Well, here we are in Arizona, the land where no one need apologize for being old and overweight since nearly everyone is. As we approached Apache Junction, site of the RV resort we left the trailer at last June, we made sheepish jokes about whether we would find a puddle of melted plastic where the trailer was since it was 114F when we left. How hot was it? I unwisely left some unopened wine in the car. The wine blew the corks out of the bottles (yes, plural) and emptied on the back floor. All I could say, stupidly, is that I didn’t know (until then) wine could do that.
In fact, the trailer was fine except that all the things attached to the walls with adhesive had fallen off. Think tie backs for the curtains, hooks for hotpads at the stove, and the inside thermometer. The resort was another matter since there had been a major rain storm (unheard of here) that flooded the grounds. Apparently the low spots went under several feet of water. All we experienced was some mud under the unit, which turned our folding chairs a romantic tan (they were white), and served us right for storing anything under there in the first place. Now we know.
It’s amazing how much learning curve there is when you move from using an RV just for camping to using it for living, as we plan to do over the next few months. Minor irritations with one another over trying to occupy the same space at the same time required major negotiations regarding priority, life style, and precedence. We had to relearn how to stake our space amicably and set up a timetable. We now take a walk around the one-mile perimeter of the park first thing in the morning, have breakfast, workout on the treadmill and bicycle in the fitness room, then take a dip in the pool. Of course, all this will be subject to yet more adjustment once all the other RVs return and things are much more crowded. But right now afternoons leave me free to write and Sid to read, although he’s already meeting contemporaries and I fully expect him to start playing bridge with them and joining them for coffee poolside.
I’ve written two chapters on the new book despite working on the trailer to get it comfortable—didn’t know that there’s a big industry here making blinds that fit over the outside of the trailer windows. It makes a huge difference for the inside temperature but I’d never seen it before. Of course, I’d never been in 114F before—well, maybe once at Palm Springs and I thought it was the closest thing possible to being in ring 5 of Dante’s inferno.
You gotta admire the human spirit, though. It’s amazing how creative one can be when necessity demands. We have made multiple runs on Walmart buying space-extending gadgetry. Sid’s idea of storing plates vertically suddenly made the cupboard over the stove seem capacious. We celebrated that achievement, as well as his suggestion that we store all the pots in the oven. Even a few extra inches makes a huge difference, something I would never think about much in the Denver house. We have been like kids at Christmas congratulating ourselves over organizing ourselves. He’s even used the fold-down television shelf in the bedroom to house his shirts. Not a single cranny is safe from being appropriated to other uses.
I have to admit it’s a huge adjustment from a 3,000 square foot house to a 30 foot trailer with one slide out. But I just looked at the national weather and it was 34 degrees in Denver with snow flurries. Today it was 86 degrees here and the pool was warm. I think I’ll take it although I suspect that learning to live small is likely to either be character-building or a quick trip to the loony bin. Time will tell.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Covered in Yellowstone Mud
The recent PBS special on the National Parks has left me feeling profoundly depressed. Given the fact that I love these parks, as do most other Americans, it strikes me as strange that I should not feel the uplift and “super” humanity that the six specials have argued I should. I’ve felt my share of wonder at the beauty of these parks--most recently Denali and ten or so others through the years--but not from this series of presentations.
Some of my discouragement may be my own misguided expectation of the series. For me, the National Parks are, as the series claims super frequently, a source of inspiration and beauty, an uplift to the human soul and part of what makes us human. If it’s part of a national park, I expect—I know—that certain things will be so. There will be rangers who love their work, there will be wise advice on where to hike, and there will be standards of care to preserve what I see for those who follow. I also know that what I will see will fit the standards of what I have come to expect from a park belonging to the nation.
Yet having now seen the series, I feel grubby and very small. I’ve never done anything to damage our parks and yet I feel coated with dirt and besplattered by the bubbling mud of the Yellowstone geysers.
Perhaps I deserve to feel this as the series earnestly seeks to raise our awareness of the tenuous way the parks came into being—we could so easily have lost them and still can for that matter. I guess my reaction is partly my surprise at the attack that came out of the television screen. I was expecting a celebration rather than a rather tawdry expose particularly when it was clear that I was part of what was being condemned. I am a human being and by definition I am as guilty of the desecration as anyone else.
Now, I am not saying that the expose was undeserved. Far from it. I was sickened by the Arizona senator who used his position to set up toll booths for people wanting to see the Grand Canyon even though it was national park land. I was likewise sickened by the lumber companies who clear-cut virgin forests in the Smokeys (with the blessing of the forest service), even after the land was not theirs—and nothing was done to them. I was sickened by the Wyoming ranchers who were prepared to shoot anyone who tried to stop them grazing their cattle on public land in the Tetons and then years later claimed the protected park as a Wyoming treasure and even put the mountain profile on the state automobile license plate.
These were the jackals, the carcass-strippers, the ones who looked at a landscape and saw only profit. Yet they weren’t alone. There were also the others—the ones who were photographed mugging for the cameras at scenic points, the ones who were taken back to the places where they had scratched their names and were required to removed the defacement, the ones who visited Mesa Verde and yodeled like the plains Indians even though they were visiting the ancestral homes of settled agrarian farmers, and the ones who took the forbidden lava rocks from Volcanoes National Park only to mail them back in guilty packages when the promised curse appeared to coming true.
