Reading A Christmas Carol in the Twenty-First Century

The mirror, in the Parker House Hotel, Boston, 

where Dickens practiced A Christmas Carol

before giving public readings

Although published nearly 175 years ago, A Christmas Carol remains essential reading. While it may not immediately seem to be a book about travel, Charles Dickens, a prodigious traveler himself, has his protagonist travel through time and space to review the consequences of his action. Because the Christmas season is both a time of charity and reflection, Dickens takes this opportunity to remind his reader about the necessity of both. The book is a critique of Victorian England, but the genius of the book is how it transcends time and place to think about our lives and others.

The opening paragraph of the novella set the scene: There is a broad discussion of how mean and cruel Scrooge is to his fellow man. His general disposition is so unkind that even the blind man’s dog finds no favor with him. When confronted by his nephew with his unpleasant nature, especially given it is the Christmas season, Scrooge asks how can he not be? He considers himself surrounded by fools and people who do not understand the driving force of the economy. The holiday season marks a time at which people spend lavishly money they do not have; engage in celebration, while they have nothing to celebrate. In short, they foolishly spend their money to make others happy. His nephew retorts, on the contrary, the season is one in which people open their hearts and treat their neighbors charitably. He implores Scrooge to think of people, those less fortunate, as “fellow-passengers to the grave;” we all share the same mortality and the existential plight of this reality. We may not have profited from those less fortunate, but the Christmas spirit instructs us to treat them charitably nonetheless.

A few pages later, Scrooge is visited by two men who are seeking subscriptions for the poor: “Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.” His reply is telling: he queries about whether prisons and workhouses still exist. When he is told how horrible the places are, that many would prefer to die than be sent to those institutions, his response that those unfortunates should die, it would have the benefit of reducing the surplus population. The words written by Dicken, throughout his career, helped to highlight the plight of the poor, the tragedy of child labor, and the degradation of poor houses. It would be easy to tell ourselves that this was in the past, part of nineteenth century Dickensian Britain; however, these problems continue still shape our world, economies and lives.

Scrooge claims not to know of the dismal nature of the poorhouses. It is a willful neglect. It was not his business to concern himself with such things; his business kept him occupied to the extent that he could not, nor did he want to, take a concern in the plight of the poor. When his dead former business partner, Marley, appears to him, Scrooge doubts the apparition, instead choosing to believe the facts (as relayed by his senses) cannot be trusted. It might be a case of indigestion caused by mustard, cheese, or an undercooked piece of potato. His rationalization of what it could be, rather than what the facts lead us is all too familiar with the current fascination of fake news. All too often we choose to believe what fits our heuristic of how the world works and reject out of hand data contrary to our beliefs.

Scrooge compliments his former partner on his business acumen; however, the ghost of Marley counters that his actual business should have been the welfare of humans, benevolence, and charity. Instead he, and Scrooge, chose to focus on the trade by which they accumulated wealth. Yet, “The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business,” Marley laments. It is a recurring theme in the works of Dickens, telling his readers repeatedly that a person’s worth is not predicated on their ability to make money. When confronted with the probable death of Tiny Tim, the Ghost of Christmas Present reminds Scrooge of his comment that such deaths would reduce the “surplus population.” It is a funny thing that, in modern society, we place rhetorical emphasis on those who forego remuneration in order to help other humans or the world in general. Yet, we privilege and celebrate those who make a great deal of money as being wise or insightful. Where is our concern for those less fortunate?

The pursuit of money, while forgetting the humanity around him, leads to the end of Scrooge’s morals, kindness, and happiness. We can even see this as an enlightened self-interest: karma, or what goes around, comes around. It is a point not lost on the traveler either: a generosity of spirit yields an abundance in return. In the opening chapter (stave), Scrooge is clearly unhappy: he offers no charity and receives none in return. Dickens points to his avarice as the source of his difficulties. His pursuit of money means that he loses his chance at love. The Ghost of Christmas Past shows him how a young woman, Belle, puts an end to their relationship because he places more emphasis on the idol money than her. She Admonishes him, “I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?” Clearly disturbed by this vision of the past, Scrooge is forced to endure the vision of her as a grown woman, basking in the love of her daughter and the adoration of her husband. The path not traveled, martial contentment with Belle, is the price Scrooge pays for his avarice.

Dickens uses the voice of the Ghost of Christmas Present to remind is readers of the hypocrisy of Victorian England. There was a bill introduced in parliament to close bakeries and other entertainment venues on Christmas and Sundays, which would have deprived poor people of a hot roast and a day of leisure. Proposed by Sir Andrew Agnew, the Sunday Observance Bill was designed to enforce a certain amount of piety for religious holidays; however, the burden would have fallen particularly hard on the working class. Since bakeries were forbidden to use their ovens to bake bread on Sundays, many allowed their ovens to be used to cook roasts for those who did not have the means to so in their own homes. Sundays were the only day off for most of the working poor, thus the law would deprive them of their recreation opportunities. Scrooge asks the apparition if these moves were not done in the name of Christmas spirit. But the ghost explains that those who were attempting to do so were using bigotry and hatred in the name of piety to further their interests and do not speak for the spirit of the holiday itself. Dickens was particularly keen to advocate on behalf of the working class and their leisure time. In a tract against the Sunday Observance Bill, he wrote: “The idea of making a man truly moral through the ministry of constables and sincerely religious under the influence of penalties, is worthy of the mind which could form such a mass of monstrous absurdity.” Dickens goes on to argue that the minister who buys sports equipment for children was doing more to make people happy, religious and moral than any legislation could ever hope to achieve.

