got me thinking. Judaism clearly could not have lasted as long as it did if matzah was a 52-week a year requirement; this is why the sages limited it to just eight days. The Catholics lost a lot of meat eaters in the 1950s, so they had to abolish meatless Friday nights, and many Catholics, during Lent, give up things now like pepperoni ice cream, or cold cream of turnip soup. And think of all the fallen away Catholics, who just could not take one more Sunday morning wafer.

Food is clearly important to religion, which got me thinking.........

Many formerly mainstream religious denominations have complained about loss of membership in recent years. Conservative Judaism is one of these denominations, and they keep looking for ways to bring families back into the fold.

I think I have a way. I think that Conservative Judiasm should require that all Friday night dinners end with peach pie and vanilla ice cream.

Take that, you Orthodox.

So?

So, I was in Leesburg and needed a haircut. I passed a shopping center, and saw that one of the stores said 'Barber Shop' over the door. I went in, and was beckoned to by a woman, who appeared to be (and in fact was) Korean. She was, I would guess in her late 50s (I can say that without fear of offending her, since she said to me: "So are you retired?"), and has been in this country for 30 years, although she still speaks halting English (I am sure that, after 30 years in Korea, my Korean would be at least as halting)..

She asked me where my office was, and I told her, and she said that her husband had a restaurant a block from me, and I asked her what is was and she said "Soho". Soho is a small chain of buffet lunch spots, where you can, for about $5 a pound, by your lunch. The one near me, at the Farragut metro stop, I frequent quite a bit (frequent frequently). It has two hot buffet trays with about 10 choices each, one equally large cold buffet tray, a Mongolian barbecue, a sushi bar, a salad bar, drinks, desserts and a full deli counter where you can have a sandwich made. And the food is very passable.

It struck me as odd that her husband would be an owner of this obviously successful venture (she said that he owned Soho with their two, I think it was two, nephews), and she was still cutting hair, but perhaps she enjoyed keeping busy (or perhaps it was her shop).

At any rate, I told her the next time, I was at Soho, I would look up her husband. "What is his name", I said. And she answered "So".

Oman at the Smithsonian Folk Festival

So, I went to the Folk Festival Saturday afternoon and spent a cacaphonous hour or so in the Oman music tent.

Before the blare of the discordant brass instruments, I witnessed two lines of bearded men, dressed in white robes with white and red headgear, do slow rhythmic line dances while chanting sonorous fugue-like "poetry" [that is what the narrator called it] which swelled and fell like a wave at a football game.

The music was oddly familiar, and it didn't take long for me to recognize the relationship between this Omani chant and Hassidic nigunim, and to re-dress the two lines of men in black, not white.

So there you have it, I realized.

We Jews are just another Arab tribe.

All Setters Are Not Irish

But are all poodles French?

Just wondering.

Dry Cleaners

There seem to be two types of dry cleaners in Washington these days. There are the old fashioned dry cleaners, which are now all owned by Koreans, and which charge about $5 for the average piece of dry cleaning and take about 4 days to get your clothes done. And there are the "Zips" and "Dry Clean Depots", which charge less than $2 for each piece of dry cleaning, and have everything ready for you within 8 hours.

At $5 per item, dry cleaning is very expensive, which is why I left my friendly Korean dry cleaners, with easy parking, for Zips, with its Salvadorean staff, and convaluted parking lot. I pay less than half what I used to pay for dry cleaning.

In the window of a Korean dry cleaner, I saw a sign recently that said: "Only those who work in the $1.99 cleaning establishments know how inferior their work is."

I think that must be a correct statement. I sure cannot tell.

Book Review: "The Cardinal in the Chancery...."

This is a book that no one reads. It was published by Vantage Press, a vanity publisher, who will publish anything you write if you pay them to do it. Alfred Puhan, the author, is a retired U.S. Foreign Service officer whose last assignment was as Ambassador to Hungary in the late 1960s. The prose is not inspired.

Having said that, there are interesting parts of it, and in particular, the following:

1. Puhan was born in East Prussia (now Poland, near Gdansk) and lived there until he was twelve. His description of life in an East Prussian village in the early 1920s is interesting, as is his adolescence in Sandwich, Illinois, a farming community where his uncle had moved and prospered. His post-Sandwich life at Oberlin College, Columbia graduate school, as a budding academic, and employee of Voice of America were less interesting.

2. His posting in Austria during the time period when the four occupying powers reached an agreement for an independent Austria was interesting, although he was not at the highest level. But his explanation of the workings of the representatives of the USSR, USA, Britain and France in the only occupied country to emerge unified, and not communistic was interesting.

3. His posting in Thailand was interesting only to him, but when he was posted back in Washington and became the State Department's Germany expert was fascinating as he was growing in influence and coming into contact with American foreign policy big-wigs as well as European leaders.

4. This culminated in his years in Hungary as ambassador, during the time that Janos Kadar was liberalizing this communist country, and during the final years when Cardinal Mindszenty, who had been living in the American embassy in Budapest since 1956. Puhan negotiated the departure of the Cardina in 1971, and the description of those involved in these conversations was worth the price I paid for the book ($2). I recall when Mindszenty was living in the embassy, but only through this book learned what a difficult guest he was, avoiding socializing with the Americans or anyone else for the fifteen years he was our guest. Puhan reports that the Cardinal's gratitude for the sanctuary was offset by his detestation of Woodrow Wilson, on whom he put the blame of all of Hungary's troubles following World War II.