Yes, the series appears to be saying—the national parks have had to endure despite our careless indifference to the harm we inflict. And lest we forget we are capable of the worst—the series even reminds us of the infamous internment of Americans of Japanese descent during WWII, even though a number of these people had worked hard to preserve our parks.
I’m not going to buy the DVDs of this series. I don’t need to as the message is clear: just by visiting the parks and riding over roads cut into the wilderness, I am part of the process of loving them to death. The parks are not our manifest destiny to destroy—any more than our planet is. I’m going to have to rethink my relation to the parks (maybe that was the idea), particularly since Congress has recently voted to allow people to carry guns into the national parks. I can see little benefit to this except to the poachers and pot growers and I fear that yet again our parks may be in danger.
When will we ever learn?
Some of my discouragement may be my own misguided expectation of the series. For me, the National Parks are, as the series claims super frequently, a source of inspiration and beauty, an uplift to the human soul and part of what makes us human. If it’s part of a national park, I expect—I know—that certain things will be so. There will be rangers who love their work, there will be wise advice on where to hike, and there will be standards of care to preserve what I see for those who follow. I also know that what I will see will fit the standards of what I have come to expect from a park belonging to the nation.
Yet having now seen the series, I feel grubby and very small. I’ve never done anything to damage our parks and yet I feel coated with dirt and besplattered by the bubbling mud of the Yellowstone geysers.
Perhaps I deserve to feel this as the series earnestly seeks to raise our awareness of the tenuous way the parks came into being—we could so easily have lost them and still can for that matter. I guess my reaction is partly my surprise at the attack that came out of the television screen. I was expecting a celebration rather than a rather tawdry expose particularly when it was clear that I was part of what was being condemned. I am a human being and by definition I am as guilty of the desecration as anyone else.
Now, I am not saying that the expose was undeserved. Far from it. I was sickened by the Arizona senator who used his position to set up toll booths for people wanting to see the Grand Canyon even though it was national park land. I was likewise sickened by the lumber companies who clear-cut virgin forests in the Smokeys (with the blessing of the forest service), even after the land was not theirs—and nothing was done to them. I was sickened by the Wyoming ranchers who were prepared to shoot anyone who tried to stop them grazing their cattle on public land in the Tetons and then years later claimed the protected park as a Wyoming treasure and even put the mountain profile on the state automobile license plate.
These were the jackals, the carcass-strippers, the ones who looked at a landscape and saw only profit. Yet they weren’t alone. There were also the others—the ones who were photographed mugging for the cameras at scenic points, the ones who were taken back to the places where they had scratched their names and were required to removed the defacement, the ones who visited Mesa Verde and yodeled like the plains Indians even though they were visiting the ancestral homes of settled agrarian farmers, and the ones who took the forbidden lava rocks from Volcanoes National Park only to mail them back in guilty packages when the promised curse appeared to coming true.
Yes, the series appears to be saying—the national parks have had to endure despite our careless indifference to the harm we inflict. And lest we forget we are capable of the worst—the series even reminds us of the infamous internment of Americans of Japanese descent during WWII, even though a number of these people had worked hard to preserve our parks.
I’m not going to buy the DVDs of this series. I don’t need to as the message is clear: just by visiting the parks and riding over roads cut into the wilderness, I am part of the process of loving them to death. The parks are not our manifest destiny to destroy—any more than our planet is. I’m going to have to rethink my relation to the parks (maybe that was the idea), particularly since Congress has recently voted to allow people to carry guns into the national parks. I can see little benefit to this except to the poachers and pot growers and I fear that yet again our parks may be in danger.
When will we ever learn?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Guilty Pleasure of Humor
The latest edition of The Atlantic, a magazine I don’t usually read unless confronted in the airport by a layover of three hours and a bookshop stuffed with paperbacks dealing with spies, politicians, murderers of the worst sort, and rapturous virgins wishing to be otherwise (you can learn a lot about a city’s intellectual climate and reading habits by checking out the airport bookshops), contains an article called “Cheap Laughs: The Smug Satire of Liberal Humorists Debases Our National Conversation” by a Mr. Christopher Hitchens.
This article, which I shall call hereafter as Cheap Laughs, reminded me somewhat of the Puritan take on the maypole and the achingly self-important banning of all forms of frivolity and pleasure lest anyone be happy. I know there are scholars who study humor in all forms and I don’t want to create a maelstrom of indignant accusations about whether I have any background to justify taking on the topic. But what the hell—I’ve got my own opinion and I value it as much as Mr. Hitchens does his. Cheap Laughs didn’t convince me that liberal humorists will bring down this country: what it did was convince me that we as a people are desperate to find some relief from the oppressive self-importance of politics and culture wars.
I’ve always thought of humor as the way we deal with things that perplex and oppress us. We can either take them as seriously as they do themselves and throw ourselves over the precipice with the lemmings, or we can find a way to laugh as a people, and by doing so cut the tension. It’s a bonding thing, in other words. Think Lenten ribaldry when people dressed up as bishops and wore pigs' head masks—misrule like this was allowed for a few special days but would have been blasphemy and punished anytime else. The church wisely knew that people had to let off steam even if meant mocking the very things they valued intensely during the rest of the year.