The use of Christmas as a setting implies a certain religious dogma. But to think that the lessons from Dickens applies solely to Christians would be a mistake. The lessons of kindness and charity, of treating others well, of being patience and kind, transcends a single religion and a specific holiday. The traveler knows that acts of kindness while on a journey is repaid several times over.

Dying pastime of baseball

Baseball as a pastime is dying; however, the business of baseball is, of course, thriving. When I was a kid growing up in Louisville, there were many and afternoon that several of us would gather the field of Jacob Elementary School. Situated between two giant sycamore trees, which served as a makeshift dugout, home plate faced the back of the school. A monumental blast would hit the school; however, we did not consider this a home run. On rare occasions, when somebody pulled the ball slightly to the left, one could hit a window on the second or third floor and still be a fair ball.  That would be considered a home run. The problem would be that we would lose a valuable ball with which to play the game. In the aftermath of such an event there would always be recriminations; usually, a warning filtered through the neighborhood that the school longer wanted us to play baseball in the schoolyard. Yet, within a week or two, we always wandered back and the games continued. It was on this field, more than any other, that what skills I did have as a baseball player, were developed (this and the backyard games of catch with my father). Sure I played little league baseball; however, the once a week practice and once a week game only provided instruction. It took these pick-up games to further my skills.

It is my observation the kids today don't often play pickup games of baseball. All games (and practices) are organized events. Spontaneous pick-up games are a thing of the past. The places were kids could have a game, consequently, are beginning to disappear as well. I have watched over the past few years as Schan Field in Shippensburg has been gradually dismantled. Slowly, but surely, different components of the field have disappeared: the scoreboard and the benches have vanished; the base paths have grown weeds. I had a warm spot in my heart for this field because, although it was mediocre ball diamond, it reminded me of one of the places I played little league baseball as a kid. That field was on Wathen Lane, which is what we called the ball field. Like the field in Louisville, Schan field has brick warehouses as its backdrop; however, Wathen did not have an outfield fence. In Shippensburg, the warehouses appear to be underutilized, in Louisville they are filled with aging whiskey, which produced a strong, sweet aroma on hot summer evenings. The infield was more cinder than grass. Playing third base one game, a hard routine grounder was hit directly at me. The ball took an odd hop on the uneven field and caught me right in the throat. It is the most memorable injury that I received on the baseball field as I recall. (Unless you count the time I broke my thumb catching a softball barehanded at an end-of-the-year picnic in seventh grade.)

Don’t get me wrong, baseball is still a thriving enterprise – it makes more money today, than at any point in its history. Yet, the game seems to be more about money than as a hobby or pastime. Of course, I do not begrudge people from making money, but if something is a national treasure, an indicator of what it means to be American, then baseball has to be more. It must be protected from the impulses that rob it of its soul. 

The Ghost of the Cubs

Marker noting the location of West Side
Grounds (1893-1915)

Early October 2016 found me in the Chicago area. With my commitments finished at a conference, I put on my 1914 Cubs logo t-shirt and went in search of the location of West Side Grounds, the last (and, thus far, only) stadium to host a World Series championship for the Cubs. In the process I toured the city from the perspective of a Cubs fan and relived many of my own nostalgic memories.

Only a small sign indicates where a stadium once stood over a century ago. I sat down for a few minutes in the beautiful courtyard of the UIC medical campus. It was a peaceful place; there were very few people around that late-morning Saturday. It was a perfect blue sky, untouched by clouds, and there was a cool breeze with the temperature in the upper fifties. I imagined a time, almost 108 years to the day, when the Cubs last won the World Series. The 1908 Series between the Cubs and the Detroit Tigers featured five future hall of famers. With an absence of motion pictures, and a Cubs team that is favored to make it deep into the 2016 playoffs, it is tempting to think about what that championship would have looked like. I spent some time trying to recreate in my mind and imagining those October days at West Side Grounds. While sitting there, I jotted a few notes and had a quiet reflection. Three people walked by during the twenty minutes or so that I was there. Each moved from one building to another, and smiled an acknowledgment. Did they know the real reason for my visit, or were they simply engaging in what they thought was a professional courtesy?

Where center field once was...

The Cubs won the series four games to one, splitting the two games played at West Side Grounds on October 11 and 12. During the October 11 game (game 2 of the series), the Cubs broke a scoreless tie on the bottom of the eighth when Joe Tinker hit a two-run homer. The Cubs would go one to score four more runs in the inning and won the game in an hour and a half. The next day, Detroit beat the Cubs by a score 8-3. During the game, future Detroit hall of famer, Ty Cobb hit three singles and a double. He had two stolen bases, and was thrown out trying to steal home in the ninth inning.

I sat on a bench, which I estimated to be somewhere in left-center field based on where the sign indicating the centerfield entrance was located. If my guess was correct, it would have been near where Jimmy Sheckard would have played. Across the field, at first base, player/manager and future Hall of Famer, Frank Chance would play for several seasons. He would go on to coach and play for the Chicago Whales of the Federal League, the first occupants of Weeghman Field, later known as Wrigley Field. But Chance is more famous for anchoring the double play combination with Evers and Tinker. The combination of Tinkers, Ever and Chance was the bedevilment of early twentieth century National League teams. Famously, in 1910 as the Cubs approached yet another World Series appearance, New York columnist Franklin Pierce Adams penned the poem, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon.” The poem would be published in the New York Evening Mail, 12 July 1910.