One more thing. Puhan dedicates the book to his grandchildren, so he will leave them his legacy. But, throughout the book, maybe he mentions his grandchildren once and his two children no more than twice. He does talk about their mother, Fairfax (whom he calls Fair), and in particular their courtship. As time went by, though, his comments about his wife (who seemed always to be with him) were limited to "my marriage continued to fall apart". Finally, at the age of 64, and after 31 years of marriage, he determines to divorce his wife (he had no choice, he said), much to her consternation, and to marry (on the day his divorce becomes final) his Budapest embassy secretary. After he retires from the Foreign Service, he and his new wife retire to Sarasota, where they (apparently) lived happily ever after. Sort of weird.

Was this book worth reading? Yeah.

But was it worth a blog book review? Probably not.

The Frick and the Freer

For those of you who confuse the Frick and the Freer, here are a couple of hints.

The Frick is in New York and the Freer is in Washington.

Tickets to the Frick are not expensive, but tickets to the Freer are freer.

Whistler and the Freer

In addition to the Asian art collection, the Freer has an American art collection, devoted largely to the paintings of Whistler and Dewing. Of the two, the Whistlers seem the weaker to me..... but what do I know? I get the same feeling of "not quite finished" that I got when I saw the Berthe Morrisot exhibit at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, reported earlier on this very same blog.

I am referring to the later Whistler pictures with the quasi-Japanese motifs. I like the motifs, and I like the paintings, but why (for example) didn't he put faces on the faces? Know what I mean?

Then, there is the Peacock Room, the dark green and gold room that was moved here from England by Mr. Freer. I really like the Peacock Room. I would like one of my own.

Whistler clearly could paint with more polish than his later, orientalish paintings. Think of his mother, hanging by herself (i.e., away from the family) in the Louvre. There is one portrait here of equal quality, although larger (more than life size), a full portrait, head to toe (or more precisely head to shoes) of Mr. Leyland, the English industrialist who not only bankrolled Mr. Whistler for a good part of his career, but also was the original owner of the Peacock Room, in merry olde Liverpool. This painting is correctly identified by the museum as in the style of the earlier Spanish portraitists, and most specifically Zuburan.

At any event, we know about Whistler's mother, but how many of know about Whistler's father, or about the fact that once I said to myself (and to my wife): I want to write a book called "Whistler's Father", a biography. But, as Ecclesiastes said (and as was repeated in the old Oxydol commercials), there is nothing new under the sun, and I discovered the book has been written.

But you should know about him. Whistler's father started adult life as a surveyor, helping to map out the Northwest Territories (now known as Ohio), and then went to work for a Boston railroad, designing the first railway bridges that connected New England, through the Berkshire, to the west. The bridges are still around, but no longer in use, and generally available for view only by intrepid Western Mass. hikers.

But he was so good at this that he was hired by the Tsar of Russia (actually by the Tsar of All the Russias), Alexander the (probably) II, although perhaps the III, to design and supervise the construction of the first railway linking St. Petersburg (later Petrograd, later Leningrad, later St. Petersburg) to Moscow (always Moscow or, more appropriately, Moskva). The entire family moved to Russia, which is where Whistler spent his formative years (before going to Florence to study), and where his father, still a young man, died on the job.

I do not think Whistler ever lived in the USA again. I think he spent most of his active life in England.

So, America, Russia, Italy, England, and then he hung his mother in France.

Read the book. It is called, as you already know, "Whistler's Father" and was written eons ago.

Ming at the Freer

Pre-20th century Eastern art is tough for me to appreciate, because there is such a difference in both time and culture. The Freer provides a good venue, however, in part because it is not overwhelming. There are a limited number of galleries, and none of the galleries are overcrowded. I only recently learned that this was Freer's plan, and that his will or trust setting up the musuem put strict limitations on what the museum could own, and what it could show.

The current Ming Dynasty exhibit at the Freer (it ends June 26) is extremely approachable, as it is all contained in one (large) gallery, and is laid out very spaciously. The historical information is hard to absorb (other than the Ming dynasty lasted for several hundred years, and therefore went through different phases under different rulers), but the selection of artistic works is impressive.

One point that is made is that, although the Ming dynasty is known now mostly for the blue and white ceramics, that this is not what was valued most during their rulership. Nevertheless, the ceramic bowls, plates, jars, and other vessels are very appealing. Most are in blue and white (that is what is available from the Freer collection), but some in other colors. There was also some cloisonne, and some lacquered and carved boxes, which were particularly prized. Other than these pieces, the exhibit focused on hangings of dragons, phoenixes and court scenes, all of which were very attractive. It was a relaxed exhibit.

Sorry you did not see it.

The Atomic Bomb

At a recent program sponsored by the Atomic Heritage Foundation, devoted to a new biography of J. Philip Oppenheimer, director of Los Alamos during the 1940s, I noted that the majority of well known scientists identified with the Manhattan Project and Los Alamos were Jewish: Oppenheimer, Szilard, Teller, Einstein and so forth.

Which to me raises the question as to whether or not the bomb would have been developed, or at least developed as rapidly as it was, had we not been facing a Nazi enemy with its strong anti-Jewish policies. Or, whether or not the cast of characters would have been different had the enemy been different.

Whether the motivations of the scientists have been studied in this manner, I do not know.

I have not read the Oppenheimer book, although Oppenheimer has fascinated me because of the many aspects of his personality. Perhaps one day.........