What we choose to laugh at says mountains about what is important to us—just as the airport bookstores show what entertains us and passes the time—and humor can run from very crude to highly sophisticated and ambiguous. It can be gentle, as Will Rogers showed, or more pointed like that of Mark Twain, or over the top like Archie Bunker, who by providing something we could agree was ridiculous, provided an escape valve. The best humor I have heard has been self-deprecating, as when Ronald Reagan and even George Bush talked to the Press Club in Washington or when someone like George Clooney deflected personal attack with good humor and grace. These responses give us hope that some form of good manners and civilty can exist.
In the end, I can’t imagine why Mr. Hitchens, limited himself to the liberal humorists when there is so much “humor” in every spectrum of political and social thought these days (watermelons on the White House lawn, anyone?), but I also think he’s missed the point. We need humorists on all sides of all issues and we need to see the vital role they have to play for us. Somehow, I think the national conversation will survive humor from either side—and I shudder to think what will happen if we ever muzzle it.
This article, which I shall call hereafter as Cheap Laughs, reminded me somewhat of the Puritan take on the maypole and the achingly self-important banning of all forms of frivolity and pleasure lest anyone be happy. I know there are scholars who study humor in all forms and I don’t want to create a maelstrom of indignant accusations about whether I have any background to justify taking on the topic. But what the hell—I’ve got my own opinion and I value it as much as Mr. Hitchens does his. Cheap Laughs didn’t convince me that liberal humorists will bring down this country: what it did was convince me that we as a people are desperate to find some relief from the oppressive self-importance of politics and culture wars.
I’ve always thought of humor as the way we deal with things that perplex and oppress us. We can either take them as seriously as they do themselves and throw ourselves over the precipice with the lemmings, or we can find a way to laugh as a people, and by doing so cut the tension. It’s a bonding thing, in other words. Think Lenten ribaldry when people dressed up as bishops and wore pigs' head masks—misrule like this was allowed for a few special days but would have been blasphemy and punished anytime else. The church wisely knew that people had to let off steam even if meant mocking the very things they valued intensely during the rest of the year.
What we choose to laugh at says mountains about what is important to us—just as the airport bookstores show what entertains us and passes the time—and humor can run from very crude to highly sophisticated and ambiguous. It can be gentle, as Will Rogers showed, or more pointed like that of Mark Twain, or over the top like Archie Bunker, who by providing something we could agree was ridiculous, provided an escape valve. The best humor I have heard has been self-deprecating, as when Ronald Reagan and even George Bush talked to the Press Club in Washington or when someone like George Clooney deflected personal attack with good humor and grace. These responses give us hope that some form of good manners and civilty can exist.
In the end, I can’t imagine why Mr. Hitchens, limited himself to the liberal humorists when there is so much “humor” in every spectrum of political and social thought these days (watermelons on the White House lawn, anyone?), but I also think he’s missed the point. We need humorists on all sides of all issues and we need to see the vital role they have to play for us. Somehow, I think the national conversation will survive humor from either side—and I shudder to think what will happen if we ever muzzle it.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Cruise Control
Well, we’re back, and now they tell me there are books about the best way to take cruises. I had no idea. I imagined you sat on deck chairs, sipped rum drinks, and enjoyed being waited on. Silly me. Our Alaska cruise and land tour met all the superlatives, but after it was over, it dumped us on the wharf in Vancouver, British Columbia, exhausted and cranky. Worst part of it was that it was entirely our own fault.
What did we do wrong? Let me start at the beginning.
The first overly ambitious thing we did was drive from Denver to Vancouver.
Now, in the four days it took us (not to mention the four back), we saw some wonderful things: Montana and Wyoming are beautiful states (when the wind and the snow aren’t blowing). The B.C. lake town of Osoyoos where we crossed into Canada from Spokane looks like the Italian lake district. We saw neat “historical down towns” (see previous blog), ski resorts we’d never heard of before made into downhill bicycle meccas, and wineries we didn’t have time to stop to explore. We bought blankets at the mills and saw saddles being made at Hamleys in Pendleton, Oregon. This cross-country jaunt, in fact, could have been a vacation trip in itself. But, as might be expected, at the end of it, we arrived in Vancouver already tired before we had even begun the main trip.
The second mistake was not checking out beforehand what could be brought into Canada when we returned.
After two days of visiting family in Port Moody, we flew up to Anchorage. We’d planned to arrive a day ahead of time in case of any delays as we didn’t want to miss the land tour. That’s when we learned that Alaska makes the most of a brief tourist season by charging heroically for hotels. Anchorage is the state’s main business city and looks much like any similar mid-West city for that matter. Much of what must have been the historical section of town was washed away by the tsunami in the 60s so we spent most of our time in the historical museum and visiting the gift shops, which were lined up almost five to a block on the main streets. I bought some souvenirs, including a walrus tooth and some Alaska curved chopping knives called ulus with bone handles. Nobody told me that Canada severely restricts animal parts, particularly ivory, from entering the country. Or that ulus are considered weapons even though they are sold as kitchen implements. More on that later.
The third msitake was not realizing how much endurance parts of the land tour were going to require.
We started the tour at the Anchorage hotel and went by train (via Wasilla of certain fame and where jokes were surprisingly prevalent) to Talkeetna, the original setting of the tv show “Northern Exposure.” This is the jumping off point for climbers on Mount Mckinley (known as Denali locally) and Sid wanted to see where he’d climbed, so we signed up with Talkeetna Air Taxi. We were very lucky because the weather permitted us to fly around the mountain, but one of us had tried reindeer sausage that morning and the result was a very sick passenger when the plane landed. I will say no more, but the moral is not to try reindeer sausage unless you are absolutely sure your stomach will welcome it.
