Europe 85, Part VII

Wednesday, September 18, 1985, 11pm, Hotel Elysa

Well here I am again with my feet in the bidet! What a life! I went and bought a ham and cheese sandwich (it seems like more when it’s on French bread) and ate it while I wandered down my usual path along Blvd St. Michel (Boul Mich). I finished while passing a café and decided to have some coffee and dessert. I sat and leisurely ate a chocolate mousse and decaffeinated espresso. (I learned my lesson last night.)

I continued my stroll down along the quais near Notre Dame. I found a couple of places (quai de Montebello & de la Tournelle) which will make excellent pictures in the afternoon.  Walking down the quais which run right beside the river, I was tempted to just reach over and touch the water of the Seine.

It is a beautiful night out tonight, the stars are out and the temperature must be around 70°F. I wore my blue blazer but did not really need it. I sat along the river and gazed up at Notre Dame in all her glory. She is not the most beautiful of the great cathedrals, but she sure commands one’s attention! If only the Lutetians could see their little island now! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lutetia

I saw a sign or poster today that said, “Paris – where philosophers love and lovers philosophize!” In many ways it sums up rather nicely what I see and feel here. The French say that it is a certain “Je ne sais quois” and that’s it exactly. I cannot say what “it” is but, but it is tangible, even palpable. There is a pulse of life here that is vibrant and connects one to what it is to feel alive.

I think I am really happiest here near la Sorbonne. There are many students here which help keep this area alive, even at night.  There are tourists here too. (Again, I was asked, by someone  - who spoke far better French than me - for directions to the Sorbonne. It was easy to tell him.) One of my favorite areas is the collection of petites rues off Boul Mich near the Seine. Some of the streets are only as wide as two people with outstretched arms. Many, many food places, especially Greek, Chinese, Arab, and of course French. There are people entertaining inside these little restaurants and others on the street – singing, playing accordion, guitar, clarinet – and other entertainments. There are the “Two Chinese Guys” who will cut out your profile on black paper to create a silhouette -  and they are perfect! One hears French, Italian, German, Dutch, Greek, Arabic, and god knows how many other languages just by walking along the street. I have seen the ugly Americans too. Fortunately, I think most people here know better and just laugh at them or play stupid.

I wandered along many other little streets I’d not been on before, just trying to discover what is there. I suspect that  that is what many Parisians do – make an adventure out of discovering the many facets of their own lovely city. One could presumably spend years at it and never tire or see all of it. So much to absorb! No wonder people here often sit and apparently do nothing.  I could easily have sat for an hour gazing at the intricacies of Notre Dame, marveling at the intelligence that conceived of flying buttresses in 1200 AD. My god! 

On a different level my loneliness still exists, but it is something different in character.  Whether this is temporary or permanent, I do not know. I do know, however, that it is not painful now. It is more of a regret that others are not here to share it with. I am too busy soaking it all up to worry about that stuff now. I don’t know if I’ve crossed some kind of hurdle or if tomorrow I will be painfully lonely again. I do know that right now I feel very good.

I have learned not to let the French intimidate me. I don’t worry as much about my French. If they understand me, fine. If not, that’s OK too. More importantly is that if I don’t understand them it is all right. Ill figure things out sooner or later. (When I bought my hot dog on the Champs  Elysées today, I asked for a hot dog with mustard. The girl thought I said with ketchup, for which there is an extra charge. I told her I said mustard and we got into a little heated exchange. It was all in French. I was proud of myself that I could argue in the language!) I wish I had access to a radio or TV so I could improve my listening skills. I don’t know when I would have time - maybe when I am writing here.

I noticed last night in the restaurant I was eating in that they had a disco radio station on. The DJ spoke French but the music was mostly American, even Julio Iglesias singing in English. There are a lot of American movies here too – Mad Max Beyond the Thunderdome coming next week and a host of others I’ve forgotten. One can also see German, Spanish, and Italian movies too.

I could go on but it is midnight and I must do a little planning on how to spend the rest of the week. I should really write post cards too.

PS. I found another use for the bidet – I wash clothes in the sink and rinse in the bidet! I’m not supposed to wash clothes in the room, but if I do it early enough in the afternoon, they will be dry before the maid comes in to clean the next day. Thank god for wash and wear!

PPS. I do have my problems with WCs. This one I can flush fine, but the light is funny. The light is turned on by the latch. If you don’t get the latch just so – no light. Shitting in the dark is no fun. Mr. & Mrs. Kemp (the Dutch couple down the hall) still haven’t gotten it. They take a flashlight with them.

Europe 85, Part VI

Mercredi, le 18 Septembre, 1985, 1921h, Hôtel Elysa, Paris

Comme est mon habitude maintenant, je suis assis sur mon balcon écrivant et regardent le gens dans las rue. Le ciel est claire et le temps parfait. Je suis un peu fatigué après marchant dans une autre direction aujourd’hui. Je marchait a l’Odéon et prenait le Métro à la Motte Picquet.  (I had better not try to do this if I ever expect to finish.) [Translation: As is my habit now, I am sitting on my balcony writing and watching the people in the street. The sky is clear and the temperature is perfect. I am a little tired after walking in another direction today. I walked to l’Odéon and took the Metro to la Motte Picquet.]