“Three Finger” Mordecai Brown did not appear at West Side Grounds during the 1908 World Series. Brown, who had been injured in a farm accident as an adolescent, was the star pitcher of the team. He would go on to play for the Chicago Whales, with Frank Chance during the 1915 season at Weeghman Field.  

We often forget how much baseball has shaped our language. “Hitting a home run,” or to do really well, is not an idiom known outside of North America. It is also used as a euphemism for sexual intercourse as well. The idiom, “out in left field,” a term which means “crazy” or completely unexpected and one that was often used by my father, originated at West Side Grounds. By today’s standards, the West Side was oddly shaped with an exaggerated outfield wall. Beyond the left field wall, a home for the mentally ill patients once stood. One account noted that the patients would often yell at the fans causing much consternation.

Ron Santo outside Wrigley

I am increasingly ambivalent about my feelings toward major league baseball. Much of the joy of the game has given way to marketing and hype. The changes in the Cubs, the organization and even beloved Wrigley have contributed to my ambivalence. Some of these changes are and were unavoidable. The death of Ron Santo, famous third baseman and later beloved radio announcer, was difficult. His life-long battle with diabetes was an inspiration to many and hits close to my family. It is difficult to replace him for loyal listeners like myself. His enthusiasm, optimism and exasperation are sorely missed. As the Cubs continue to do well, I think how he would have been in the booth and on the field with the guys. There is my own sense of nostalgia as well. When I see a game these days I note that Kris Bryant is wearing Mark Grace’s number; Jon Lester is wearing Kerry Wood’s. As the Cubs creep inevitably closer to ending the long drought of World Series Championships, after all “anyone can have a bad century,” I remember many of the players I wish had had an opportunity to play for the team in the World Series.

Harry outside the bleacher entrance at
Sheffield and Waveland

I think back to the death of Harry Caray and his closing words on his final broadcast on WGN: “Next year maybe will be the year we all have been waiting for forever.” Caray was a primary reason for becoming a Cubs fan. I would often tune into Cubs broadcast in the afternoon after coming home from school, just to hear what he had to say. Harry was famous for leading the Wrigley Field faithful in his rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballpark,” seemingly inevitably, followed up with him shouting: “Let’s get some runs!” Even today, every once in a while, I find a clip of Harry singing just to give myself a lift. One of the most memorable renditions did not occur at Wrigley, but across town when Harry was announcing for the White Sox in 1979. He tried to calm a rowdy crowd who had stormed the field in the aftermath of the Disco Demolition Night promotion. In vain, Harry sang while the crowd started fires and began to tear the stadium apart. Watching replays of the event, Harry’s effort never fails to make me laugh, albeit with a little embarrassment for him.

After all these years, it is still a thrill to see Wrigley from the Addison L station, even as the area becomes increasingly gentrified. One of the great things about Wrigley was that it was in the midst of a neighborhood. I remember watching Cubs games in high school and college wishing I could stand out on Waveland Avenue to shag home run balls as they left the park. Yes, I too would have thrown balls from opposing players back. Many of the buildings on Addison, across the street from the stadium, have been demolished to make way for luxury apartments. The changes seem too much. I wanted the Cubs to win the World Series based on the city that prided itself on hard work. Increasingly baseball seems more willing to sell anything to make a buck. History and identity is lost. Yet, my love of the game’s history and the social impact of the game remains. While there is a temptation to look away, I just can’t.

Two weeks to the day after my visit to West Side Grounds (and Wrigley), the Cubs met the Los Angeles Dodgers in the decisive game 6 of the National League Championship Series. The game was never in doubt, but watching there was a worry that the Cubs could implode at any minute. They did not. As the game moved to the ninth inning, it became increasingly clear that North Siders would appear in the first World Series in seventy-one years.

As the game ended, I received texts and phone calls from friends. I pictured myself with a rueful smile on my face as I watched the celebration, thankful that no one was pointlessly talking over the traditional playing of Steve Goodwin’s, “Go, Cubs, Go.” I held my composure, thinking about Goodwin who died in 1984, sitting alone surveying the stadium and its fans. Then, Joe Buck noted that there were probably a lot of Cubs fans who were thinking about their parents, grandparents, and loved ones who were no longer here to witness this. I broke down and cried.

For me there is a great irony to this season: 2016 was the first summer in thirty years that I did not attend a major league game. As I was contemplating this, what little superstition I do have surfaced: If that was all it took for the Cubs to make it to the World Series…  

Lake Linden, Michigan

After a fire destroyed Lake Linden in 1887, most of the town had to be rebuilt. Today a great deal of the commercial architecture dates from the years immediately following the fire.

Interior of Lindell's Chocolate Shop

One of the great places to visit in Lake Linden is Lindell’s Chocolate Shop, an old style restaurant that still retains its 1920s décor.

One of the most famous businesses of the Keweenaw was the Bosch Brewery Company, which operated from 1874 to 1973. Most of the remnants, save a few collector’s items, are gone; however, there is a building Third Street and Schoolcraft that once was warehouse and still bears the name of the brewery. 