When we reached Denali Park, we found that the park requires all visitors to enter the park on the park’s buses, school buses with small seats. We spotted bears, caribou, moose, fox, wolf, and ptarmigan, but when we did, everyone on the other side crammed over to the other to take pictures. It was fun, but very intimate at times. When we got off the bus at the end, my knee was so stiff I had to hop down the stairs and my back was demanding naproxin.
The most challenging part, though, was at the end of our land tour when we were getting ready to fly to Anchorage and join the ship at Seward. That night we learned that Fairbanks airport was closed due to smoke from forest fires and we had to leave the hotel in the wee hours next day to be driven to Seward, which was going to take about eleven hours. I’m not sure we would have made it as well as we did had it not been for our tour guide, Debbie, who played games with us and even sang the Alaska state song. We couldn’t stop more than once if we were going to make the ship deadline so the night before, we trekked out to the supermarket to get something to take with us.
We fell off the bus at Seward and went directly on to the ship. Naturally we were late since we didn’t get there until around five and boarding had started at 1:00 p.m. There was a vigorous raffle going on in the main entry hall as we found our cabin and collapsed. We didn’t even eat dinner that night. It was now that the ulus I had bought caused me trouble. My suitcase went missing until I received notice quite late that it was being held in security. I had to go down to the second deck and hand over the ulus to be held until we reached Vancouver. Incidentally, we didn’t find out about the Canada restrictions on animal parts until the second night on board when the newsletter announced it. If I’d known, I would have mailed the stuff from Anchorage and saved myself having to post them in Skagway.
The fourth mistake was booking shore excursions in advance.
The cruise line, for the obvious reason that they were receiving commissions and actually owned many of the gift shops and tour companies, encouraged us to book early on shore excursions if we were not to miss out. So we did. They were expensive and we hated to miss them but we were tired and they became one more grueling thing we had to get up early to get off the ship at the appointed time. Actually, Sid passed up on the last one and I went alone. The tours were great and worth it (or most of them anyway), but we soon discovered that these same tours were available on the pier once we got off the ship and we could have taken them at any time we wanted. In other words, we could have waited and seen what we wanted to do.
Would I do this cruise again? Oh yes. The Hubbard Glazier was amazing and we got a close-up when the ship navigated to within five hundred yards of it. I saw the animals and eagles I wanted to see and watched sled dogs running. I saw the magnificence of Denali, mountain and park. The Royal Caribbean ship was wonderful, even if I was too tired to appreciate much of it.
But I would do it differently.
First, I would FLY to the starting point of the tour. Second, I would do the cruise first, before any organized land tour. If I was tired after the land part, I could just sleep on the plane home. Third, I would book only a couple of land tours from the ship and only those where my heart would be broken if I didn’t do them. Fourth, I would not over-plan my land activities, leaving some of them to be spur of the moment as I felt like it. Fifth, I would understand that while seeing Alaska is important, so is the experience of cruising. And, fifth and finally, I would research the advice and experience of others who had done it before me.
I guess you can say I will have the next cruise under control.
What did we do wrong? Let me start at the beginning.
The first overly ambitious thing we did was drive from Denver to Vancouver.
Now, in the four days it took us (not to mention the four back), we saw some wonderful things: Montana and Wyoming are beautiful states (when the wind and the snow aren’t blowing). The B.C. lake town of Osoyoos where we crossed into Canada from Spokane looks like the Italian lake district. We saw neat “historical down towns” (see previous blog), ski resorts we’d never heard of before made into downhill bicycle meccas, and wineries we didn’t have time to stop to explore. We bought blankets at the mills and saw saddles being made at Hamleys in Pendleton, Oregon. This cross-country jaunt, in fact, could have been a vacation trip in itself. But, as might be expected, at the end of it, we arrived in Vancouver already tired before we had even begun the main trip.
The second mistake was not checking out beforehand what could be brought into Canada when we returned.
After two days of visiting family in Port Moody, we flew up to Anchorage. We’d planned to arrive a day ahead of time in case of any delays as we didn’t want to miss the land tour. That’s when we learned that Alaska makes the most of a brief tourist season by charging heroically for hotels. Anchorage is the state’s main business city and looks much like any similar mid-West city for that matter. Much of what must have been the historical section of town was washed away by the tsunami in the 60s so we spent most of our time in the historical museum and visiting the gift shops, which were lined up almost five to a block on the main streets. I bought some souvenirs, including a walrus tooth and some Alaska curved chopping knives called ulus with bone handles. Nobody told me that Canada severely restricts animal parts, particularly ivory, from entering the country. Or that ulus are considered weapons even though they are sold as kitchen implements. More on that later.
The third msitake was not realizing how much endurance parts of the land tour were going to require.
We started the tour at the Anchorage hotel and went by train (via Wasilla of certain fame and where jokes were surprisingly prevalent) to Talkeetna, the original setting of the tv show “Northern Exposure.” This is the jumping off point for climbers on Mount Mckinley (known as Denali locally) and Sid wanted to see where he’d climbed, so we signed up with Talkeetna Air Taxi. We were very lucky because the weather permitted us to fly around the mountain, but one of us had tried reindeer sausage that morning and the result was a very sick passenger when the plane landed. I will say no more, but the moral is not to try reindeer sausage unless you are absolutely sure your stomach will welcome it.