A short walk toward l’Ecole Militaire put me right at the end of le Champs de Mars with a perfect view of la Tour Eiffel. I strolled along the champs and paid the 37F ($4.32) to go to the top. It is almost twice as high as the Washington Monument (900 ft)and the view was superb. Sacre Coeur stands out in all its glory. One can see nearly 40 miles. I took pictures in every direction.

After the Eiffel Tower I walked across the Seine past the Trocadero Palace and up to the Arc de Triomphe.  I thought about going to the top (about 20F) but decided not to. I walked down the Champs Elyseés instead. The Champs Elyseés is very money and tourist oriented. Banks, chic stores, major airline offices, expensive car dealerships etc line the avenue. I bought a hot dog and ice cream for lunch and ate while I strolled.

I crossed over the Seine to the Left bank over the Pont Alexandre III between the Grand Palais and le Petit Palais (both museums now, I think). The street was lined with gendarmes and I knew something was up. Helicopters landed at Les Invalides and the street was cleared. I asked someone who it was but didn’t quite understand. (The paper later said it was President Alfonsin of Argentina.) I took pictures, of course. I should have stopped at Les Invalides and the Dome for a look at Napoleon’s tomb, but by then I was tired.  I 
thought of taking the Metro home, but decided to walk instead.

A stroll along the Blvd. St. Germain found me stopping at a café for an afternoon pick me up. It was nice just resting and watching the world go by.  I was stopped by a French (I think) passerby who was looking for a particular metro stop. After consulting his map briefly I was able to direct him to it exactly. Already I am becoming a Parisien! ( I bought some cigarettes – nothing special except to compare the price. In London £1.33=$1.86, here 6.95F=$0.81!! What a difference and cheaper than DC by a third.) I angled into the Luxembourg Gardens again because I like the place, and I didn’t have any film left yesterday. I took several pictures which I hope come out.

It is now 8:30pm. I am going to go get something to eat then come back here to the hotel and plan the rest of my time here. I thought I would be gone by tomorrow since I had not planned on being in London and had only planned on being in Paris 4 or 5 days, not 8! Oh well, I have only been here in Paris 48 hours and already I feel like I have been here longer. I have not even been gone a week from work and already I am refreshed. What an antidote to work! I am not feeling that depressing loneliness either!

Memorial Day Remembered

Once again I have the honor of presenting some thoughts by a guest blogger, JoAnne. As usual, she reminds us about why today is a holiday and what it means to be an American. Thank you JoAnne.

A Passing Thought for Memorial Day

Instead of worrying about which Presidents laid which wreaths at Arlington, I wish you were all as lucky as I am to live close enough to have been able to visit there on numerous occasions. I’ve taken the guided tour, wandered about on my own, and even attended the funeral of a family friend there. Each time, I was struck by the sea of simple white markers that are placed so that the rows are in perfect alignment no matter which angle they are viewed from. And the markers themselves are all the same – they don’t discriminate between officers and enlisted personnel, between male and female, Republican or Democrat, straight or gay, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or atheist. Or whether you died heroically in battle, spent your entire service on a safely remote base, or (as was the case for our friend), went from active combat to a long history of alcoholism ending in an ugly suicide.

Everyone there is equal in value. And there’s a waiting list of sorts to get in, especially given the current rate at which we’re losing the WWII, Korean, and even Vietnam vets. Families often forego the comfort of having their loved one buried closer to home because of the tradition associated with Arlington, the honor of the company they’re keeping, and the sheer “Americanism” of it all. These men and women were willing to put their lives on the line to defend ALL of their fellow Americans – not just those of their same religion or political party. They followed the orders of their Commander in Chief, whether that Commander was Lincoln or FDR, George W. Bush or Barack Obama. They put aside whatever differences they had with each other to defend all of the various beliefs that make up America.

Many of them gave their LIVES for that America. Most of us on here can’t seem to even give our fellow Americans the time of day, let alone the common courtesy to respect their differing opinions and values, or to put the good of the country as a whole ahead of our own selfish partisan interests.

Make you feel proud much?

To all our service members – past, present, and future – and to their families and loved ones, I say “thank you”. Next week we can and will return to the petty bickering. But just for the rest of this weekend, can’t we for once put our differences aside and reflect on what this weekend is all about?

Anyone?

He Catered to Riff Raff

Preface: Many years ago my friend Marcia and I decided that instead of giving gifts for our birthdays, the birthday person would give a picture to the other on which a story must be based.  The idea was to write a tale that was engaging, odd, and if possible included shared experiences. Then on the day of the birthday the story would be read.  This is one of those stories.

He Catered to Riff Raff

 

                                    

She sat on the old bentwood rocker, slowly moving to and fro, small dark eyes peering out of her deeply wrinkled face.  The setting sun cast shadows across that craggy visage giving testament to her 90 plus years.  Mrs. Pearl Coleman had lived in Willow Creek Junction all her life.  Everything about the town and everyone in it was filed away in her encyclopedic mind.  She was indeed a pearl — a gem of knowledge about my great-grandfather William Stone.

I came to know Mrs. Coleman while on an unusual (at least for me) vacation to Colorado.  I had been dabbling in genealogy since I was a teenager.  In the course of my research, I reached back in time to my great-grandparents and discovered William Stone, my father’s enate grandfather.  At the National Archives there was little I could discover other than his death recorded in Durango County, Colorado.  In the fall of 1980 I decided that a vacation out West would be a pleasant break from work and give me a chance to look into the life of this person who family members only knew as a “character.”