Book Review: "Riddle of the Reich"

"Riddle of the Reich" was published in 1941, and thus constitutes a contemporary study of Nazi Germany by an experienced American journalist, Wythe Williams. Because it was written in the middle of World War II when there was virtually no direct communication between Germany and the United States (although we were not yet in the war), much of what was written was based on individuals who had left Germany recently, statistics published by the Nazi state, and speculation.

Nevertheless, books like this are not only interesting, but valuable, and I have over the years read a number of them.

So much of what we learn and think about Nazi Germany is colored by the Nazi treatment of the Jews, it is important (without diminishing this fact of Nazi life) to recognize that there was a functioning society in Germany under Nazi rule, with some elements functioning better than others. You wonder what would have happened had Nazi Germany not been anti-Semitic (after all, for years Jews were prominent in Italian fascism) or over aggressive militarily. Or perhaps, the aggression and anti-Semitism was too ingrained in national socialism for it to be intellectually dismissed, even for "what-if" intellectualizing.

The war played havoc with Germany. Its industry and transport had to be modified to support the military, and even agricultural produce was devoted to feeding the military over the civilians. From the civilian perspective, this was stated to be a necessary step to victory which would usher in the 1000 year Reich. But it meant that Germany became hooked on military conquest, with conquered industrial facilities taken over to meet German needs in some instances, while in others, factories and materiel were actually transported into Germany to replenish German industry.

The book looked at the effect of Naziism on various classes of the German populace: the aristocracy, the capitalists, the workers, the middle classes, the Jews. It looked at the conflict between youth (the Germany of the future, and the most ardent supporters of Hitler) and older generations, as well as the position of the various churches (Protestant and Catholic).

The plan for the future subservience of the Eastern European slavs, as industrial fodder for the Reich, is outlined, as well as plans for the residents of France and the low countries as providers of foodstuffs.

And the relationship between Germany and Italy, Germany and Russia, and most interestingly Germany and Japan, where Williams finds social and political parallels in two countries which seem very dissimilar.

Williams is correct that Naziism was defeated, although he was not expecting Pearl Harbor or a two front war for the United States. And, I think he would be shocked at the nature of Germany today, and the democratic course this undemocratic society has followed.

Europe 1962 (Addition due to faulty memory)

How could I have forgotten the bus ride that D______ and I took from Chester to Bristol (where we changed buses)?

From the beginning, by the way the driver spoke to oncoming passengers, we could tell this guy was a bit weird.

Second, I remember that after we left Chester, he took off his cap and flung on the shelf about the seats on the driver side.

Third, I remember random comments he made as we went along.

When we got to Bristol, we drove all around the city, and around, and around. We began to see the same buildings a second and third time. Finally, he stopped the bus and turned around and asked if anyone knew where the bus station was, saying that he had never driven this route before. Luckily, an elderly lady was able to move to the front of the bus and guide him there without any difficulty.

As we were heading into the station, he told us that he had just been transferred to this route because he had decided not to stop at a small village on his other route, since no one ever got on there. Of course, the day he skipped the town, there was a family waiting for the bus, and he was lucky to still have a job.

(Until now, I had never considered that a bus could get lost. Now, it is one of my major concerns. Even when I am not on a bus. In fact, as I write this, I fear that there are buses lost all over the world.)

Which he was worried about because before he pulled into the station, he stopped the bus again, got up, walked back, and looked for his cap (which he said was "required wear"), which he couldn't find. "All right", he said, "who pinched my cap?" Luckily, he found it. Otherwise, we would still be on that bus in front of the station in Bristol.

Restaurant Reviews: Ri-Re and Jaleo

We went to two restaurants this week, located less than a block from each other in Bethesda.

Ri-Re (Irishy) and Jaleo (Spanish tapas) have a lot in common beside their location.

First, they are comparably priced. Second, they each have extensive menus, giving you a lot of choices. Third, they are comfortable. Fourth, it does not matter much what you order: they are both very consistent.

But there is one major difference. Jaleo is consistently excellent, while Ri-Re is (at best) consistently mediocre.

And I guess I should mention a second difference. Ri-Re has a greater variety of draft beers, while Jaleo appears to lead in types of sangria. As to the beers at Ri-Re, there seem to be at least 12 on draft (including Guiness, Murphy's and Harps), but the speciality on Saturday night ($2.50 was the quoted price) was Budweiser.

Excuse Me While I Go Take a Shower

So, I am driving in the countryside of southern New Jersey on my way to Absecum, and I am listening halfway to the radio, and I have a "Christian radio" station on, and they are playing and singing a very catchy little song, that I am tapping my foot to, when I begin to realize that the words repeat over and over again, without change, and the words are: "I am washed in the blood of the lamb". Over and over again.

Excuse me. I have to go take a shower.

Adages

He who hesitates, is usually correct.

Don't just do something. Sit there.

When something hits the fan, it is not evenly distributed.

Ready, fire, aim.

When the pot begins to boil, the cream rises to the top.

When the pot begins to boil, the scum rises to the top.

A penny saved......will not help you in your old age.

Yesterday and Today

If you were wondering why there was no posting yesterday, and none today until late, it is because I was out of town, in Absecum, NJ. (Get out your atlas.)

One of the highlights of this brief trip was a dinner at Tre Figlios, an Italian restaurant in an old house, on an old highway. The appetizers were eggplant and mushrooms with melted cheese and tomatoes, the salad was arugula with gorgonzola cheese and apples, the entree was pecan crusted striped bass, the vegetable was broccoli rabe, and the wine was a Napa Valley cabernet. Everything (and the company) was excellent.