Gay, Michigan

The school house at Gay, MI

The town of Gay probably get more attention because of its name and of its local pub, “The Gay Bar,” than other towns in the Keweenaw Peninsula.  Yet, the city on the Eastern shore of the peninsula was once much larger and vibrant. The old school, built in 1927 and recently threatened with demolition, now serves as a repository of artifacts and memories of a town that once was. I imagine that children once look out the windows, daydreaming while staring at the impressive the 236-foot smoke stack of the Mohawk Stamp Mill. Soon after the school opened, however, the mines close in 1932 when tin prices collapsed. Deprived of the primary engine of growth, the town began hemorrhaging people. In 1922, the Gay boasted approximately 1500 citizens; today that number is less than 100. As the population declined, the school closed in 1961, train service ceased in 1964, and the post office was shuttered in 1988.

An old house on Main Street 

Hebard, Michigan

The small hamlet of Hebard can be found just south of Gay Mohawk Road in Keweenaw County Michigan, on a small gavel path that is only 400 feet long. The town was once a station along the Mineral Range Railroad and had a post office that opened in 1903. Today, it is a handful of derelict structures with only a sign along the road noting where a town once was.  

Translating English (part 2)

It is easy to have a little fun with funny English translations in China. The so-called Chinglish is a source of amusement for many, including a couple of websites. But one does have to admit that if it was Americans translating English into Chinese, the results would be horrendous. Nevertheless, some translations are minor simple minor mistakes, perhaps even typographical errors. For example, on a tourist map of Beijing near Tian’anmen Square that told the observer: “You Are Her.”

Some translations made me scratch my head in confusion. My favorite was at the Quanfu Temple, which is constructed of wood and has incense regularly burning. A sign reminds the visitor: “Careless is a big fear to fire protection.” Fair enough.

On the highway to Huangzhou, the toll plazas are manned by young people. I read the sign below and then noticed that the attendant was looking slightly upward, off into space, with his hand raised in a wave at a 90-degree angle, with a bizarre (and somewhat creepy) smile. The sign over the tollbooth read: “The Youth Civilization Serve You With Smiling.” 

A discussion on the virtues of cats

Having a cup of coffee at Carson’s Store, the Noark, Connecticut diner that has been a general store and local institution since 1907, I listened as two elderly people, speaking very loudly to one another, have a wide-ranging conversation that ended with this point:

Female: “He does have his good points…he leaves me mice in my bed.”

Male: “Yes. That probably is his best point.” 

Clomacnoise

When I first visited Ireland in 2001, Clonmacnoise was one of the first places I visited. It is a place that captivated me. I remember reading about the ancient monastery in a travel book and was mesmerized. In planning my trip, I thought that it would intrigue me. It did.  To this day I remain fascinated by the site. It appeals to my sense of history, the quest for knowledge and understanding our place in the world.

This monastery and religious site in County Offlay was founded by St. Ciarán in 547 AD along the banks of the River Shannon with the assistance of Prince Diarmaid. Ciarán never saw the fulfillment of the center for learning and teaching; about seven months after the founding of Clonmacnoise, he died of the plague with his dying word reportedly relaying, “He who perseveres till the end will be saved.” According to legend, he was buried beneath the small church known as Temple Ciarán, a small tenth century structure within the confines that replaced an earlier wooden church. A shrine of Ciarán’s hands was kept at the church but was last seen in 1684. An old Irish legend suggests that a handful of dirt from Clonmacnoie in each corner of a field will insure its prosperity.

The site would grow in religious and scholarly importance during the middle ages but its importance would not protect it. It seems to me that it is a great irony that the site, dedicated to peace, knowledge and contemplation, was attacked no less than forty times over its history by the Irish, the Vikings and the English. Most of the time for plunder, and had devastating results. The vulnerable monastery would survive and rebuild until its final sacking by English forces, dispatched from Athlone in 1552. According to the Annals of the Four Masters, during the attack, “not a bell, large or small, or an image, or an altar, or a book, or a gem, or even glass in a window, was left which was not carried away. Lamentable was this deed, the plundering of the city of Ciarán, the holy patron.”

In Temple Coghlan, a chapel whose walls date from the 10th and the 15th centuries, several gravestones adorn the floor that is largely constructed of grass and gravel. It is exciting, at first, to think about observing centuries old stones and memorials, but a cursory glance leads to disappointment because the grave markers or monuments primarily date from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It as if the people of just a couple of generations ago viewed the religious and historical importance of Clonmacnoise and sought to appropriate it for themselves.

Clonmacnoise represents a place of learning and study that I find appealing. The knowledge that was lost (the history, art and philosophy) each time the site was raided is a tragedy. I speak neither Latin or Irish sufficiently well enough to understand the manuscript in any meaningful way. Yet, I would relish the opportunity to see what was lost. 

Lennon Wall

For fans of Beatles music, especially that of John Lennon, the Lennon Wall in Prague is a source of inspiration and community. During the communist period, it was a blank wall across a small square from the French Embassy. After his assassination in 1980, the residents of Prague turned the wall into a makeshift memorial for John Lennon. It honored his life, music and ideas with graffiti that depicted his image and lyrics. Oftentimes, people would write messages about their hopes for peace, tranquility and fulfillment. The music of the Beatles was officially banned in Czechoslovakia. The authorities would whitewash the wall in an attempt to keep a lid on a celebration of Western music and ideas, only to have residents to reestablish the memorial again.

The Lennon Wall in May 2016

Since the collapse of communism in Eastern Europe in 1989, the wall has remained largely unmolested by the government. It has become a gathering place that attracts more and more tourists and travelers each year. The wall has featured images of the Beatles, references to lyrics, but more importantly implores peace, love and internationalism. People leave messages, identify where they are from and celebrate their love of music. It is not uncommon to fund musicians encouraging visitors to sing alone. Because there are new messages and images every day, the wall is constantly changing.