Records at the Durango County seat told me that William Stone was born in 1868, his parents having arrived at Willow Creek Junction from St. Louis that very year.  His marriage at 17 to Esther Price (a woman 11 years his senior) is also duly recorded.  A deed of trust to property on Main St. and his death certificate dated December 17, 1926 were the only other scraps of information I could find there.  My curiosity was piqued.  Who was this man?  A trip to Willow Creek Junction seemed to be in order.

My first stop in Willow Creek Junction was the local church cemetery.  There among the leaves and debris in the old section of the cemetery I found a white slab of marble resting flat on the ground acting as a frame for a weathered black marker lying atop it.  It read: “STONE William (Bill) Aug 1868 Dec 1926.  He catered to Riff Raff.”  Hmmm, I thought, I wonder what that means.  I really had no idea what this mysterious epitaph meant but decided to find out.

A stroll along Main Street in Willow Creek Junction takes about 15 minutes if you walk slowly.  It’s a small town having seen its glory days during the time of the great cattle drives of the 1880’s.  Now it is more like many other sleepy western towns.  Dusty pickups line the street along the curb, each with its gun rack prominently displayed in the rear window.  I immediately notice that I am the only male not wearing a cowboy hat and boots.  People are friendly but instantly mark me for a stranger with my bare head, Member’s Only jacket and white running shoes adorning my feet.

Whitey’s restaurant reminded me of the many diners I have sampled across the country.  Its screen door announces new customers with screeching springs like a cat whose tail has been stepped on.  Its Formica table tops and the smell of greasy food made me feel right at home.  It was late morning and the rush was over, a time for gossiping among the few stragglers who were in no hurry to be anywhere.

Sally, the waitress, seemed genuinely interested in my story, “Well hon, if you want to know anything about old timers in this town you gotta go see Miz Coleman.  She’s as old as the hills but she still got all her wits!”

A short while later I was sitting on Mrs. Coleman’s porch, a cup of tea perched precariously on my knee.

“So you’re Bill Stone’s great-grandson, huh?” the wizened crone peered at me curiously.

“Yes, Ma’am.  No one in my family is still alive who could tell me much other than that he was a “character’.”

She bobbed her head and chuckled, “Oh, he certainly was that!”

“Can you, I mean will you tell me about him?”

“Oh lordy son, I don’t know where to start.”

An hour or so later I had gleaned some of the story of my great-grandfather.

Bill Stone grew up in Willow Creek Junction after the Civil War when many folks moved West to start a new life.  He married at a young age, taking an older woman for his wife.  Esther died 9 years later in childbirth but not before giving him three children of whom one was my grandmother. (The children were sent “Back East” to live with Esther’s sister Myrtle.)

Bill was the local saloon keeper.  Those were the days of the real Wild West, which was only a little like you see in the movies.  Cowboys, real cowboys, would flood the town after a long cattle drive.  Every kind of person you can imagine was there and they all eventually ended up at the saloon.  Bill had a few rooms upstairs where a couple of ‘girls’ who worked for Bill lived.  Bill didn’t run a whorehouse, but he knew how to take care of customer’s needs.  If the girls invited men to their rooms and made a little money out of it, it was no concern of his.

Mrs. Coleman’s story telling was spellbinding.  I never realized that the old West was not like in the movies.  It was a hard life.  Cowboys would spend weeks together on the trail.  Having no women with them they often turned to each other.  I was surprised to find out that one of every five cowboys was black.  After the war, many sought their fortunes in the west.  Some were even Indians.

By the turn of the century, things were slowing down in the old West.  The cattle drives were largely over.  A large migration of people from the East headed toward California and other western territories.  However, Bill’s Saloon was still the place to meet.

By and by Bill took on a partner; a young man named Ukiah Ford, half black, half Indian.  Ukiah must have been 16 or 17 at the time.  They became inseparable friends.  They lived together and worked together for nearly 20 years before Bill died in 1926.

“Many people wondered about Bill and Ukiah,” mused Mrs. Coleman, “including me.  Bill just doted on Ukiah, doing anything Ukiah asked.  Bill left everything he had to Ukiah when he died, including the saloon.”

“What happened to Ukiah?”  I asked.

“Oh, he’s still around.  He’s my age and we’re the two oldest folks in town.  He lives up in a little house on Friar’s ridge.  He ain’t all there all the time, but he ain’t totally senile either.”

“Mrs. Coleman, you have been very gracious to take the time to tell me about my great grandfather.  I will never forget you.  Do you think I could go see Mr. Ford?”

“Oh sure honey.  Just ask anyone in town how to get up to Friar’s Ridge,” she replied rising from her rocker.  “It’s getting late.  You best wait 'til morning to go up there though.  You gotta place to stay?”

“Yes ma’am, I do.  Thank you so much for your time.”

The next morning found me in Whitey’s restaurant.  After a hearty breakfast, I chatted with Sally who gave me directions to Friar’s Ridge.

I found Mr. Ford’s home and was surprised at how well kept this log home was.  A pretty young girl answered the door.

“Hello.  Mrs. Coleman told me I could find Ukiah Ford here.  Is he home?  May I speak with him?”  I asked her.  “I’m the great grandson of an old friend of his.”

“Yes, he’s here.  Come on in,” she replied.

She ushered me into the parlor that was bright with morning sun.  Sitting in a worn stuffed chair was a quite handsome man despite the many wrinkles of age.  He was coppery in color with high cheek bones and curly white hair.  I could only imagine what he must have looked like in his younger days.