We Have Made Up Our Mind

This morning, I heard a report of a poll of Americans as to whether or not the US should give up its base at Guantanamo.

The vote was, as one would suspect, in favor of keeping Gitmo. But what was important was that 97% of those polled apparently knew that they either wanted to keep, or to give up, the base, and only 3% were undecided.

I assume that the 97% made thier decisions pro or con after they obtained and digested all of the pertinent facts.

On Thinking It Over

Even in light of the not-guilty verdict in the Michael Jackson case, I still, if I had a 12 year old son, would not want him to spend the night with Michael at Neverland.

Is that wrong of me?

Hotel Rwanda

is an extraordinary movie, extremely well acted and directed. Saw it in a hotel room over the weekend. Hotel room movies never capture my attention. This one had me rivetted.

The sad thing, of course, is that each of us is either a Hutu or a Tutsi, when the opportunity presents itself. It seems built into the human condition.

Who put it there?

Near Death Experiences

By popular demand (and in no particular order).

1. The Meningitis Scare. When I was very young (maybe two or three), I apparently had an uncontrollable high fever during a time when childhood meningitis was rampant, and was taken to the hospital by my parents who were sure that I was a victim. After several days of concern, the fever broke. False alarm.

2. The Sepsis Scare. When I was in basic training at Ft. Ord, California, in 1968, the most feared event was being "recycled", which meant that you had to start the entire eight week horror show again (you could not discount the possibility that you would be recycled continually, and spend the rest of your life in basic training, even if you lived to be 96; I am sure it has happened more than once).

One day in week 6, I think, I woke up and noticed that I had an incipient boil on my right forearm. I did not know where it came from and I looked on it as a mere aggravation, not as anything serious. I certainly did not want it to hinder activity, for reasons you now understand. One of the activities that I did not want it to hinder was low-crawling [maybe there was another name], where basically you lie down on your stomach, keeping as low to the ground as possible, moving yourself forward by resting on your forarms, in front of your head, and pulling. Sometimes, there was barbed wire on top of you and (we were told, and did not know whether to believe it) live ammunition, so it paid to stay down. Because it was Ft. Ord, the base on which you were crawling was primarily sand with an occasional pebble for variety. In other words, I was low crawling by putting my weight on the boil in the sand an pulling myself forward. Not an obvious recipe for cure.

After a few days, it was getting worse, and I decided that I really should have someone look at it. I know that you won't believe this, but in order to go on "sick call", you had to do the following: First, you had to wake up before anyone else, which meant about 5:30 or so. Then, because the assumption was that you might not come back and you might be recycled, you needed, no matter how ill you were, to pretend you were checking out. This means that, before 6:30 breakfast, you needed to pack up all of your things, strip all the bedclothes off you bed, and take them somewhere [don't remember where], and check in your rifle in a rifle room somewhere. Even after that, however, you could not have breakfast, because when everyone else was having breakfast, you were waiting in the barracks to be picked up by this open pickup truck to drive to sick call. In other words, you did not want to make a practice of this.

When I got to sick call, at the Ft. Ord infirmary (a ramshackle one storey wooden structure, with see-through (to the ground) slatted floors, which looked like a 19th century yellow fever hospital in Panama, I was ushered into a doctor's office, who looked at my arm, told me I should have come days before, had it washed and told me he was going to lance the boil, and let me go back to the barracks and rest the remainder of the day, and avoid low crawling for several more. I don't remember the procedure itself, although I recall it was not very pleasant, went back in a truck, checked out my rifle, unpacked by things, put my bedding back together, and so forth. I felt pretty good that evening.

The next morning, when I woke up, however, I was half-dead. I couldn't keep my eyes open, I was very feverish, and I was dizzy. I was also mad, because I knew I had to go back to the infirmary and (a) you know what that meant I had to do in that condition before sick call, and (b) if I had a fever and had to stay away a few days, I was going to be recycled.

When I got back to the infirmary and my friendly doctor, he told me that the boil had become infected and that I had to check into the infirmary. I said I couldn't do that, because it meant I was going to get recylced. He said it was recyle or death. A tough choice, to be sure. I told him that he had infected me when he lanced the boil, and this was all his fault, that until I met him, I was fine. I just had a boil. He should have told me to rest a few days, put some sort of salve on it, and all would be fine. Now, he was destroying my military career and my life.

He told me that I needed to get megatons of penicillin immediately, but that he would do be a favor because he was a doctor and I was a lawyer, and he felt sorry for me (I think he was afraid of a courtmartial malpractice action by my estate), so he would keep me out of the ward (which was filled with people with infectious diseases) and give me a private room.

I was in that private room for four excruciating days. It was small; it was absolutely silent. I had no visitors. I had no radio or television. I had no reading material (although for most of it I probably would not have been able to concentrate on reading). I had no visitors, except for the people who gave me shots in the rear, and the people who brought me food. It was like solitary confinement under torture (with no longer the threat, but the assurance, of being recycled). Whether my parents had any idea where I was or what my condition was, I still do not know. I had so much penicillin shot into me, that I could not move. Walking was the most painful process imaginable, I was so sore. This continued for almost a week.

After four days, a middle-aged nurse came into the room with an officious air and said, accusingly, "what are you doing in this room?" "Huh", I said, "I almost died of sepsis and I have been tortured and made an invalid and now I am getting better. Why do you ask?" "Because", she said, "you cannot be in this room unless you are a colonel, and you are barely a private in basic training, and about to be recyled at that!" Or something like that.