When we reached Denali Park, we found that the park requires all visitors to enter the park on the park’s buses, school buses with small seats. We spotted bears, caribou, moose, fox, wolf, and ptarmigan, but when we did, everyone on the other side crammed over to the other to take pictures. It was fun, but very intimate at times. When we got off the bus at the end, my knee was so stiff I had to hop down the stairs and my back was demanding naproxin.
The most challenging part, though, was at the end of our land tour when we were getting ready to fly to Anchorage and join the ship at Seward. That night we learned that Fairbanks airport was closed due to smoke from forest fires and we had to leave the hotel in the wee hours next day to be driven to Seward, which was going to take about eleven hours. I’m not sure we would have made it as well as we did had it not been for our tour guide, Debbie, who played games with us and even sang the Alaska state song. We couldn’t stop more than once if we were going to make the ship deadline so the night before, we trekked out to the supermarket to get something to take with us.
We fell off the bus at Seward and went directly on to the ship. Naturally we were late since we didn’t get there until around five and boarding had started at 1:00 p.m. There was a vigorous raffle going on in the main entry hall as we found our cabin and collapsed. We didn’t even eat dinner that night. It was now that the ulus I had bought caused me trouble. My suitcase went missing until I received notice quite late that it was being held in security. I had to go down to the second deck and hand over the ulus to be held until we reached Vancouver. Incidentally, we didn’t find out about the Canada restrictions on animal parts until the second night on board when the newsletter announced it. If I’d known, I would have mailed the stuff from Anchorage and saved myself having to post them in Skagway.
The fourth mistake was booking shore excursions in advance.
The cruise line, for the obvious reason that they were receiving commissions and actually owned many of the gift shops and tour companies, encouraged us to book early on shore excursions if we were not to miss out. So we did. They were expensive and we hated to miss them but we were tired and they became one more grueling thing we had to get up early to get off the ship at the appointed time. Actually, Sid passed up on the last one and I went alone. The tours were great and worth it (or most of them anyway), but we soon discovered that these same tours were available on the pier once we got off the ship and we could have taken them at any time we wanted. In other words, we could have waited and seen what we wanted to do.
Would I do this cruise again? Oh yes. The Hubbard Glazier was amazing and we got a close-up when the ship navigated to within five hundred yards of it. I saw the animals and eagles I wanted to see and watched sled dogs running. I saw the magnificence of Denali, mountain and park. The Royal Caribbean ship was wonderful, even if I was too tired to appreciate much of it.
But I would do it differently.
First, I would FLY to the starting point of the tour. Second, I would do the cruise first, before any organized land tour. If I was tired after the land part, I could just sleep on the plane home. Third, I would book only a couple of land tours from the ship and only those where my heart would be broken if I didn’t do them. Fourth, I would not over-plan my land activities, leaving some of them to be spur of the moment as I felt like it. Fifth, I would understand that while seeing Alaska is important, so is the experience of cruising. And, fifth and finally, I would research the advice and experience of others who had done it before me.
I guess you can say I will have the next cruise under control.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
On the Road
Having just returned from a series of cross-country jaunts, one from Denver to Phoenix and the most recent from Denver to British Columbia where we took a tour to Alaska (more on that in another blog), I’ve come to the conclusion that our entire nation is one large gift shop. It seems that every little town along any road that boasts continuous traffic towards a destination relies on some gimmick to tempt travelers to stop and spend money.
Of course, 16 days of driving over the last six weeks doesn’t make me an expert on roadside attractions, but having also driven all the Western states and down to Florida, I will claim some experience. I’ve found these “ploys for a pause,” as I call them, if not informative and entertaining then at least diverting. To quote Shakespeare, I’d call most of them much ado about nothing.
My favorite is what I call the “make a joyful noise” category, where a town has to invent freely, as in Arizona. Beside rest stops, there’s not a lot to see in vast stretches of desert, so Arizona has been very creative. If you want to see the world’s largest petrified tree, it’s here waiting for you. It probably had to be trucked in for your pleasure, but then so was London Bridge, another Arizona transplant. You can also see a meteor indentation and a real-fake replica of an Indian pueblo along with the casinos with names about wild horses and thunder that clearly cater to truckers, judging from the lines of parked rigs. Everyone can get in the act. Rest stops have prominent signs saying that vending is not allowed, so entrepreneurs from the reservation have built shop fronts along the rest stop fence and people trade money and jewelry over it.
Next is the “let’s-gussy-it-up” attraction that I saw all across Montana and Wyoming. My gosh—how many jails did Butch Cassidy find himself in? How did he ever have time to be an outlaw? It seems that every town with any claim to anything has “a historic downtown.” These downtowns are more or less impressive depending on how rich the town was to begin with. In some, there is a row of brick buildings now housing gift shops, sometimes augmented with some kind of tram ride up a mountain with a sign saying “Welcome, bikers.” In others, there is a row of run-down, fading wood buildings, some of them leaning precariously but at least showing their age. In the end, all the historic downtowns tend to look the same and all have converted their passenger railway stations into restaurants.