I introduced myself and told him why I had come to visit.

“So, you’re Bill’s great grandson?  I nearly forgot he had kids.  Well, welcome to my home.  Any relative of Bill’s is welcome here,” he said with a broad smile.

“Your great granddaddy was one of the best people god ever put on earth.  He was good to everybody no matter what.  He took in a wild young half-breed and gave him a life.  That was me.  Bill and I were partners in everything.  Lord yes...”  I could tell he was beginning to drift away from me lost in so many memories.

“Mr. Ford.  Mr. Ford!”  I said firmly trying to bring him back to the present.  I was only able to bring him back briefly, but what he had to say before slipping back to the past resolved the mystery I found here.

“Oh quit bein’ so formal.  You’re sort of a relative.  You can call me what Bill always called me.........Riff Raff,” whereupon he slipped back to his gentle dreams.

Europe 85, Part V

Wednesday September 18, 1985, 1:30am, Hotel Elysa, Paris

I am sitting here in my room soaking my feet in the bidet. Not exactly what it’s intended for but who cares?  My feet are quite tired and I’ve managed to develop 2 blisters one on each toe next to the little ones. It must be the fit of the shoes.

I slept from 6p to 8p got up, dressed and walked my usual path down Blvd St. Michel toward Notre Dame. After a bit of meandering, I walked around the Tuilleries down to le Place de la Concorde — a beautiful view of le Place and the Arc de Triomphe further up the Champs Elyseé.  I continued back along the other side of the Tuilleries along the Seine across the Pont Royale, and back to my favorite (cheap) food haunt, la rue de la Huchette.

I had a nice dinner for 69F ($8) — avocado vinaigrette, steak garni with French fries, vanilla ice cream, espresso, and a demi-bouteille de Bordeaux. I did not eat until 11:30pm and finished around 1am.

Impressions:

It is difficult to express how one feels about Paris. It is a city where it seems that quality of life is the raison d’être. Quantity and material things don’t appear to be as important. It is OK to like material things, especially in clothing and other accoutrements, but it all fits a certain attitude.  I was very impressed by what I saw today in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Jardin_du_Luxembourg

Old people have something to do: a place to congregate with their contemporaries.   Most older people in DC are stuck in front of the TV afraid to go out, and there isn’t much to go out for. People really seem to respect what is beautiful here. In parks it is OK to walk on the grass, but not in les jardins. Men, young and older, playing cards or chess and children romping about after school made a lasting impression.

This is certainly a place for lovers!  Many times I have seen couples (young, old, and in between) strolling hand in hand or kissing not so much as an expression of passion but rather in the spirit of really enjoying the person they are with. Of course, that reminds me of my own loneliness, and I feel a little hurt inside.

I have not had the company of anyone since I came to Europe (except Neville in London and the Walters' on the train). Just to have someone to talk with would be such a  great pleasure. This loneliness is a drag.  Will my whole trip be like this?

My feet are turning into prunes, so I will take them out of the bidet and finish this later.

It is now 5:15am. Lesson to be learned. Don’t drink espresso at 1am or you won’t sleep for hours unless your system is very tolerant of caffeine! Since I am still awake, perhaps I should write a little more.

I seem to have my loose bowels under control now. Must be the good food. Thank god the French have the sense to have public toilets along the main streets. Apparently the old pissoires are all gone now. I have not seen a one. In their place is something new.  It’s an automatic toilet.  I had occasion to use one today. It costs 1F which is placed in a slot and then the door opens.  There is this strange seat where one sits – sort of a plastic groove. After doing whatever, simply open the door. The door closes behind you and locks for a minute while the whole seat area apparently rotates into the back and is scrubbed with disinfectant.  Very ingenious! Assures privacy and cleanliness for 12 cents!

I forgot to mention earlier that while going to American Express the other day I walked along some of the grand boulevards, especially Blvd des Cappucines, then down to Place Vendôme, and along St. Honoré.  This  area is very “uptown” in appearance.  The buildings seem more formal, lots of large businesses and many large and expensive stores.  At Place Vendôme major jewelers like Cartier, Van Cleef & Arpels and banks are situated. I remember looking at one ring – nothing special – for 136,000F ($16,000)! I can’t imagine what the diamond and ruby necklace next to it must have cost. All in all I find I am not nearly as comfortable on the Right Bank as I am on the Left. The Right seems to be for the well to do and the Left more for just regular people.

It is now 6am.  I’ll try to get a couple of hours sleep before breakfast.

The Cat Has a Name!

Thanks to all of you who were so helpful in suggesting names for my new-found feline.  He and I are getting along well and getting used to each other.  I think this will turn out to be a good relationship.

After considering nearly 80 suggested names, including some that I added to the list, I still had not found a name that seemed to fit this cat. I was getting annoyed at myself for not being able to come up with a good name.  Friday morning I woke up and a word popped into my head out of the blue: Renard.

Renard is the French word for fox and was not on my list at all, but I liked it.  I did a little googling and found that there is a very old story (ca 1152) about Reynard the Fox.  I knew that if I chose this name I would most likely be calling him Rennie.  That made me think of Michael Rennie of the 1951 classic “The Day the Earth Stood Still” one of my favorite movies. (Click here for Netflix Description and Reviews)So as is natural to most humans one thought leads to another and the cat’s name, though a bit strange (what else would you expect from me?) took shape.
My new partner in crime's name is:

Reynard Klaatu

Rennie for short.