Before I knew it, I was in a ward with people with hepatitis, meningitis, viral infections, pneumonia, mental illness, post-Vietnam syndrome. You name it; it was represented. To me, it was heaven. I would take the chance of infectious disease any day over solitary confinement, I decided.

And, the ward had a television set. Use of the set was very democratic. There would always be a vote on what to watch. During thee days in this ward, I never was on the winning side of any vote.

At any rate, I was finally dismissed. The doctor told me I could have died. I was recycled, and that turned out not to be too bad, and life went on.

3. The Airplane Scare. The year was 1972, and I had just quit my job at HUD and, before starting my new career as a real lawyer (so I thought) at Frosh, Lane and Edson, I decided to take a month and go to Spain and Portugal.

I left on a TWA constellation from JFK to Madrid. I settled comfortably in my seat, and we took off, at about 7 or 8 p.m., or some such time. The steward started his announcements, telling us about the wonderful flight ahead, the food and drink service, the in-flight movies, the duty-free shopping, everything you can think of.

At the end of his talk, he told us to relax and await the soon-to-come beverage service, and then - as I remember it, without a pause - he said: "but first, we have to dump out our fuel over the ocean and return to New York because we just lost one of our engines, which is on fire".

My first reaction cannot be published on a family-friendly blog. My second was that going down on an airplane over the Atlantic just because you decided to go to Spain for a vacation was really a waste. My third was that there was nothing I could do about it, so I might as well sit back, tighten every muscle in my body, and cringe. And that it was I (and I think everyone else) did.

We circled the ocean, we got regular reports of how much fuel was being dumped, we were eventually told that we had just enough fuel to get us back to JFK, we retraced our steps, the airport runways had been cleared, foam had been spread all around, there were fire engines, and ambulances and police cars, and who knows what else. We landed without incident. Just a normal smooth landing. We left the plane normally (no chutes) and were bussed to the terminal. Our baggage was fine. We lost 6 hours or so. And I got to Madrid at about noon instead of 6 a.m.

4. The Runaway Horse Scare. I was about 12 years old and spending eight weeks of my summer at Wiggins Ozark Camp. It was a Sunday between sessions, and Parents Day. I knew my parents were planning on coming down (I didn't know why they wanted to; I was fine and had no real need to see them.)

I was on a morning horseback ride with a counselor and several other campers, and rather than venturing out into the farms and lakes of the countryside, as was the norm, we were sticking close to the camp and just riding around. We were near the entrance road, by the swimming pool, when I saw my parents car drive in.

I asked if I could just ride over the meet them, and was told sure, just bring the horse back to the barn when you are ready. I was a pretty decent rider, and this seemed pretty easy, and I was happy I was permitted to do that, and I knew my parents would be impressed.

I was riding Misty, a 2-year old being ridden this year for the first time. I remembered him as a colt the year before. He was a nicely mannered horse, a light tan with a dark mane and tail. I walked him to the car, and spent a few minutes talking to my parents. All was well.

Then, all hell broke loose.

It started, when Misty turned his head and realized he was now the only horse in the neighborhood. Where did they go?, he must have said. Did they abandon me? Help!! I gotta find them!

And, before I knew it, Misty reared, turned his head, and then his body, and started, at full gallop, to make a bee-line to the barn, which was probably a mile or two away. There was absolutely no way I could stop or control him. It was all fear and adrenilin. He had probably never been in that position before, the only remaining horse in the world.

I just relaxed and, as they way, went along for the ride. It was clear where he was going, and it was clear he and I both knew the way. And it was clear that he would stop and revert to his old self when he got there. A little embarrassing, to be sure, in front of my parents and all, but no real problem. (And maybe my parents would think that I had arranged it to show them how I rode a galloping horse; why did they have to know this was an out of control situation?).

But I had forgotten about the tree with a low hanging branch. The trail through the camp (walking trail, horse trail, whatever, but a trail cut through the grass) went fairly straight by the pool, up the hill, along the lake, by the boys cabins, through the gate, across the field, to the barn. Nothing broke the trail, ........ except for the tree with the low hanging branch. Here, the trail cut an arc to the right, returning on the other side of the tree to its straight path.

Misty was on the trail; I assumed he was following the trail. Luckily, when we neared the tree, I was looking forward (at times, I was looking side to side, or even behind me; I was having a good time), and I realized that he was not going to follow the arc in the trail (too sophisticated at his speed, I am sure), but run right under the low hanging branch (by low hanging, I mean it was probably an inch above the top of his head!). I ducked down (with about one nanosecond to spare) and felt the leaves brush across the back of my head as we cleared the tree.

No question that, had I not done that, I would have had a broken neck and never been on that plane to Madrid. And, the realization as to where he was heading, and the ducking itself, happened in a split second. And needed to.

5. The Automobile Scare. So, during my first year at law school, my roommate and I were driving (his car; last time I drove with him) from New Haven to Poughkeepsie on a dark winter night, the day after a very large snow storm. It was a two lane road, we were talking, he was driving sort of fast, we were going down a fairly steep hill, and there was a stop sign at the bottom of the hill that he didn't see.

He saw the stop sign too late, decided to brake rather than run through it, could not brake in time. We ran through the intersection of a major four lane road which did not have a stop sign (luckily, there were no cars coming, but obviously there could have been), skidded and spun around maybe 500 times, very slowly, winding up stopped in a high snowbank on the side of the road.

Car was fine, and we were fine. But we were chastened to know what could have happenned.