I have been visiting the wall for several years. The increase in the number of people has meant that the Lennon Wall is no longer a secret shared among a few people. Once, I could bring a dozen students to the wall and we would constitute a majority of people. It is sad to see that more nationalist images have begun to crop up. Two large Czech flags adorned the wall this year. Nevertheless, there remains a feeling of goodwill and comradeship. It is common for people to join in song and greet one another while visiting.

I was talking to a student who was in the military, standing at the edge of the square watching the visitors. He was clearly moved by the experience of being at the wall and interacting with others. He noted that it was nice to see people speaking different languages, from different parts of the world, singing together rather than trying to kill each other. I am willing to bet that John Lennon would have been happy. 

Finding the Dublin we might not know

To know a city, one must walk the city. All too often while traveling, we tend to stick to the main thoroughfares that are frequented by tourists. This is true even while walking.  There are interesting sites, restaurants and pubs out of the way, hidden in neighborhoods and side streets. It is true that there are no magnificent structures in these area; if there were, then people would be flocking there. Nevertheless, if you are interested in how people live, take the unfamiliar street or alley.  

I began to explore the Ringsend section of Dublin; an area I have neglected on previous visits. It has long been an area that was out of fashion. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in June. People were enjoying the weather the weather out of doors. Most people I spoke to expressed it as uncommonly good. There were several people sunbathing in Ringsend Park. As the evening wore on, people began to fill up the outdoor seating areas of pubs and restaurants to dine and drink alfresco. I was well outside the tourist area of Dublin and there was an air of ease that surrounded the chatter and laughter.

Demolition of the Boland Flour Mills

Currently, Ringsend is undergoing a transformation from industrial dockyards to a more gentrified area with waterside apartments and office space. Most of the old Boland Flour Mills factory is being demolished and redeveloped. The front portion of the factory appears to salvaged as part of a new condominium front.

While there is a great deal of revitalization, old row-houses, showing the hallmarks of working class lives, can still be easily found adjacent to Ringsend Park. Despite the ongoing gentrification, it was clear it has not affected many side streets and buildings. There is still an uneasy edge to the Ringsend area. Poverty and jobless people are easy to spot. Despite the numerous “ban the poo” signs that dot the area, the sidewalks are a veritable land mine of dog feces. Some roads, especially away from the new and refurbished buildings, are in need of repair. When two cyclists were making their way around the dock, the male commented to his female companion, “The ramps (speed bumps) are smoother than the road.”

As I was walking along the River Dodder, I watched nine or ten boys playing in a small patch of grass near a housing estate. It was not unlike some of the games in which I participated growing up. One vociferous boy got the others organized. By the time I could see and understand what was going on, it was all too familiar. The boys had placed nerf guns into a pile and formed a circle, at varying paces back, around the toy armaments. The lead boy gave a countdown from ten. When he reached zero, the boys all rushed forward to grab a gun. In the ensuing scrum, there was lighthearted wrestling and each emerged with a weapon and had a minute to secure a defensive position for the impending battle. I did not stay for the outcome, but I feel sure that the lead boy would have fared well.

The Grotto on Margaret Place

At the end of Margaret Place, a small cul-de-sac in near the Aviva Arena, there is a small grotto. I found the message at the base a sweet message of neighborly fealty. The grotto is dedicated to Kathleen Crowe who had tended Mary for many decades until her death in 2009. Someone in neighborhood has been continuing in the care of the Grotto. 

The imbiss at Olivaerplatz

It is a simple snack, or a quick lunch for me while in Berlin: roast bratwurst on a hard roll (Rostbratwurst im brot). It is good, easy and relatively inexpensive. The bratwurst served in Berlin is much longer and not quite as thick as those served in America. Both sides of the sausage hang temptingly out both sides of the fist-sized bun. It is almost if it demands that you eat both ends before you have any of the bread.

Curry uwe

Curry uwe imbiss is an unassuming place at the edge of Olivaerplatz, a square that commemorates the Treaty of Oliva of 1660 ending the Northern War (1655-60). It is small, about the size of a food truck but looks as if it has been there for decades. Eating there means that one must stand at one of the three tables precariously covered by a tent-awning, or in the elements at one of the two small tables in the back. The two tables in back are usually frequented by older people who appear to be regulars. Whoever is working at the imbiss, when not busy, can be found having a smoke and/or chat with those sitting at the table. The conversation is usually convivial.

Plaque commemorating the Peace of Oliva

On days when it is nice I usually take my bratwurst, with a good helping of mustard (senf), further into the square. Olivaerplatz today is a park that has flower gardens and park benches. On a cool afternoon in May I sat at a bench quite some distance from the imbiss and began to eat. Almost immediately a small sparrow appeared at my feet begging for food. I took another bite and was startled when my new acquaintance tried to land on my knee. I wanted to see if the sparrow would land on my knee, but I did not want my entire bratwurst sandwich to become the sparrow’s lunch. I broke off a small piece of bread and threw it to the ground. The sparrow hopped to it right away, struggled with it and then flew off. I was hoping to entice my friend to land on my knee with a second piece of bread, but alas the one piece of bread was enough of a meal.