Here are some pics for those who haven’t seen any.

Europe 85 Part IV

Tuesday September 17, 1985, 9:50 am, Hotel de Nevers, Paris
I had a wonderful evening last night wandering down Blvd St. Michel, Rue de la Huchette, across le petit pont, past Notre Dame, onto L’Ile de St. Louis, and on to le Rive Droit. I managed to get over my initial excitement, but I am still very happy to be here.

Breakfast this morning was interesting avec Madame. I met some other Americans – they are here for a year as exchange graduate students. The proprietaire told me that she was full tonight and I was a bit demoralized. [It occurred to me afterward that I didn’t pass muster as I spoke in English to the other Americans instead of using my French.  I think Madame did not like that. Oh well…] I managed to find another hotel, more expensive, but much nicer. I thought about combing the streets for a cheaper hotel, but what the fuck, I’m going to pamper myself. It’s approximately $15. Perhaps I should spring for a shower @$20 later in the week. Maintenant, je depart pour l’hotel d’Elysa.
 

Elysa-Hotel-Paris 

Tuesday, September 17, 1985, 4:50pm, Hotel Elysa, Paris

I am sitting on my little balcony overlooking rue Gay Lussac and Blvd St. Michel.  I am very tired. I walked all over the place today. I went out around noon, down to  la rue de la Huchette and got some Greek food – the French version of a gyro. (Now I think it was schwarma.) I walked along the Seine and crossed over near the Louvre and then down through the Tuilleries along the rue de Rivoli, making my way slowly to the American Express office to change my money.  L’Opera is right across the street.

I sauntered along rue de la Paix to Place Vendôme, St. Honoré and several other streets and back again to the Tuilleries where I watched some men play boules.

I had also been fantasizing about what it would be like to live here. It always hurts when one’s foolish fantasies come face to face with reality. This is a beautiful city and there is a lot of life here.  I would love to live here for a year or so. The reality is that there is nothing I could do here. Not even wait on tables since I haven’t mastered the language. Furthermore, I don’t know anyone and the loneliness would kill me.

I continued to walk angling toward St. Michel taking streets parallel to it once back on the Rive Gauche.  I got a little lost and had to check my map once, but otherwise my sense of direction has served me well. 

I ended up walking through the Jardin du Luxembourg which is right across St. Michel from my hotel. What a lovely place!  Many older people were out here playing chess or cards, or just sitting watching the world go by. The flowers and the fountains were gorgeous! 

On the rue St. Germain I stumbled across Les Deux Magots where Hemingway, Sartre, Camus and Picasso used to hang out. The café was crowded (as I am sure it is a tourist spot now) and a street magician was doing some tricks. I also walked down the rue Jacob where Benjamin Franklin lived when he first arrived in Paris. I really do like it here.

I am noticing that my attitude changes when I am tired. I start dreading using my French, I get lonely and eventually depressed. Blacks do not appear to constitute any kind of separate group here as they do in the States. I’ve also noticed that ethnic groups in general do not seem to congregate together a whole lot. Everyone seems to be “just here.” It’s so nice!  I guess I have watched the crowds enough for now. A nap is in order and then to find some dinner. I may also check out a bar if I can find one interesting.I would certainly appreciate some company.

Europe 85 Part III

Monday, September 16, 1985, 8:15pm, Hotel de Nevers, Paris

I’m here!!! I’m finally in Paris!  I can’t believe how excited I am! This is the feeling I expected when I first landed in London, but the opposite is what happened. Everything here is different.

To digress a bit. I got to  Charing Cross in time to make the 8:55am train but they were full for the Hovercraft, which I really wanted to experience. I debated about buying a ticket to Marseilles  but the price of £69 put me off. Perhaps I should have done it but instead I purchased a single to Paris via train/hovercraft for £35.45 which left at 10:15am. I got talking to another American while we were queued up. He and his wife are from Iowa (Bob and Jean Walters). We had a very pleasant conversation in line and on the train to Dover.  The English countryside (from the train) was not very attractive, but reasonably pleasant. I got to see the while cliffs of Dover (through the rain) and that was nice.

I thought the ride in the hovercraft would be an experience, and it was.  The sea was very rough with gale force winds. Almost everyone on board was seasick with about ¼ of us throwing up. The “stewardesses” were picking up barf bags like they were lunch trays.  I managed not to throw up but was quite sick nonetheless.  I broke out in a profuse cold sweat and my stomach did cartwheels. I just wanted to die. We also had to stop half way across the channel to rescue a man floating in some type of inner tube. Another passenger remarked to me that he had been in the British navy and had been on the high seas in bad weather but never experienced anything as sickening as this.

Arriving at Calais, I was so happy to be on French soil and a French train. The ride was smooth as glass. The countryside was every bit as picturesque and I had expected.  I watched people on the train platforms and they looked like normal people. The British all seemed to look British, even those of Indian, Asian, or African descent.  I was surprised to see blacks here and there in some of the small French towns.

