Dickens, Cambridge (OH), and Christmas

The works of Charles Dickens elicit strong responses. There are those who take great umbrage about the place in Dickens occupies in literary canons. His contemporaries often found that his work was wordy and tedious; some modern critics find him too didactic and overly committed to idealized characters rather than real-life people.[1] Yet, many of his works are considered classics, stories that continue to be read in high schools and inspire films, plays, musicals and other works. More so than any other, Dickens has become synonymous with the proper way to celebrate Christmas. The emphasis on traditional meals, caroling, and gift-giving can be traced to A Christmas Carol, even if most people are unfamiliar with the underlying social and political commentary that accompanies the novella.

In Cambridge, Ohio during the holiday season, I found evidence of this connection between the public imagination and Charles Dicken. Each year, along Wheeling Avenue, this small town erects nearly one hundred displays as a part of the annual “Dicken’s Victorian Village,” recreating London Victorian Christmases of the 1850s.  Up and down the sidewalks, in shop windows, and even upon some second stories, mannequins display scenes from a holiday season from our collective imagination. The displays attempt to balance the idealized Christmas with the poverty and deprivation Dickens wrote about. For example, a female mannequin is seated, exhausted, because she has no days off during the holiday season and is expected to be constantly available to provide her service. Another display shows an elderly woman begging from an upper-class man. The accompanying sign from this display notes that there were few respectable remunerative opportunities for females in the London of the 1850s. Yet, most others describe decorating trees, depict Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit, and details of Dickens the man and his family. These are scenes that prompt nostalgia for days gone by; an imagined simpler time. But juxtaposed are the signs and symbols of the holiday season of the present, with more prosaic advertisements. For example, a used car lot, not too far from Wheeling Avenue, beckons potential customers with a sign that reads: “Naughty or Nice / Get a new car for your wife.”

It is interesting to speculate how Dickens might feel about the linkage between him and Christmas today. I am sure that he would be flattered to think that his works, specifically A Christmas Carol, nearly 175-years old, continues to be relevant and beloved. But in one of his lesser known works, The Chimes, written a year after A Christmas Carol, Dickens is particularly suspicious of nostalgia and believing that there were “good old days.” The primary protagonist in this novella is Toby Veck, who opens the story with a prayer, muttered to himself, “I don’t know what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!” Although it is frequently pointed out that Dickens was concerned about the plight of the poor, the collective remembrance of A Christmas Carol tends to focus on the spirit of Christmas and holiday traditions. But Dickens was also concerned about how recounting the “good old times,” as he called it in The Chimes, served to discount the lives of the poor. In remembering the “good old times,” no one ever talks about poverty and deprivation. Toby comes to believe, because of the persistent nostalgia for an undefined previous romanticized era, that the poor must accept sole blame for their plight and are “born bad.” This relieves the intelligentsia and upper-classes from any responsibility for the system, the alleviation of poverty, or supporting the public tools, such as education, to help the poor escape the situation. Surely, a lesson for the modern world as well.

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[1] In an editorial written in the Wall Street Journal, playwright David Mamet wrote that the author’s work made him “vomit.” Mamet admits, however, that A Tale of Two Cities and A Christmas Carol are classics of English language literature. David Mamet, “Charles Dickens Makes Me Want to Throw Up,” Wall Street Journal, 22 July 2017. 

Signs

I know that the landscape is flat in western Ohio, but sometimes signs are seemingly redundant. Hills are a matter of perspective: in Ohio a slight rise constitutes a hill; in Pennsylvania, hills rival mountains in size. I chuckled when, while driving on Shrine Road in Miami County, Ohio, I came across a sign that told drivers that the “hills blocks view.” It reminded me of one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings, often used while she was watching television, “You’re a pain, but I cannot see through you.” I appreciate the sentiment that the sign was placed to caution drivers about obstructed views, but could not resist thinking, “How could the hill be so mean?” 