The Good Dog of Moate

In Moate, I was walking the path that runs alongside the abandoned railway tracks on the north edge of town. It is a great place to relax and see birds up close. A man with an African accent, and his daughter, were walking just a few yards ahead. Meanwhile a woman walking her dog were approaching from the opposite direction. Quite by accident, the five of us (four humans and a dog) converged in the same area simultaneously. The little girl (about five-years old) was singularly focused on the dog, who was older, docile and had a meandering gait. She asked her father worryingly, “Is that dog going to lick me?” The owner, who overheard as she approached, assured the girl that it was a friendly canine and would not pay her any attention. The girl’s father reassured her as well, noting that it was a good dog and would not lick her.

As I approached I offered my hand to the dog to smell as a distraction and a greeting – sure enough, he did not lick. As we all departed our common meeting spot, me walking faster than the father and daughter, the woman and dog walk away, the little girl continued to voice concern, “I did not want that dog to lick me.”

Her father replied

in a reassuring tone, “No. That was a very nice dog…he would not bother you.”

Meeting royalty while waiting for a transfer

While waiting for the X20 bus to Athlone at Dublin Airport, the bus stand was very crowded and I was trapped between other people and a luggage trolley someone had left. These trolleys serve an odd function in Anglo-Irish airports. It seems that they are almost a requirement for air travelers. Even if a person only has one piece of luggage, even with wheels, people seem compelled to use one to move their luggage through the airport. This is a journey from the luggage claim to the next form of transportation. Yet, the luggage trolley stays at the airport. How people manage to maneuver their bags beyond that point remains a mystery.

I had my bag resting against the railing, which prevented pedestrians from wandering into the roadway around the airport, and adjacent to the trolley. My attention was turned to the announcement board, which indicated that the bus was due to arrive, but scanning the road leading to the bus stop there were no sign of the vehicle that was to take me to the heart of Ireland. Out of nowhere, this older woman with an American accent pushed her way through the crowded and addressed me. “My good sir,” with fake seriousness, “please allow me to retrieve my throne.” I was a little embarrassed, both for her and that I as being addressed in this manner, and slightly move my bag without saying a word while she retrieved the luggage trolley. As she moved away she said, “It may not be much of a throne, but it is made in Germany and steers very well.” She maneuvered the trolley between a couple of people and positioned it adjacent to the curb, whereupon she sat with her feet planted precariously close to where bus wheels came and went. Shortly thereafter my bus did arrive – confusion reigned because the sign across the top misidentified the route and destination – and the woman remained seated, in what I would have estimated as in an uncomfortable seat, and did not get on the bus. There was a little voice in my head that said, “good, that’s one less crazy person on the bus.”   

Water Issues

On the first day of the seminar I was asked by  a student whether it was safe to drink everywhere we were traveling in Europe. It struck me what poor information many Americans had about Europe. Stories about the Black Death or unsanitary conditions in the Middle Ages, which we are taught in history classes as students, must permeate into our understanding of European countries. It is similar to our misperception of safety and violence in Europe. Film and popular culture portray Europe as a place where young Americans are kidnapped and held for ransom, creating a sense that it is very risky to travel in Western Europe. This fear has been exacerbated by recent terrorist attacks in Paris and Brussels. Yet, it is the case, that people are far more likely to be the victim of a violent crime in the United States than in Western Europe.  

My reply to the student who was concerned about the safety of drinking water was short and succinct, perhaps too much so for the first day of travel. I simply replied that given the situation in Flint and other American cities, the drinking water in Europe is probably safer than in the United States. 

Breakfast in Edinburgh

I was having breakfast, in the hotel, on a Sunday morning. Sitting next to me were two young women from Northern England. They were attending a Hen Party and recounting and analyzing the events of the previous evening. Over the course of their conversation a couple of older women came by the table and inquired about the evening. The younger women noted that everyone else turned in early and they were left to their own devices.

We had acknowledged each other with good mornings when they sat at the table next to mine. The young woman to my immediate left, a blonde wearing white jean and a black top, was in her mid to late 20s. She looked ready to hit the pubs again, rather than having a morning after. Her breakfast companion, sitting across the table, a brunette with a pink top and black yoga pants, was of a similar age. I am pretty sure neither woman was wearing their natural hair color. (too blonde, too dark)

I was engrossed in the morning’s news, note really paying attention, until I heard the brunette opine, “I really like that boy…”

The blonde quickly finished her thought: “The one who sucked your face?” and chuckled. There was a momentary lull in their conversation. I glanced over and smiled, and the blonde caught my eye and gave me a knowing look.

After a few minutes, the brunette got up to get another croissant. The blond looked me in the eye, smiled broadly, and shook her head ever so slightly. When her companion returned, she was situating herself in the chair and said, longingly, “I really like that Irish boy from last night…”

Measuring a Mile

Mile post in Athlone, Ireland

I keep track of the miles I walk as a way to motivate myself. Arbitrarily, I do not tabulate any walk that measures less than a mile. A mile, which is a Roman term derived from 1,000 times the left foot touched the ground (a pace) –  mille passus – seems like a sufficient minimum exercise. Although, again, this is completely arbitrary.

In the United States, the measurement of a mile is commonplace and widely understood. Yet, the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, the combination of streets that runs from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, is one Scots mile. A Scots mile is 1.12 English miles. Because the measure of a mile varies depending upon the stride of the individuals, measurements in different places also varied. The differences between Scots, English, Welsh and Irish miles led to great confusion. We never stop to think about what an arbitrary nature of the English mile and how it reflects the history of English dominance over the British Isles, and later the subsequent British Empire. It is little wonder that much of the world opted for the more rational metric system.