I began to feel the excitement when I could see the very top of the Eiffel tower. No one in my car seems to have seen it but me. Then a short while later I saw what I thought was Sacre Coeur.  The next thing I knew we were in the Gare du Nord. I had to take a few minutes to orient myself to the Metro.  I found my way to the Boulevard St. Michel and headed up to Rue Gay Lussac where my guide book said there was a cheap hotel. When I realized that the hotel was farther than I wanted to walk, I took a look in my guide and found another place closer to where I was. There was no sign but people were entering it and talking with a woman I took to be the concierge or perhaps “la proprietaire.” There was a sign inside that said “Complet” which means full. I remembered Arthur Frommer saying to ask anyway, so I did. Just before I walked in another guy came by, saw the sign and left.  When I told the woman in my disastrous French that I had just arrived in Paris and asked if she had a room, she said “maybe’ and looked it up. During this exchange I told her about my terrible experience with the English and the trip across the channel. She asked me about the weather there etc. The next thing I knew I was walking up six flights to a room that only cost 78F sans douche ($9.75) including breakfast.

This room is perfect!! It’s small, only has a view of the building across the way (apt, I think), a lumpy double bed, a broken down wooden armoire, an unused marble fireplace, a tiny little writing table, 2 chairs, a sink, and the obligatory bidet. The WC is down the hall and as far as I can tell no bath.  I need to go out and buy a washcloth and soap. So what? I am as happy as a pig in shit! I am hungry and tired sitting here writing by the window. I just had to record this. (I forgot to mention that the streets are full of people. This city is alive!!! Not at all like London.)  I must go out and eat or I shall perish right here. At least I’d die happy.  [Hotel 78F san douche, Dinner 8F, cigarettes 6.95F (exchange rate 8F=$1)]

Europe 85 Part II

Sunday, September 15th, 1985, 11pm, South Kensington

I was up and out early this morning.  Breakfast here at the college was filling though less than delicious: cereal, poached egg, an undercooked sausage link, baked tomato, toast and coffee. I saw someone with bacon that appeared to be nearly raw. I was told that is the way they like it. Since I have not been here long I really haven’t had a chance to sample real British cooking. None of it sounds appetizing in the least. I ate Indian food which was fine, but it appears that the English don’t know how to cook. I don’t expect the same problem in France though I may have difficulty with the menus.

I took the tube to Tower Hill thinking that I would start East and work my way back toward Kensington. I found the Tower to be interesting. To see what essentially was a castle of sorts with a moat which was drained, and to realize how old parts of it were, impressed me with its durability.  The White Tower was built in 1089 - 900 years ago!

The Tower Bridge (which I believe many Americans think is the London Bridge) is a nice looking bridge, but that is all. What I was most impressed with were the remains of the original Londinium wall built for defense by the Romans around 200 AD. To consider the history that it has seen! Even to look at it and see where it was increased in height during Medieval times and to see that the Roman part was better constructed, fascinated me. I took two tiny pebbles from the mortar of the Roman part. One is obsidian-like and the other appears to be pink feldspar.

From the Tower, I walked along the Thames toward the monument commemorating the great fire of London September 3rd, 4th, & 5th, 1666. Much of old London was destroyed. The monument was built by Sir Christopher Wren who apparently spent considerable time planning and possibly financing many structures here in the city.

I boarded the tube at Monument and got off at Blackfriars and walked to St. Paul’s cathedral. Sir Christopher built this one after the fire also. Very beautiful in its own gaudy way. There was much in the way of gilt, mosaics and paintings. A number of famous people of their time are encrypted right inside the church. I also found it a bit commercialized. From there I walked to the Old Bailey.  Built in the late 1700s, I believe.  I could not really see much.

I proceeded to walk along Fleet Street and then the Strand to Charing Cross. From Charing Cross I walked down to Trafalgar Square on past Whitehall (the executive branch offices with 10 Downing St. nearby) to Westminster.  They were running the Westminster Mile as an international pro-am competition.  I missed the professional events but I did watch an amateur women’s open  that included Alice Bowden a 73 year old. I got a picture of her.

At Westminster I walked partly along the bridge to get a picture of Big Ben (They are cleaning it.) I find the bridges of London very manageable on a human scale. They are made to be walked across, and one could easily climb over the edge. It affords an intimacy with the river that I have never experienced before. A stroll along the Houses of Parliament (ugly dirty buildings), and a pause in a park along the Thames preceded my crossing over to St. Margaret’s and Westminster Abbey. 

 
St. Margaret’s is a small church in comparison to the Abbey, but much more intimate and certainly older. The original built in the 13th century is gone. The “new” church was built in 1520! Delightful and modest.

The Abbey is very dirty from pollution and not really a great thriller from the outside. There was a service going on inside so a tour was out, but I was able to stand inside. The vaulted ceilings with graceful curving arches were beautiful. Ingenious methods were used to assure adequate light. A stroll along the outer areas had me ambling along covered archways where many of the famous are buried. Certainly not a spellbinder but lovely none the less.

A short walk from the Abbey to Buckingham palace was a wasted walk.  The building is plain and ugly. Two bored guards stand outside in their silly outfits. there is a wall that extends around the grounds obscuring the view. I walked to Victoria Station and came back here.

Impressions:

I’ve already discussed the food!
Communications: I bought a Sunday Times as it is the only one that looked like a real newspaper. All the other papers look like hotbeds of yellow journalism. The Times was not very objective either and sensationalized several articles.
TV & Radio: Didn’t see or hear either unfortunately. I would have loved to.
Telephones: they could stand improvement. Many pay phones are out of order or don’t work well.
Language: It is interesting to note the differences between English and American. Accents aside, they use many different words or phrases that I am not used to. “Exit” means egress out of a building but not out of a passage such as the tube. In the tube the signs say “way out.” Perfectly understandable but different. Druggists or drug stores are “Chemists”, trucks are “lorries”, elevators are “lifts’ and apartments are “flats.”
Transportation: The tube is great and gets you where you want to go. Street signs for pedestrian or auto traffic are often on the sides of buildings when they exist at all. A map is essential because many streets aren’t marked. Intersections and road ways real jumble making DC appear very simple.