Odd Sightings Along the C&O Towpath

Part of my walking regime is to find new, and interesting, places to walk. I try, as much as possible, to vary the locations of my perambulations. Even when I repeat locations, it is in the hope of seeing new things, variations, wildlife, the evolution of a landscape. A particular walk on the C&O Canal towpath, in early December, was memorable because of the numerous odd things I encounter in the space of just a few hours.

A buzzard stands guard of an abandoned house
on Dam 5 Road

Within the first mile of my walk that Saturday afternoon, I saw a buzzard perched atop an abandoned house, two young deer trying to figure out how to simultaneously run away from me and get out of the gully that had once been the canal bed, and then, bizarrely, I came across a woman walking a goat. From a distance I thought it was a large dog, but as the two approached I realized that it was not walking like a dog. The woman had nothing more than a rope around the goat's neck for a leash and its gait, from a distance, looked more like a deer than a canine. As I approached, the goat drew back with some astonishment as it beheld me. I offered the back of my hand, like I would for a dog, as a sign of friendliness.  It took a quick sniff, nuzzled, and then began to lick my hand. I remarked that it was a nice response. The woman, who remained silent throughout the encounter, laughed heartily and resumed their conveyance.

The C&O Canal Towpath, near mile marker 106

Because of its length (184 miles), it is easy to find parts of the towpath that are relatively isolated. I might occasionally come across a few people, but generally it is quiet. The large trees growing alongside the Potomac River makes for a reflective walk. It is quiet enough that wildlife sightings are common. A lone, scrawny wild turkey wanders across the path several yards ahead of me and disappears into the underbrush. I hear woodpeckers throughout my walk; because most trees no longer have leaves, they are easier to spot and identify. Yet, because it is hunting season, every five minutes or so, the repeated report of rifles echo down a river valley.

The reclusive pileated woodpecker

I stopped and watched the river for a few minutes, and chickadees begin to fuss at me. I concoct a story in my head that they are jealous that I spend too much time photographing woodpeckers instead of birds such as themselves. Yet, the instant I have them focused in my camera, they flit away.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, and clouds were beginning to obscure the sunlight. I picked up the pace. Although the sun was not to set for another forty-five minutes, I still had a mile to go and the light was beginning to fade. In a few minutes the sun would dip behind the hills on the West Virginia side of the Potomac. I glanced over at the base of the large sycamore tree adjacent to the trail. Is that what I think it is? Indeed, it was a pair of size 8 women's panties bereft of an owner or further clues. The mind reels at how the garment came to be deposited at the foot of the massive tree, along the towpath, in a national park.

Traveling a Fast Road

I prefer traveling the back roads; interstates offer a great deal of sameness and make for a tedious ride. The interstates are what Americans want to believe the country is: fast, commercial, egalitarian, clean, efficient, well-organized. The side roads are where we find the real United States, a much more complex society: full of small business, local history, cafes, diners, and people who are friendly not because they are being paid to be so. It is a good place to observe the angst of the country as well. It is not uncommon to see shuttered storefronts and closed local schools. Nevertheless, sometimes, for efficiency sake, we must travel those fast highways to be where we are supposed to be, when we are expected to be there.

Often, I find myself traveling west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, perhaps the closest thing to a compromise between the efficiency of an interstate and curiosities of an early twentieth century route. The turnpike was opened in 1940 and served as a model for the interstate system of highways that dominates the United States today. While it has limited access, the turnpike does have views and sights that make the drive entertaining and interesting. Thus, there are two places near Somerset, both of which capture my imagination in different way, and serve as mental waypoints for my journey.

An old brick structure that is sits closer to the road than would probably be allowed in the modern construction, conjures images of travel from days past. While driving through the countryside just east of Somerset, I can catch a glimpse of this evocative old structure and imagine it to be an old inn, perhaps from the 19th-century. Perhaps it was a railroad hotel; but there are no railroad tracks nearby. Maybe the turnpike took the place of an older road which this inn served. Or, perhaps this is just an old farmhouse, with an interesting design, and I have let my imagination get the best of me. Each time I drive through this section of the turnpike, I take a quick peak, and the building sparks questions in my mind: How can I find out more? What would have been here before the turnpike was built? This is why I probably enjoy this part of the drive so much. The building (the inn) gives me a pleasant distraction from the mind-numbing monotony of interstate driving.