6. The Pedestrian Scare. Pedestrian in more ways than one. It was a typical day. I was walking down Connecticut Avenue. I think it was 2003. I was heading southeast, and crossing 18th street, where it comes into Connecticut Avenue at Fuddruckers.

18th Street is one way heading north, there is a stop sign, and I had a long 60 second or so walk sign, so I crossed 18th, to continue my way down on Connecticut. (If you cannot picture this intersection, Mapquest could help.)

An SUV was heading south on Connecticut (I didn't see it, since it did not involve me), and decided, rather than staying on Connecticut, to head south on 18th street (which was one-way, heading north)

It decided to do this without stopping at approximately 40-50 miles an hour, as I was walking across 18th street. Whether he saw me, I do not know, but by the time I saw him, he was passing me at full speed within, I would get 5 inches of me. As they say, I felt the breeze.

This is in some ways the most frightening of all, just because it was so pedestrian..

When the Nationals Play the Cardinals

I did not know what I would do when, a few weeks ago, the Nats played three games against the Cardinals in St. Louis. Which would be my team?

I was really conflicted. I want the Nationals to do well their first year, anticipating that a .500 year would be better than expected. And, of course, I wanted the Cardinals to win the World Series, so that people would forget the Red Sox sweep in 2004.

I decided that the Nationals should be the Cardinals (because the Cardinals would wind up in first place anyway), but that if the Cardinals beat the Nationals (as anticipated), I would not be too disappointed.

The Cards won two out of three, and that was OK. In facat, watching the series was better than OK, because I discovered that I wanted both teams to win all three games, making any hit, good fielding play, or pitching success to be terrific.

But now, things are getting more serious. The Nats have won 7 of their last 8, and are well in first place in the East, while the Cardinals have the best record in the entire National League. Maybe, they will play each other in the playoffs. Then what will I do? I don't think my old strategy will work.

I guess I will wait and see.

Remembering Anne Bancroft

It is hard to imagine that Anne Bancroft was 36 when she played Mrs. Robinson. However.........

More than 20 years ago, I was in southern California on some sort of a business trip, and arranged to have dinner with friends who live in Santa Monica. It was a weekday night, and we went to an upscale, but non-glitzy, neighborhood French restaurant on Wyoming. (I am told it is now closed; I do not remember the name).

It was a rather small restaurant, with a series of booths along one wall, with an aisle between the booths and another row of tables, largely tables for two. The restaurant was not too crowded.

At the table opposite the booth, there was a couple, both of whom looked very California. They were both slim and dressed all in black (he I remember in black slacks and a black turtleneck; she in a low cut black dress). The wine was ordered from our neighbor's private cellar. He made a point of telling her how expensive it was, that it came from an exclusive vinyard, and that he had bought a case. They each had a glass. It was time for a second, and the waiter began to pour it, when he said: "Tell you what. Let's open another bottle. It will be interesting to see if there are any differences between the two." And that is what they did. (I assume he was trying to impress her. I guess it impressed me. Not positively, but if I remember it 20+ years later, it must have made an impression.)

While this was going on, and my friends and I were catching up on things, four customers walked into the restaurant, were led past us, and sat down in the next booth, with my back to them. They were Anne Bancroft and Mel Brooks (whose backs were separated from mine only by the our adjoining seats, and Gilda Radner and Gene Wilder.

This was very exciting, because I knew that if I could hear our neighbors across the aisle discuss wine, I would surely here the conversation right behind me, and both learn about their inner lives, and be amused at their witty repartee.

Boy, was I disappointed. First, they seemed all to be normal people, talking about very normal things. Second, they didn't tell any jokes at all.

There was a lesson there, I guess.

The immediate result, however, was that I felt a lack of humor in the restaurant, and that I needed to make up for it. And, having had a glass or two of wine myself (from nobody's private wine celler), I began to say the funniest things I could think of. Whatever my friends said, I had a response that would make anyone laugh. If there was a lull, I had a hysterical story or two to tell, and did.

And, I was sure to talk loud enough that the table behind me could hear everything (by that time, the owner of the private stock of wine and his friend had left). I wanted to impress them (really, I guess I wanted to impress Mel Brooks) as to how clever I was. I am not sure why.

I am positive that he thought I was the funniest person he ever heard. I assume Anne Bancroft did as well. (Radner and Wilder may have been too far removed, on the far side of their table.) But Brooks can be poker faced, as you know. And Bancroft was too polite and reserved to engage me in conversation. So, the evening just sort of ended.

But I have always wondered. I have never seen The Producers, but I have always thought that I might have written a good deal of it.

Have I ever told you the story about what happened one time in the spring in Germany with Hitler??

Hemorrhoids

So, I heard an advertisement on the radio as I was driving to work today, that started:

"Hemorrhoids sufferers: you no longer need to suffer in silence."

Afraid of what was coming next, I changed the station.

Europe 1962 (Part 4)

We left Germany and went into Austria. I don't remember if we went from Munich directly to Vienna, if we went from Munich to Berchtesgaden and then to Vienna, or if went to Salzburg before Vienna. I will assume the following: Vienna, followed by Salzburg, followed by Innsbruck, then through the Austrian Alps (literally and figuratively) into Italy.

Interesting to me, Austria seemed very different from Germany. Even in 1962, the signs of German prosperity were apparent, while Austria (which had recently moved from post-war neutrality with a socialist government, to a country within Western influence) appeared much wearier. Austrain villages were not as spiffy as German villages, even where Austrian and Baviarian architecture had much in common, and I remember that each village appeared to have a white-washed Catholic church, an architectural type very distinctive from the German.