On a personal note my loneliness comes and goes. I'm yearning for companionship. It’ll be interesting to see what happens in Paris.

One of the disasters I feared came to pass today. Many times during the day, I had a strong urge to crap. I managed to psych myself into controlling it. Unfortunately, after dinner the urge overwhelmed me and I got as far as the door to the WC it all came out in a gush, making a colossal mess in my pants. I was so angry!  I spent the next hour washing my underwear and pants out in the sink.  Right now my pants are wrapped around a study light drying out. Gross. Needless to say I was disgusted with my own body.  I’ve popped 3 lomotils without results and have tried an immodium. Thank god I remembered to pack them! This entry has been interrupted several times to trips to the WC and I still don’t have the hang of flushing it correctly yet!

It is 1am and I should be asleep but I must re-pack and plan for tomorrow’s journey to Paris. [Cigarettes here are expensive. I paid £1.33 for a pack which is $1.86! Jesus at this rate I will have to quit.  I have got to do better with money. I am down to £20 out of the £66 I started with. ($93-->;$28)]

Europe '85 Part I

Europe '85 is a transcript of the journal I kept while traveling in Europe in 1985. Except for very minor editing, these entries are exactly the way I recorded them in a spiral bound notebook. I am a much different person now, and my writing style has changed. I was 32 when this trip was made. I will add pictures where appropriate. [My itinerary changed at the last moment as my charter flight to Amsterdam was canceled. My travel agent got me on a flight for London, but I did not get a chance to do my homework on London, so it was a hit or miss visit there.] Enjoy!

Saturday, September 14th, 1985, Over the Atlantic, 5:45am

We are somewhere over the Atlantic right now heading for London. My trip so far has been extremely pleasant and promising despite omens otherwise this morning.

I woke up at 10am later than I wanted to. I had stayed up until 5am hoping to fool my body so I could cope with jet lag. It didn’t work. I had many errands to run and still had to choose what clothes I was taking and pack.  Though Friday the 13th is usually a good day for  me, I began to worry after my first sortie out of the house this morning.

I went to the bank to deposit my long awaited tax refund check. Disaster of all disasters, I locked my keys in the car! I had to run home and break my kitchen window in order to get my extra keys. The potential for screwing up my trip threw me into a controlled panic. I did manage laugh at myself as I was running back to the house. Ironically, when I returned 2 hours later, Rev. Bennett next door, was climbing through his living room window as he and his wife had locked themselves out too. The rest of the morning was spent scurrying about doing last minute things (and buying a pane of glass). Amy arrived around 3pm and took me to Dulles.
 
The day was crisp and cool, sunny with a few clouds. It felt more like a day in October than one in the middle of September, especially after 95° heat last week and early this week.  I was surprised at myself for not being more anxious and thrilled about finally going on my great European tour. I don’t feel the anxiety or giddiness I might have felt if I were younger.

My seat mate on the plane has turned out to be a delightful woman of 55.  We started talking when she sat down and we have been talking all night.  She’s going to London on business and then spending a week for vacation.  After talking for quite a while we discovered that she is originally from Shippensburg and that my old landlady Mrs. Hall was a friend of her mother’s. Small world! Oh,  I forgot, her name is Rhea DiBenedetto.

Saturday, September 14th, 1985, 1:45pm,  British Geological Museum, London

I am near total exhaustion.  It is all I can do to stay awake for another 15 minutes.  After finally getting through customs which were surprisingly cursory, I got an explorer pass on the Underground. Rhea told me that I could get tickets to same day shows at Leicester Square.  I took the tube there since I had nowhere else to go and found the ticket kiosk but it did not open until 2pm and I was there at 9am. The weather was just what one would stereotype for England: cold and drizzly. Nothing was open around Leicester Square. It is London’s theater district but in many ways it reminded me of Greenwich Village in New York. I wandered around there for a while (with my bags) wondering how to go about getting a room. [It is now 2pm and I can check into my room. I will finish this later after I get some sleep!]

September 15th, 2:45am, South Kensington, London

To complete the above entry, I stopped at a tourist information center and got information regarding finding living space. I had to go to Victoria Station. The information center there booked me into a dormitory at the Imperial College at the University of London. [Hotel $17.80/night] I could not occupy my room until 2pm. I sat in the cold for an hour totally exhausted and became so miserable I walked down the road to a couple of museums which were warm and even interesting to my sleep deprived mind. I wrote the above entry at the Geological Museum.

I came to my room and immediately went to sleep. I had set my alarm so that I could go out and get a ticket for Mousetrap playing downtown.  When the alarm went off, I rolled over and went back to sleep.  I finally got up, cleaned up and decided to investigate a bit of the nightlife.  Since the tube stops running at midnight, I had to hurry.

I found a pub at Leicester Square and chatted with a very nice guy there named Neville.  We talked for a while and I encouraged him to accompany me or lead me about.  He suggested a dance bar which we walked to.[Cover £8] It was nice to have some company.