Scones and Coffee

Food and drink are important aspects of any travel experience. For me, a must when travelling in Scotland or Ireland is an afternoon coffee and scone, which often substitutes for lunch. The scone is even better when it is served with clotted cream and black currant jam. Having it in a coffee shop, where you can slow down a hectic day of travel, people watch and savor the treat is the preferred way to enjoy it.

Selling Flowers in Pittsburgh

On a Friday afternoon in downtown Pittsburgh, a vendor selling bouquets of flowers from white plastic buckets that I associate with industrial foods is advertising to cars on the way home. As I approach on foot, the man, who is facing away from me, is practicing his martial arts moves, punching and kicking objects and people that only exist in his imagination. I thought to myself that his practice session was, perhaps, not conducive to selling his products. Flowers are usually the purview of the marital arts, not the martial arts.  He suddenly turned my way and was seemingly surprised by my presences. He looked at me sheepishly and asked, “Flowers, sir?” 

Vignettes of Shadeyside

"Mother's pure Egg Noodles"

The Shadeyside neighborhood  was originally a small village that was later incorporated into the city of Pittsburgh in the mid-19th century. Today there are several businesses, and remnants of establishments, that attest to the vitality of the area. A sign painted on a brick wall, visible from Pearl Street, touts Boehm Company’s Egg Noodles. Dan Cercone’s Barbershop, in operation since 1931, continues to serve local patrons with old-fashion barber services. It is an area that is alive and vibrant, but not reconstructed in a faux gentrification style that is prevalent today. 

A well-dressed woman, with a black coat and matching beret emerged from a row house on Taylor Street. Behind her she dragged a small piece of rolling luggage. The front window of her house had the curtains drawn, but between the window and the curtain was a tortoise-shell cat studiously watching her human disappear down the sidewalk. No doubt, in the cat’s mind, the well-coiffed woman was off on a hunt to gather food for her feline baby. It struck me, as I walked away, neither the cat nor I would ever know the truth.

Dan Cercone's Barbershop after hours

I had breakfast at Rocky’s, where the topic of conversation among the patrons was the current fortunes of Pittsburgh sports team. Pittsburgh is a city where the community is built upon loyalty to, and support for, the local sport teams. More so than any other American city I know, Pittsburghers are more apt to wear clothing supporting the Steelers, Pirates and Penguins, all of which have some form of black and gold in their jersey. It was a January Sunday morning as I sat in Rocky’s and the Steelers' playoff game conflicted with a Penguins games. The conversation focused on the improbability of a Steelers win, while also debating the general malaise that surrounded the Penguins. While one older gentleman hoped for a miracle win for the Steelers, propelling them into the Super Bowl, the more knowledgeable in the diner that morning were resigned to an inevitable outcome. 

Impressions of San Juan

Sentry Box at San Christobal, built c.1780

It is difficult to know a city whilst only spending a few short days. Nonetheless, urban walks of exploration, supplemented with deliberate reading and choice museum visits can provide several impressions. San Juan is an interesting mixture of Spanish and American influences, where English-language popular culture masks a history that runs deep.

The Spanish settlement that began in the early 16th-century started a process that led to the great artifices of fortresses and laid out a town that charms visitors today. At the same time, while Spanish cultural survives, the preceding Taino culture is all but gone. The remaining evidence of that indigenous culture is limited to a few place names around the island of Puerto Rico and tantalizing exhibits in museums such as Museo de las Américas.

A Statue of LBJ stares passively at the Capitol of Puerto Rico

The capitol building of Puerto Rico is a beautiful building that resembles several state capitols on the mainland. Like other capitals, the surrounding statues and monuments say a lot about Puerto Rican culture; or, at least what those in power would have you believe is the culture. The walkway of presidents, located across the street from the capitol building, commemorates the nine American presidents who have visited the island during their presidential term. It is apparently a popular tourist stop on guided tours around San Juan. I watched as a group of tourist from the mainland piled out of a mini-bus to inspect and photograph the statues. The visit became a veritable popularity contest among the presidents. Among the visitors, Kennedy was, of course, very popular. A woman sat on the lap of Franklin Roosevelt, who is depicted in his wheelchair, and took a selfie. A middle-aged African-American couple headed straight for Obama to take photographs of each other. I was a bit surprised, as I watched, no one had a selfie with, or even paid attention to, Lyndon Johnson.

A sidewalk mural at Parque Luis Munoz Rivera

Beyond the presidents, no one paid attention to most of the other monuments in the vicinity. For example, the Monument to Teacher highlights the value of education in the culture. The Holocaust Memorial and the Lod Massacre monument recalls the substantial Jewish population on the island. Of course, the number of people who stop and ponder these sites paled in comparison to linger at the Castillo San Christóbal and Castillo San Felipe del Morro. As I walked through the tree-lined Parque Luis Muñoz Rivera, named for a poet, journalist and politician who favored the island’s autonomy, I was reminded that the heroes of Puerto Rican independence and nationalism are not well known by Americans.

During my perambulations I mused about the nature of tourism and tourists in San Juan. While at lunch at the Cuartel de Ballaja, the old military barracks, I watched a man constantly interrupt the wait staff with questions about food, time and safety: “In a hurry.” “Is the fish safe?” (read: I am important). It led me to think that several of my fellow companions at lunch were tourists who could not go with the flow.

The advice I often give to novice travelers is to be respectful and blend in. During my exploration of the city walls I kept coming across a pasty-white young man wearing a Wisconsin baseball cap walking around Old San Juan shirtless. Aside from the beach, I saw no other man in San Juan who decided that going shirtless was appropriate.