"Cranberry House," near Somerset, PA

After passing the structure numerous times, I began making notes about its location and calculating an investigation. I was able to determine that the structure was located near the village of Wells, adjacent to Cranberry Road. A nice name I thought; in my mind, I have named the structure Cranberry House.  Its location is, decidedly, on private property. Yet, the bridge on Cranberry Road, which traverses the turnpike, affords a vantage point to observe and photograph the building. There is, of course, a temptation to research and learn more. But maybe it is more entertaining to create stories in my head about what it might have been.

Birds atop the globe

Just a few miles down the road is a structure that offers a great deal of mirth. A large tower, with a globe atop, marks the headquarters for Jenny Steam Cleaning Products. The globe is noticeable and attracts attention from passing motorists. What catches my attention, why I make sure I look every time I pass, is that there are always birds, specifically pigeons, who perch on top of the globe. In all kinds of weather, and every season, as I pass the Somerset exit, I take a quick look at the revolving globe to make sure there are birds, slowly spinning, watching the busy humans, as they travel the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Philadelphia Streets by Night

It is not late, but it feels like it is. In mid-November, the sunset in Philadelphia is at 4:45PM. Walking along Ludlow Street, adjacent to St. John the Evangelist Church, it was difficult not to acknowledge my own privilege. Beneath a scaffolding structure, sleeping bags, blankets, plastic bags, and winter coats were strewn on the sidewalk. Several human beings were nestled, half buried, among the piles of materials used for bedding. When I was a boy scout, I had subzero sleeping bag from an army surplus store for winter camping. I am sure, on that sidewalk, there were many who would have gladly used it on this night. It is easy to avert one’s eyes when you see people in need navigating a city during the day; however, seeing half a dozen or so lonely people, huddled together, preparing to sleep rough on a cold night, is difficult to ignore. As humans, we all need something; some need more than others.

While walking in Philadelphia, I often find that the soundtrack in my head is primarily comprised of Bruce Springsteen singing about the streets of Philadelphia. Such was the case on this evening. Being a flâneur at night is not necessarily dangerous, but the deep shadows create a sense of mystery while roaming a city. Perhaps the most dangerous element of such a walk is the likelihood of tripping on uneven sidewalks. But the darkness obscures people, things and intentions. At the same time, it lowers inhibitions for some.

Walking down a residential street, I passed a woman smoking a cigarette outside her front door. I was having difficulties finding my destination, I had an incorrect address it turns out, so I passed her twice during my search. She looked at me nonchalantly, with her left hand propped against the doorjamb and her right hand caressing her cigarette. As I passed her front window, I noticed that the only source of light was toward the back of her house and her austere living room was lit indirectly. There was no one else at home, I imagined. She appeared to be in no hurry to finish her cigarette, was waiting for no one in particular, and had nowhere to go. My quick espy of her, wondering if she was about to face a lonely Saturday night, led me to consider Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis for the next few blocks.

I was to meet A & M for a drink at a local bar, Dirty Franks at 13th and Pine, which has a long history beginning with its opening a month prior to the end of prohibition. [A story for another time perhaps]  In the dark it was difficult to discern any sign, and I was already confused about the location. I watched a young couple in the mid-twenties, walk into this building and figured it had the be the place. It is a windowless structure with a drawing of Frank Sinatra, the young version, on the side of the building. Upon entering, I encountered the same young couple being compelled to show their identity to demonstrate they were of age. A bouncer, who was old enough to make me wonder if he could manage a brawl should one occur, was closely inspecting their driver’s licenses. When the couple were granted admission, I reached for my wallet, and the bouncer gruffly barked, “If you must!” I am not as young as I used to be.