Now I have to be fair. Many of these same states have genuinely wonderful things to see that are worth the stop. Route 66 is a case in point and I learned that people actually drive what remains of it as a summer vacation. There are signs along the side of the interstate indicating that at the next exit, one may see some remnant of “Historic Route 66.” Going off on these exits invariably takes one through towns (Gallup, New Mexico, is one example), where the highway is also the town’s main street. Invariably, this road is four lanes wide and the shops and stores along it have 1940’s architecture, what can be seen of it that is behind hanging t-shirts bearing the highway marker. One town has turned itself into a celebration of the ‘50s, with diners, big-finned cars on display, and more kitsch than I have ever seen in my life. I even spotted a plush bear wearing motorcycle goggles and a Route 66 t-shirt. People are proud of their piece of history and it probably is the main reason they still have a livelihood.
Despite my cynicism—how many times did I ask ‘do you suppose it has a historic down town?’ as we approached some small town barely on the map—I have to admit I’m a sucker for these things. Route 66 was part of my generation, as was Highway 40 across Wyoming and the other roads that pioneered touring. During those days, Chevy sold thousands of cars with its slogan made famous by Dinah Shore: “See the USA/ in your Chevrolet” and travelers were assured that “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star.”
These were the years when Jack Kerouac channeled national restlessness into a form of self-discovery and everyone tried (or wanted ) to take to the road. Without Route 66 there could have been no Kerouac—or interstates, or strange little mom and pop motels that still cling to their shabby existence in the shadow of the big hotel chains, or even the free ice water and 5 cent coffee that are still offered as a bit of nostalgia (providing, of course, you stop to see their animated dinosaur and buy a few souvenirs at the same time).
Ah the open road. Despite all the commercialism though, some things are still the same. Montana and Wyoming are still beautiful although there is far too much of them, kids still demand to know how much further it is, and the dog still throws up on the back seat.
Of course, 16 days of driving over the last six weeks doesn’t make me an expert on roadside attractions, but having also driven all the Western states and down to Florida, I will claim some experience. I’ve found these “ploys for a pause,” as I call them, if not informative and entertaining then at least diverting. To quote Shakespeare, I’d call most of them much ado about nothing.
My favorite is what I call the “make a joyful noise” category, where a town has to invent freely, as in Arizona. Beside rest stops, there’s not a lot to see in vast stretches of desert, so Arizona has been very creative. If you want to see the world’s largest petrified tree, it’s here waiting for you. It probably had to be trucked in for your pleasure, but then so was London Bridge, another Arizona transplant. You can also see a meteor indentation and a real-fake replica of an Indian pueblo along with the casinos with names about wild horses and thunder that clearly cater to truckers, judging from the lines of parked rigs. Everyone can get in the act. Rest stops have prominent signs saying that vending is not allowed, so entrepreneurs from the reservation have built shop fronts along the rest stop fence and people trade money and jewelry over it.
Next is the “let’s-gussy-it-up” attraction that I saw all across Montana and Wyoming. My gosh—how many jails did Butch Cassidy find himself in? How did he ever have time to be an outlaw? It seems that every town with any claim to anything has “a historic downtown.” These downtowns are more or less impressive depending on how rich the town was to begin with. In some, there is a row of brick buildings now housing gift shops, sometimes augmented with some kind of tram ride up a mountain with a sign saying “Welcome, bikers.” In others, there is a row of run-down, fading wood buildings, some of them leaning precariously but at least showing their age. In the end, all the historic downtowns tend to look the same and all have converted their passenger railway stations into restaurants.
Now I have to be fair. Many of these same states have genuinely wonderful things to see that are worth the stop. Route 66 is a case in point and I learned that people actually drive what remains of it as a summer vacation. There are signs along the side of the interstate indicating that at the next exit, one may see some remnant of “Historic Route 66.” Going off on these exits invariably takes one through towns (Gallup, New Mexico, is one example), where the highway is also the town’s main street. Invariably, this road is four lanes wide and the shops and stores along it have 1940’s architecture, what can be seen of it that is behind hanging t-shirts bearing the highway marker. One town has turned itself into a celebration of the ‘50s, with diners, big-finned cars on display, and more kitsch than I have ever seen in my life. I even spotted a plush bear wearing motorcycle goggles and a Route 66 t-shirt. People are proud of their piece of history and it probably is the main reason they still have a livelihood.
Despite my cynicism—how many times did I ask ‘do you suppose it has a historic down town?’ as we approached some small town barely on the map—I have to admit I’m a sucker for these things. Route 66 was part of my generation, as was Highway 40 across Wyoming and the other roads that pioneered touring. During those days, Chevy sold thousands of cars with its slogan made famous by Dinah Shore: “See the USA/ in your Chevrolet” and travelers were assured that “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star.”
These were the years when Jack Kerouac channeled national restlessness into a form of self-discovery and everyone tried (or wanted ) to take to the road. Without Route 66 there could have been no Kerouac—or interstates, or strange little mom and pop motels that still cling to their shabby existence in the shadow of the big hotel chains, or even the free ice water and 5 cent coffee that are still offered as a bit of nostalgia (providing, of course, you stop to see their animated dinosaur and buy a few souvenirs at the same time).
Ah the open road. Despite all the commercialism though, some things are still the same. Montana and Wyoming are still beautiful although there is far too much of them, kids still demand to know how much further it is, and the dog still throws up on the back seat.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Beer at the White House
The latest flap over the Harvard professor and the Cambridge, Mass., cop brings back a lot of memories of my life in the president’s office at the University of Hawaii. As most of you know, I was special assistant to the president and not only his speechwriter and aide-de-camp but also his troubleshooter and later vice president for university relations. Among my thorniest challenges and potential public relations disasters were those faculty members whom I shall charitably call prima donnas. This is what the Gates flap makes me remember.