A woman sitting outside the Museo de las Américas store asked me if it cost anything to enter the shop. I replied, no. (Of course not, they want you to buy things, I thought). She quickly picked up on my accent, “Are you an American?” and proceeded to ask where I was from.  She, being from San Francisco, replied that she too was an American. I did not have the heart to tell her that virtually everyone around were Americans too. They just happened to speak Spanish.  

U.S. Route 98

Although not as well-known as U.S. Route 1 or 101, which follows the east and west coast respectfully, U.S. Route 98 less dramatically follows the southern coast of the United States along the Gulf of Mexico. When it was originally established in 1933, it simply ran from Apalachicola to Pensacola, Florida. Today, its 964 miles takes it from Washington, Mississippi to Palm Beach, Florida. The road’s approximation of the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico in northern Florida, the so-called “Forgotten Coast,” is where the rarely seen America can be found. 

Abandoned building in the waterfront district of Carrabelle

Carrabelle, supposedly named for Miss Carrie Hall, the “belle” of the town, is a small town that was built on fishing. The town today looks as if many of the commercial fishermen have left, yet some of the private ones remain. Several of the buildings in the center of town, near the port, have been abandoned. For baseball enthusiasts, the most famous person to hail from Carrabelle was Buck O’Neill, of the Negro Leagues, Cubs and star of the Ken Burns documentary, Baseball.

The 13-mile drive from Carrabelle to Eastpoint is an enticing drive with Pine Trees on one side and the Gulf of Mexico, literally a few feet from the road, on the other. The welcome sign upon entering, reads: “Eastpoint…Oysters since 1898.” Seafood dives are the only restaurants in town and they are unpretentious and filled with character. 

The remains of a local business

Interestingly, Eastpoint was the site of an experimental cooperative living community in the early twentieth century. In 1901, the Reverend Harry C. Vrooman helped to organize a cooperative plan in which residents purchased shares in the Co-Operative Association of America, which would distribute profits to all workers. Investors, who would be guaranteed a job, had the choice of living and working in either Eastport or Lewiston, Maine. Vrooman wrote, “Industrial co-operation cheapens production and distribution and makes possible a just and equitable division of the wealth created.” This 19th-century optimism is rarely found in the world today. Much like the Shakers and Christian socialists, Vrooman’s belief in a world where equality and fairness can be achieved is rarely found today. Most people in Eastpoint would not even recognize it as a viable option.

An old trailer in Eastpoint

Today, Eastpoint, especially the center of town where US98 transits, is a poor community. Walking through town, one can see that economic prospects are tough. Some still make a living on oysters and seafood, but compared to neighboring communities, especially Saint George Island and Apalachicola, Eastpoint faces many difficulties.

The bridge that crosses the mouth of the Apalachicola River is a six-mile span that is named for the 19th century inventor John Gorrie. In the 1840s, Gorrie devised a machine that would make ice. Although his goal was to provide a way to cool patients who were suffering from fever, the machine would have several practical applications in an era where refrigeration was limited to where ice could be shipped. After he died in 1855, Gorrie’s invention was all but forgotten. Yet accounts of the machine appeared in the September 1849 issue of The Scientific American, as well as the American and British patent offices. His friend, the famed botanist and author Alvan Chapman, did much to revive his legacy. Chapman lived forty-six years longer than Gorrie and would constantly praise his late friend’s work and invention. Gorrie is commemorated at a State Park and Monument in the town of Apalachicola.

The buildings in the business district of Apalachicola is a veritable cornucopia of late-19th and early-20th century rural architecture. The Cook Building, which today is the home of Tamara's Café, was the former A&P Grocery Store and later a five and dime. The interior is a fascinating mix of pressed tin ceilings painted rust red, exposed bricks, and original wooden floors. Yet, the most famous house in town is the Raney House. Built in 1838, the home belonged to some of the most prominent families in town, including the man who built the house, David Raney, who made his fortune in cotton, and his son a Confederate naval hero. One of the stunning features of the house was an original stairwell made from what the guide called Cuban Mahogany, more commonly known as West Indian Mahogany, which only grows in Florida and the Caribbean. The mahogany is a threatened species and is now protected nationally and internationally. I was surprised that we were allowed to walk on it and use the stairs to access the second floor.

 Our guide through the Raney House, who had moved to Apalachicola from Birmingham, Alabama two years earlier, was fixated by the low crime rate in her adopted home. She told the group on the tour, who hailed from England, Spain, South Africa and Pennsylvania, that it was the best thing about living in the area. She went to say that the worst thing was that there was not a lot of shopping around; as a matter of fact, the nearest Walmart was nearly two hours away she lamented. I think she was startled when just about everyone in the group voiced the opinion that this was a good thing.

To be continued… 

The Indignities of Air Travel #3

I was flying out of Panama city airport. What I like about small airports, the relative ease, local flavor, and fewer people, were seemingly mitigated this day. Nevertheless, I had secured a window seat, a rarity for me, and gazed out the window as the asphalt slowly fell away from the wheels of the airplane. As we slowly rose over surrounding wilderness, I was contemplating the beauty of the area. Forests of slash pines, dotted with small crystal blue ponds and meandering creeks caught my eyes. Incredibly straight roads, no doubt to facilitate logging, made me wonder about the accessibility of the area for those who wanted to walk commune with nature.  I found myself thinking about woodpeckers and who would play on a baseball diamond carved into the middle of a thicket of pine trees. Just then, the man in the seat behind me leaned forward and blew his nose in my ear.