First Day Impressions:

Heathrow was a madhouse! Thousands of travelers disembarking nearly all at the same time (7am) and scrambling for customs, money exchanges, baggage pick up etc. The tube reminds me of NY’s subway without the graffiti.  The cars seem smaller where headroom is concerned. Arriving in Leicester Square exhausted in the cold rain was not the best way to have a first impression. Much like Greenwich Village with small side streets and little parks there were also the theaters which added a 42nd street air. That early on a Saturday morning there were few people about and fewer places open. I really didn’t know where to go so I wandered the streets toward Piccadilly where I found the tourist center.

London, when one is cold tired and wet, is a city like most others.  I looked around and saw dirty decaying buildings. I did not feel like there was anything very foreign here.  The cars seem to be on the “wrong side” of the street and the accent is different. ( I hear myself imitating the accent in my head but I will never let it cross my lips here.) British men have the appearance of being somewhat effeminate by American standards.

Neville and I got along reasonably well but it made me aware that I was a bit lonely. I feel that loneliness now and wonder if it will be my constant companion on this trip. I have doubts that this trip may not have been a good idea.  A fear lurks in the back of my mind that I will run out of money. I decided on this trip as a means of a challenge – to build my self-confidence and as a way of breaking patterns that were hampering my growth.  I hope I don’t end up breaking myself.

Friday Nostalgia

A friend in California posted a link today to a song by the incomparable Johnny Mathis.  It brought back so many memories of childhood when my mom would play Johnny's albums.  What a consummate singer!

A terrific voice, sensuous phrasing and superb diction! A "pure" singer and an example of the best there is. What a joy to listen to. So many wonderful memories associated with Johnny!

I just spent the last hour listening to his wonderful magic! I think I fell in love with him when I was just a kid. Thanks Bob!

Just listen  and remember.....

The River Meets the Bay

It was really much too warm for a day in early April.  Marcia and I started from her house in Takoma Park and zoomed up I-95 toward Havre de Grace, Maryland.  Temperatures were climbing into the high 80s and we actually had to put the air conditioning on in the car.

We exited I-95 at route 155 and headed northwest away from Havre de Grace.  Once when I was very young, my dad took us on a Sunday ride down to the Conowingo dam. Since he worked for the Philadelphia Electric Company who owned the dam, he wanted to see it. I have very vague recollection of that drive. I thought the area around it would make a nice day trip.

As we wound our way along the rural road we turned off for a spell to check out Susquehanna State Park. There along the banks of the river we found an old grist mill. A long forgotten rail line lay in ruins in the brush along the water’s edge.  This was a remnant of the rail line that supplied the builders of the dam in the late 1920s.  High on the hill behind us was the home of a Civil War officer who resigned as a Union officer to take up arms with the Confederacy. It was a warm peaceful Spring day. Perfect!

Marsh brought her binoculars and scanned the area for any interesting sights, including the bald eagles that have been seen in the area. Though we didn’t spot any eagles,  in the middle of the Susquehanna we found plenty of cormorants crowded together on rocks like theater goers waiting in the lobby for the show to begin. 

Winding back up the small two lane road we headed toward Route 1 where we  crossed the river atop the dam. (Conowingo is a Susquehannock word for "at the rapids". )  I thought perhaps the sight of the dam would bring back a memory from that Sunday ride so long ago, but alas it was all pretty new to me. The dam itself is not terribly impressive, though at the time of its completion in 1928 it was the second largest hydroelectric project by power output in the United States, with Niagara Falls being the largest.

As we drove across the dam we got a great view of the river downstream and the lake upstream. We could not stop on the dam but we were able to pull off the road on the northeastern shore where we saw many gulls and other birds near the base of the dam scanning for the remains of fish chewed up coming through the spillway.

Traveling south on route 222 we skirted the northern bank of the river until we entered the town of Port Deposit. This very small town with the river only 200-300 yards away, has a long history. The area was first noted by Capt. John Smith in the 1600s. Port Deposit is the northernmost deep water port at the head of the Chesapeake Bay.  The Susquehanna is a shallow river that originates in western New York state. Goods from all along its route were brought to Port Deposit by rafts called Susquehanna Arks. The raw materials were then offloaded and transferred to ships bound for various ports. And that is how the town got its name. http://www.portdeposit.com/History/PastistheFuture.htm

Port Deposit is also known for its blue granite quarry. It is believed that some of the blue granite was used in the construction of Ft. McHenry.

This small quaint village of 900 people is just a fly speck along the river now. It certainly struck Marcia and I as a town that time forgot.

Continuing on down route 222 we wound our way through Perryville and across the Rte 40 bridge over the mouth of the Susquehanna where it enters the Chesapeake Bay, to the town of Havre de Grace.  Havre de Grace has history dating back to the Revolutionary war.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Havre_de_Grace,_Maryland

After browsing a used bookstore (and me buying 4 more books on Ancient Rome) we sauntered up the street to an antique store and quietly looked at the various items there. Lunch outside by the river was a joy after this winter’s epic snowfalls. After lunch we searched out the local home made ice cream store only to find it would not be open for the season for another week.  We settled for chocolate at the candy emporium.  

A jaunt down to the lighthouse and a walk along the promenade with its cool bay winds was a refreshing way to wind down the day. Part of the promenade crosses a wetland area where we spotted a turtle and many ducks. Mother nature was all around us at this junction of the noble Susquehanna and the mighty Chesapeake Bay. It was a great way for two old friends to share the warm Spring weather and the  pleasure of each other’s company.