The bar has a long, horseshoe shaped bar and wooden booths that were constructed when the average person was smaller than today. Harkening back to decades of history, Dirty Franks still has pinball machines, dart boards, and dozens or pictures and artifacts collected over the years. I took a seat at an empty booth and waited for A & M to arrive. The Saturday night chatter, facilitated by the social lubricant of alcohol, was lively and robust. A woman with dark hair, sitting at the bar just a few feet from me at the bar, was relaying a story about a recent evening that included drinking. The culmination of her story was, upon returning home, she decided to forego dinner and to have a bath instead. She woke up the next morning, naked in her bathtub, with no water. From the volume of her voice, and the expletive-laden description of that night, I imagined that she might have a similar story to tell the following Saturday night.

A & M breezed into the bar a few minutes later. After drinks were ordered, perfunctory questions about dinner, shopping and families were asked, our attention was distracted by the arrival of a French bulldog at the booth next to ours. The dog in question was quite popular. Since it was the cutest, and only canine, in the bar, it became the subject of several selfies with fellow patrons. M became absorbed by the plight of a hapless woman, desperately trying to attract the attention of a couple of men, while learning how to play darts. Because I had my back to drama, M gave me a play-by-play description of the scene that rivaled several sports announcers. But soon she grew quiet and continued to observe without a word.

The bar began to fill up. The effects of alcohol began to kick in. Sing-alongs and serenades punctured the buzz of bar conversations. One man, DeVaughn, who had been sitting at the bar for a while, saw an empty seat at our booth and insinuated himself in our conversation. I am quite sure he saw us as easy marks for free drinks and a little pocket money. After he enquired about out marital status (all married, but not to each other), he told us a confusing story about the last time he had been in Dirty Franks. He said that an eight-year old had been singing karaoke, an odd occurrence no doubt. He marveled that she was allowed in the bar; I wondered why this bar would have karaoke. DeVaughn began a story about how a guy, someone he trusted, had just stolen his wallet. His story continued with that he would not be able to be able to get any money until Monday. M snapped out of her trance of studying hapless women learning to play darts, or pretending not to know how, to announce that it was time for us to go. I was ready to hear the twisted machinations of a story that led to the guy needing money. I was willing to buy him a drink and slide him a dollar or two. M was not going to have any of it. We excused ourselves and made our way back out onto the cold streets in this city of brotherly love.

Walking back to our hotel, we passed a late-night cookie and dairy shop, situated adjacent to an adult toy store. Warm cookies and milk before bedtime is a siren call for many, including my companions. There is something genius about a company that will deliver warm cookies and cold milk to college students until 3AM. I am unsure about the success of the delivery part of the business, but there was a long line for cookies and ice cream. We all went in, but I declined an offer of cookies and/or ice cream. Soon, a group of self-described “parents from the suburbs” entered. The three couples were enjoying themselves having dinner and exploring establishments that were unlikely to be found in sedate suburban neighborhoods. One of the men was chuckling about the irony of the sex shop next door to a storefront selling milk and cookies. A woman, with dark bobbed hair, stood next me and began a conversation. One of the men asked where her husband was, she nodded that he was outside eating ice cream. We continued our small talk, as she was curious about the nature of the establishment. She picked up the glossy piece of paper that served as a menu, and asked, “What would you recommend? The chocolate chip, macadamia nut, or the vibrator?” I was being baited; nonplussed I replied, “It really depends on what you are in the mood for.” Within seconds, her husband came in and was ready for more food. He began to engage me in conversation, and his wife grew quiet.

A & M had their late-night treat and we continued our journey back to the hotel. M was put off by the softness, and therefore messiness, of her warm cookie, She wrapped it up and the cookie somehow found its way into my coat pocket. Once again, we passed those sleeping outside St John the Evangelist. 

Photographing the World

A historical marker on Chestnut Street, in central Philadelphia, commemorates the place where the earliest photograph created in the United States occurred. Taken on 25 September 1839, Joseph Saxton captured, with a crude lens and a cigar box, an image of the Central High School for Boys. It was not the first photograph in the world. The previous month, there was an announcement in France that Daguerre the successful capturing and saving of a photograph.