I know that a lot of people do not seem to care for Vienna, although I do not know why. I have been there twice, and found it both times to be a fascinating place.

Several things interested me on this first trip. Most surprising to me was the fact that Vienna is not located on the Danube, but rather on a non-descript Donau Kanal, which itself hardly makes its presence known in the city. As most European (and American) cities make much of their waterfronts, this was not at all what I expected.

Secondly, the Ringstrasse, the large imperial street built in the final century of Hapsburg rule over the site which had contained the medieval walls of the city (now destroyed) was to me extraordinarily impressive, and gave Vienna the look of a very important place. The museums, the Rathaus (City Hall), the religious buildings, all were, to me, signs of past (and perhaps future) splendor. (The Ringstrasse surrounds the Old City, filled with narrow street, older buildings, hotels, restaurants and, today, chic shops. Somehow, if this is possible, we missed the Old City in its entirety. At least, I have no memory of it, and when I was back in Vienna about ten years later, and found myself staying at a hotel near St. Stephensplatz in the center of old Vienna, it was like I was in a city that I did not know existed.)

Third, Vienna was filled with old people. Everyone appeared two generations older than we were. I was told that it was not an inaccurate perception, and that many, and especially talented, younger Viennese had migrated to West Germany because of the dynamism and economic opportunity. I do not think this is necessarily the case today, but then it gave the city a unique feel. A city of pensioners.

Fourth, music. Vienna's musical calendar, even in July or August was filled, and events hard to

get into. The Viennese Philharmonic was playing with Karl Boehm conducting, and as I in those

days went to a lot of concerts and wanted to see all of the great conductors, this seemed like an opportunity that I could not pass up. For some reason, we did (or maybe had to) pass it up.

We did go to the Kunstmuseum, the Horse Riding School (although the Lippanzers were away for the summer), Belvedere Palace and Schonbrunn Palace, all of which were notable. At Schonbrunn, which is in sort-of suburban Vienna, we saw a nice production of Mozart's Il Re Pastore, which was performed in the ornate theater of the former royal family.

We also went to a Weinstube in the famous Vienna Woods, where we could drink wine on a hillside and watch the lights of the city, but I must say that the Vienna Woods, which I assumed would be a magical combination of romantic and forboding, proved to be neither.

And I did sit on the terrace of the Hotel Sacher and have a sachertorte.

I think we spent two days in Salzburg (one night) and only a few hours in Innsbruck.

Salzburg was a delight. The city was filled with tourists and music, and I had a terrific time. We did most of the tourist things, although I don't think we did the tour of the salt mines which give the city its name. We certainly went to the castle which overlooks the city, and to Mozart's House. I remember an afternoon lieder concert (soprano and piano) at the Mozarteum.

Innsbruck was a bust. You may have seen pictures of Innsbruck (or been there), a picturesque city in the heart of the Alps, with mountain views in every direction, and, looking down the main street, a stream and waterfall visable halfway up the mountain. Well, when we were there, it was about 50 degress, and foggy as London is supposed to be (but never is). We might as well have been in Wichita. There was not a mountain to be seen.

Driving through the Alps into the north of Italy was beautiful, as you can imagine. And going through the ten mile long Brenner Pass tunnel (do I have that correct? I still think it is the world's longest tunnel) was quite an experience. (If you read my earlier post about my junior trip to Washington DC, you will see that I was even impressed the with tunnel under Scott Circle.) At any rate, this is what I mean about driving literally and figuratively through the Alps between Austria and Italy.

When we reached the Italian side of the tunnel, we were stil in the same Alps with the same breathtaking scenery. We were on our way to Venice, so were just passing through, but it was beautiful as long as it lasted. When we were south of the Alps, however, the scenery went from the sublime to the non-descript. Flat and dull are my recollections. A major disappointment. When we pulled into the campsite outside of Venice (we had not yet left the mainland), I did not know what to expect.

Going into Venice the next morning was, of course, entering fairy land. I cannot do justification to this extraordinary place. The canals and lack of roads, the gondaliers, the architecture. Mostly, we wandered. But we did go to some museums (for the first time, the contents seemed to be lost to the setting), and to the ghetto (the oldest in Europe, "ghetto" being an older Italian word for foundry; in fact, the older Venetian ghetto is the New Ghetto, and the newer the Old Ghetto, because these were the sequence of the former foundry sites selected for the residence of the city's Jewish population). We rode on a gondola (or two or three), we fed the pigeons on St. Mark's Square.

We also went to the Lido (the beach of Venice, located either on the mainland or, more likely, on an island, reachable by boat from St. Mark's. And we went to a glass blowing facility on Murano.

From Venice we drove southwest, through Bologna, to Florence. Actually, we stayed in a beautiful campsite in Fiesole, a small village up a hill from Florence. It was a short drive or, more often, a long and beautiful walk. The vistas were extraordinary.

I remember doing the normal Florentine tourist things. The Uffizi, the Duomo and campanile, the Pitti Palace, the Ponte Vecchio over the Arno. The relatively new synagogue. While each sight in Florence was of interest and obvious importance, for some reason, the city itself left me somewhat cold. (So cold, in fact, that, years later, on a subsequent trip, I spent an entire week in Florence to be able to take in everything. I did take in a lot; but I must admit the city itself held very little attraction for me.