Prima donnas then came in two types: those who had not yet slithered up the academic ladder to the point they felt they deserved to be and were, therefore, acting out of insecurity; and those who had slithered up the pole and were inclined to want to remind everyone of both their struggle and their achievement and were acting out of security. Both types were achingly sensitive to the least slight and since they were located in an absurdly conformist environment—a university—all they needed to do was claim violation of academic freedom or some injustice and all hell would break loose: faculty senators would call for administrative reviews, indignant letters would be written to the media, and aggrieved professors would stand up in various meetings and preach that the university should be setting the prime example of social and personal justice (particular emphasis on the personal).
All would be taken very seriously and sometimes mediation was called for to settle matters—if two professors had a major disagreement (like over whose office was larger) the president sometimes had to step in. Such is the way of universities where someone once said that the infighting is vicious because there is so little to fight over.
Given this background, I have a different take on the Gates/Harvard matter than our rabble-rousing media. I see it as a clash of cultures. The Harvard prof felt himself poorly treated for a man of his stature—worse, he wasn’t even recognized, no name cachet at all. Horrors. He spoke to the cop as he would complain to his dean, who has long ago figured out how to defuse him. The cop reacted as he would to any potential street criminal he thought was doing B/E.
Both were wrong: Gates for not realizing that professorial tantrums don’t work off campus. The cop for not realizing what it means to be working in Cambridge, Mass, where there a gazillion universities. He’s not in the streets of New York or LA. He’s in the mean streets of the most competitive, snobby higher-education capital of the US.
I once observed one of the English profs in my department start to work himself into a tantrum in the office of English Department secretary. She’d been there forever and was unimpressed. He had been given a parking assignment at an auxiliary lot rather than right next to the building. Horrors—he had to park with us junior faculty who were glad to get any parking at all. She looked at him with the most beautiful of smiles and said, “Why, Professor XXX, parking next to the building is for important people.” He had a choice: try to argue that he was important (very undignified) or just swallow it and walk away muttering (not good but not as bad). He chose the latter. If the cop had been there, he might have cuffed our good prof and what good would that have done?
So, I guess my advice to our prof and his cop—and to our peerless leader Obama—is get over it and use some common sense next time. And if there’s any room on the beer wagon, someone should invite me to the White House where I could bang a few heads together. I got pretty good at it in the president’s office.
Prima donnas then came in two types: those who had not yet slithered up the academic ladder to the point they felt they deserved to be and were, therefore, acting out of insecurity; and those who had slithered up the pole and were inclined to want to remind everyone of both their struggle and their achievement and were acting out of security. Both types were achingly sensitive to the least slight and since they were located in an absurdly conformist environment—a university—all they needed to do was claim violation of academic freedom or some injustice and all hell would break loose: faculty senators would call for administrative reviews, indignant letters would be written to the media, and aggrieved professors would stand up in various meetings and preach that the university should be setting the prime example of social and personal justice (particular emphasis on the personal).
All would be taken very seriously and sometimes mediation was called for to settle matters—if two professors had a major disagreement (like over whose office was larger) the president sometimes had to step in. Such is the way of universities where someone once said that the infighting is vicious because there is so little to fight over.
Given this background, I have a different take on the Gates/Harvard matter than our rabble-rousing media. I see it as a clash of cultures. The Harvard prof felt himself poorly treated for a man of his stature—worse, he wasn’t even recognized, no name cachet at all. Horrors. He spoke to the cop as he would complain to his dean, who has long ago figured out how to defuse him. The cop reacted as he would to any potential street criminal he thought was doing B/E.
Both were wrong: Gates for not realizing that professorial tantrums don’t work off campus. The cop for not realizing what it means to be working in Cambridge, Mass, where there a gazillion universities. He’s not in the streets of New York or LA. He’s in the mean streets of the most competitive, snobby higher-education capital of the US.
I once observed one of the English profs in my department start to work himself into a tantrum in the office of English Department secretary. She’d been there forever and was unimpressed. He had been given a parking assignment at an auxiliary lot rather than right next to the building. Horrors—he had to park with us junior faculty who were glad to get any parking at all. She looked at him with the most beautiful of smiles and said, “Why, Professor XXX, parking next to the building is for important people.” He had a choice: try to argue that he was important (very undignified) or just swallow it and walk away muttering (not good but not as bad). He chose the latter. If the cop had been there, he might have cuffed our good prof and what good would that have done?
So, I guess my advice to our prof and his cop—and to our peerless leader Obama—is get over it and use some common sense next time. And if there’s any room on the beer wagon, someone should invite me to the White House where I could bang a few heads together. I got pretty good at it in the president’s office.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A Knowing Universe
Every once in a while, I’m reminded of what George Wald said about life. He shared the Nobel Prize for working out the chemistry of vision and later became a mystic. I was privileged to know him in Hawaii when he spoke at a conference I organized. “We live,” he told me, “in a knowing universe that wishes to be known.”
I was thinking about this when I received a phone call from Ken, a close and dear friend in Canada, who has worked with me on matters and history pertaining to the Halifax bomber, in one of which my father lost his life during WWII. I’ve never been completely sure that Ken is sympathetic to my tendency to mysticism (coincidences meaning purpose etc.) but after what he had to share with me, I suspect he might be more inclined that way.