The simple sign on Chestnut, a busy city street in Philadelphia, does not allude to the monumental cultural impact these early experiments had on our world. Today, the primary feature on our telephones today is a camera; we live in a time where photographs and moving images are ubiquitous. Yet, we rarely consider the lasting impacts and the changes in society that photography has had.

The invention of photography allows us to capture a moment in time. It is an artifact of documentarian efforts. We capture a moment in space and time as a visual reminder of people, places and things. Prior to the invention of photography, we had to rely on words and artistic representations, such as paintings and sculptures, for documentation. Almost incomprehensible today is a fact that we have no photographs of George Washington and a handful of photographs of Abraham Lincoln. There are no photographs of the Irish Famine (1845-1850), but numerous images and videos of the Rwandan Genocide (1994). 

At first, very few people had access, or could afford, to have photographs made. Early on in photography, because of exposure times, the subject had to remain motionless for several seconds to capture a clear image. The equipment and materials were delicate and, sometimes, difficult to handle. For example, the last portrait of Abraham Lincoln had only one print made from the original glass negative, after which the negative was discarded because it was cracked. But because of the limited availability of cameras in the nineteenth century, the rise of momento mori photography, the photographing of deceased loved ones and family members as a souvenir. While the photographs may appear disturbing to us today, in many instances, they were the only images families would have had of individuals.

Krauss Photo Shop (Port Jervis, NY)
established 1907

As camera became increasingly popular, an entire industry emerged to develop negative and make prints. Small towns would have places, often drugstores, where people could take their film to be developed. Rather than the instantaneous gratification of phones and digital cameras, we would have a week or so to wait for our prints to return. Opening the envelope that contained prints was a chance to briefly relive the captured events over again.

In the twenty-first century, with billions of people having cameras in some form or another, and with the popularity of documenting events, from the momentous to the mundane, we have reached a point where virtually the entire planet, and most of its human inhabitants, have been recorded through photographs. It is impossible to know how many times we have been photographed in our lives. When I was a Boy Scout growing up in Louisville, parking cars on Derby Day, a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, rolled down the window of her car, leaned out and took a picture of me holding a sign advertising our parking spaces for five dollars. One of my friends turned to me and said, “You’ve just made someone’s photo album!” I think about this event often, especially while traveling in touristy areas. I like to consider how many times I have inadvertently appeared in the background (or foreground) of someone treasured photograph of a monument, church, building, landscape, or friends and family.

LPQ, 12 Nov 2017

Our photographs do not tell a complete story, however. I can take a photograph of a restaurant where I enjoy breakfast; a place where I feel inspired to write. But within seconds, what I have captured on my smart phone can change dramatically. I captured an orderly restaurant, neatly arranged and waiting for customers. Within two minutes of the capturing of that image, a French-speaking couple and their three young children inhabit the table that is the center of the picture. The scene instantly becomes populated with people; the orderly table becomes disarranged as the children explored and inspected the condiments and decorations. It disrupts what the restaurateurs, and perhaps customers, believed was aesthetically pleasing. I find it interesting that this scene as well is probably worthy of recording, but it is not ethical to do so without consent. The propriety of privacy matters when the people, especially children, are the subject of the photograph.

I am very fond of photography and photographs. But these images are not always sufficient in telling stories. Near the historical marker where Saxton created that first American photograph, on an early Sunday morning in November, I watch two different men carefully scouring the sidewalk, looking for cigarette butts that still contains minuscule amounts of tobacco in an effort to collect enough to create a makeshift cigarette of their own. Another man, clad in a black knit hat and a blue flannel shirt, was working diligently using a pocket knife to pry loose a penny that had been pressed down into the asphalt when cars had runover it. He repeated watched the traffic light at the end of the block so that he could gauge whether he had a few seconds to work the coin loose. I do not feel comfortable capturing images such as these. As intriguing as I found the story, I do not find it necessary or desirable to photograph these individuals. As evocative as these photographs might have been, the process of storytelling requires more than a photograph. It requires context. A good storyteller, like George Orwell, examining and relaying the stories of the desperate poor in Paris and London during the 1930s, gives us a fuller understanding of these lives. It helps to explain what is not observed in the photograph.