From Florence, it was Rome via the autostrada. We stayed at a camp grounds south of the city, in the Pines of Rome, south of a commercial suburb, recently built and rather impressive. The tall pines, with no low branches or leaves, but with a floor of fallen needles, made for a cool location in a hot climate.

We saw a lot in Rome: the Forum, the Pantheon, the Villa Borghese, the Vatican, Hadrian's Villa (Castle San Angelo), and all the rest. I had never seen ruins of this nature; this was fascinating for its own sake, and as to how they could maintain the forum in its present condition. The story is of course very complicated. I did not know that then.

I also remember the Victor Emannuel monument, the Via Venuto, the Tiber, Piazza Nivona, the Corso, etc.

We also drove south through (or around, perhaps?) Naples, to Pompeii. Another extraordinary day, as I had no idea as to the extent of the excavations or the degree that some had been preserved. (Of course, today Pompeii is even more developed than 40 years ago.)

Driving north from Rome, we went through Pisa, deciding (really stupidly) that it would be a kick to be able to say "I was in Pisa, but did not see the leaning tower." Well, I was in Pisa and I never saw the leaning tower.

We drove through the northern Italian beach resorts, drove through the interesting and seemingly interminably large city of Genoa, and crossed into France, visiting Nice and Cannes and staying in delightful San Tropez, where I saw my first topless (optional) beach. We enjoyed the beauty of the Mediterranean, but saw few of the sites of Provence. It was the coast, and then, after a few days, driving inland on our way back to Paris.

We drove into Switzerland and, trying to see as much as possible, went to (not in this order) Zurich, Lausanne, Lucerne, Berne, Basel, Interlachen and Geneva, all in one day. (Did you know they all look exactly alike?)

We stayed in Geneva, seeing the Jet D'eau and the impressive buildings of the international organizations. But the most surprising thing about Switzerland was (as I recall) how expensive it was. This is the first and only place we visited, where we figured we could not afford to say.

Back to Paris, back to American express and the retrieval of my painting, back across the channel (this time in a gale, where I seemed to be one of the few, who did not lose three days of food on deck), and back by train to London. I don't remember this brief second visit to London, but we stayed at the same bed and breakfast near Victoria Station, and again when from Victoria Station to Heathrow, on the Harvard Student Agency charter to Boston.

The trip was over.

Congratulations to Michelle

Her car passed D.C. inspection with flying colors.

It really warms your heart when your kids do well.

William Donaldson: Is His Career Path Like Yours?

William Donaldson is resigning as chairman of the SEC.

In addition to being a Marine veteran and a graduate of Yale University and the Harvard Business School, he has been the following:

CEO of the New York Stock Exchange

CEO of Aetna

CEO of brokerage firm Donaldson, Lufkin & Jenrette

Co-Founder of Yale School of Management

Undersecretary of State

Just like you and me?

Book Reports: "A Hole in the Heart of the World" and "History on Trial"

I read A Hole in the Heart of the World in advance of our planned trip to Eastern Europe. It is the story of individual Jews in Berlin, Prague, Budapest and Warsaw who tried to build their lives after the destruction of World War II. Written by Boston journalist Jonathan Kaufman, the book is a breezy, not a scholarly, description of their lives, based more on personal interviews than on intellectual research.

Nevertheless, the difficult circumstances that these individuals found themselves in after the Holocaust, and how each of them led their lives, under Communist rule, with latent or actual anti-semitic occurrences hounding their progress, were both sad and empowering. The book provides a picture into a portion of modern European Jewish history not fully reported, and ends on an optimistic note, now that Communism and Nazism are both dead, and free societies have appeared across the entire continent.

We shall see.

(As an aside, I heard a presentation tonight written by the head of the Centrum Judaicum in Berlin, as part of the opening ceremony of an exhibit on Jewish life in Berlin cosponsored by the Jewish Historical Society of Greater Washington and the Goethe Institute. The story of Herman Simon, museum director, could have been a fifth story in A Hole. Born in East Berlin in 1949, Simon's mother had hid in Berlin throughout the war, while his father had left Germany for Palestine where he fought in the Jewish legion. Returning to Berlin when he heard that his former girlfriend had survived, they married and - out of political choice - moved to the Russian sector of Berlin (East Berlin). It is there that Simon lived until the wall came down. He still lives and works in former East Berlin, but now an undivided Berlin part of a democratic country.)

Last week, we went to hear a lecture by Deborah Lipstadt, author of Holocaust Deniers, a 1993 book which, among other things, named British military historian David Irving a denier. Irving sued Lipstadt, a professor at Emory University in Atlanta, for libel in Britain where the laws put the burden on the defendant and are otherwise stacked in favor of the allegedly libeled party. Her new book History on Trial tells the story of her trial, which she won, painting Irving as a totally disingenuous and deceiptful, or simply delusional, historian, at least when it comes to Holocaust issues. It was a resounding victory, but a gruelling (and expensive) experience for Ms. Lipstadt.

But History on Trial is a valuable book on a number of scores. For our purposes in this posting, it is important because it permits you to see into the mind of an "intelligent" anti-semite and Holocaust denier, a type of person who (although Irving is English) must be prevelant in the former Communist states of Eastern Europe. Thus, you can gauge the type of persons with whom the foci of A Hole must have, much too often, had to deal.

A Hole in the Center of the Earth was published by Penguin in 1997. Coincidentally, Penguin was also the publisher of Holocaust Deniers, the book which formed the basis of Irving's suit. History on Trial was published by Ecco, a Harper-Collins imprint, in 2005.