Ken recently came back from a cruise to Europe. It sounds as if he had a much better time that he was expecting before he left, but the whole idea of traveling is so fraught with inconvenience these days that he prefers to stay home and do startlingly beautiful photography of the various wildlife that cross his acreage. Anyway, this time he went. It was a large liner with several thousand others on board and he and his wife were seated with three other couples, complete strangers before this moment.
Hang with me—you need to know all this or there is no wonder, as Dickens would say.
The couples exchanged addresses and phone numbers, as couples do after a week of enforced intimacy and pledged to keep in touch. One of the couples came from a town not far from Ken, so he gave him a call the other day. They started talking about the restored Halifax bomber in Trenton, Ontario, for which I wrote my first book Extraordinary Things to raise money for the endowment fund. Ken soon found out that this fellow had an uncle in the RCAF, but he didn’t know very much about him except that he flew Halifaxes.
One thing led to another in the conversation and Ken thought he might see if he could help since the Halifax Families Association of which I am director and Ken is advisor exists to help families with research. “Which Squadron?” Ken asked. It turned out to be 640 Squadron, which those of you who follow my saga will know was my father’s squadron. Surprised and rather intrigued, Ken looked in his considerable air force library for this uncle and very quickly determined that the uncle in the RCAF was none other than the navigator on my father’s crew. I’d been searching for him without success for several years.
What were the chances of this, I wonder? Among thousands of passengers, among hundreds of dinner tables, that they should be there at the same moment on a cruise that Ken was reluctant to go on. An improbable coincidence? But this is the third similarly huge coincidence I’ve personally experienced in regard to the Halifax. Without those coincidences, I would never have found the wireless operator or my father’s family. If I stopped to question them, I guess I'd never believe them. I guess they've primed me to look for purpose and meaning.
Today, AOL is reporting the death of Henry Allington, who at 113 had been the world’s oldest man. He'd experienced the horrors of WWI and, despite being nearly blind, spent his later life urging the world not to forget those who gave their lives in the horror of war. I think the coincidences surrounding the Halifax Bomber that I’ve experienced give me the same message. The universe does not wish us to forget these young men. I know I will never forget the loss of a crew where the youngest member was 19 and the oldest 27, and I will not forget all the other crews on other aircraft and in other uniforms lost flying Ops.
Now if it's not asking too much, I'd like another coincidence please. I want to find the family I haven’t been able to find, that of the pilot, Doug Thomas of Toronto, Ontario, so I can bring him back to his squadron family.
I was thinking about this when I received a phone call from Ken, a close and dear friend in Canada, who has worked with me on matters and history pertaining to the Halifax bomber, in one of which my father lost his life during WWII. I’ve never been completely sure that Ken is sympathetic to my tendency to mysticism (coincidences meaning purpose etc.) but after what he had to share with me, I suspect he might be more inclined that way.
Ken recently came back from a cruise to Europe. It sounds as if he had a much better time that he was expecting before he left, but the whole idea of traveling is so fraught with inconvenience these days that he prefers to stay home and do startlingly beautiful photography of the various wildlife that cross his acreage. Anyway, this time he went. It was a large liner with several thousand others on board and he and his wife were seated with three other couples, complete strangers before this moment.
Hang with me—you need to know all this or there is no wonder, as Dickens would say.
The couples exchanged addresses and phone numbers, as couples do after a week of enforced intimacy and pledged to keep in touch. One of the couples came from a town not far from Ken, so he gave him a call the other day. They started talking about the restored Halifax bomber in Trenton, Ontario, for which I wrote my first book Extraordinary Things to raise money for the endowment fund. Ken soon found out that this fellow had an uncle in the RCAF, but he didn’t know very much about him except that he flew Halifaxes.
One thing led to another in the conversation and Ken thought he might see if he could help since the Halifax Families Association of which I am director and Ken is advisor exists to help families with research. “Which Squadron?” Ken asked. It turned out to be 640 Squadron, which those of you who follow my saga will know was my father’s squadron. Surprised and rather intrigued, Ken looked in his considerable air force library for this uncle and very quickly determined that the uncle in the RCAF was none other than the navigator on my father’s crew. I’d been searching for him without success for several years.
What were the chances of this, I wonder? Among thousands of passengers, among hundreds of dinner tables, that they should be there at the same moment on a cruise that Ken was reluctant to go on. An improbable coincidence? But this is the third similarly huge coincidence I’ve personally experienced in regard to the Halifax. Without those coincidences, I would never have found the wireless operator or my father’s family. If I stopped to question them, I guess I'd never believe them. I guess they've primed me to look for purpose and meaning.
Today, AOL is reporting the death of Henry Allington, who at 113 had been the world’s oldest man. He'd experienced the horrors of WWI and, despite being nearly blind, spent his later life urging the world not to forget those who gave their lives in the horror of war. I think the coincidences surrounding the Halifax Bomber that I’ve experienced give me the same message. The universe does not wish us to forget these young men. I know I will never forget the loss of a crew where the youngest member was 19 and the oldest 27, and I will not forget all the other crews on other aircraft and in other uniforms lost flying Ops.
Now if it's not asking too much, I'd like another coincidence please. I want to find the family I haven’t been able to find, that of the pilot, Doug Thomas of Toronto, Ontario, so I can bring him back to his squadron family.
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