Cobh, the Titanic, and the Lusitania

Because it sits near the entrance to Cork harbor, Cobh’s history is intimately tied to a history of shipping. Two famous ship disasters loom large in its history. The connection between the Titanic and Ireland is substantial. Built in the dockyards of Belfast, its last port of call was Cobh (then known as Queenstown) just four days before striking an iceberg and sinking. It is difficult to comprehend how large the ship was and how monumental the disaster. Today in the shipyards of Belfast, you can walk around an outline of where the ship was built; a walk around the decks would have provided good exercise for the passengers. So large was the ship, that the loss of life was substantial and trying. Well over a century later, in order to make a comparison, it is tempting to say that a major airline disaster might be equivalent. Yet, the size of the ship meant that it would mean ten aircrafts crashing to equal the number people affected. The passengers included both the super-wealthy and people desperate to migrate to the United States to start a new life. Certainly, there are many of us who travel across the Atlantic that cannot imagine the level of service or quality of food available to the passengers, even in second and third class. Traveling in coach class in airplanes in the twenty-first century is not the equivalent of traveling third class on the Titanic.

The Titanic captures our imagination because of the stories involved. Certainly, because it was so big, so luxurious, we remember the opulence of a time gone by. There are not many of photographs of the ship. The Cobh Heritage Centre contains a few photographs from Frank Brown, who was among the seven who disembarked from the Titanic at Queenstown. His photographs give us a peek into a place where few experienced; a ship being used, rather than architectural photographs of a completed project. The final set of 123 passengers boarded in Queenstown. The Titanic would only sail once, and most of the people on board would face a harrowing experience, many losing their lives. Like many dramatic events, the loss of the Titanic is often reduced to statistical numbers in order to demonstrate the scale of the tragedy. But these numbers rob the victims of their stories, which reminds us that these were actual people. For instance, boarding at Queenstown was Dennis Lennon and Mary Mullen, who were eloping to America. Jeremiah Burke, during his final minutes, would write a message of farewell to his family and friends and place it in a bottle, which came ashore in Dunkettle. There were also backstories to the Titanic that reflect national identities yesterday and today. Built by Irish laborers, at the time some expressed concerns about the quality of workmanship of those who worked on the great ship.  A t-shirt available in the local tourist shops in Belfast reads: “Titanic – built by Irishmen. Sunk by an Englishman.”

Titanic Memorial Park, Cobh, Ireland

I began a walk in Cobh under mostly sunny skies, yet by the time I got to the Titanic Memorial Gardens pesky sprinkles had begun. While exploring the area, the rain turned to a downpour and I sought shelter under a narrow arch. The rapidly changing weather prompted a resident to use an oft repeated and apt saying. As the rain became heavier and more persistent, a grandfather who had been enjoying a stroll while his grandson was ineffectually throwing a boomerang. I wondered if it was a gift from a relative who had emigrated to Australia after the financial crisis. The gentleman, seemingly kind and patient, called to his charge to hurry along, “Come on. It's raining, lad.” He sighed, as if he lamented the interruption of his walk saying, “Aye. Four seasons in one day again.”

While you might consider the sinking of the Titanic a disaster borne of hubris, the sinking of RMS Lusitania is more directly related to humans’ inability to get along. The Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat off old Head of Kinsdale, 25 miles west of Queenstown. Nearly 1200 people died when the ship was sunk and the event had a dramatic effect on propaganda, public opinion, and the course of World War I. Survivors and bodies from the Lusitania were brought to Queenstown. Completely overwhelmed some of the survivors were taken in by local residents. It was the year before the Easter Rising and Queenstown, the name of Cobh prior to Irish independence, was to remain a part of the British Empire for the next seven years.

Lusitania Memorial (Cobh)

In the local museum, a letter from Winifred Hull, a thirty-three-year-old British survivor, living in Winnipeg, to the Swanton family who housed her in the aftermath of the sinking is illuminating and distressing. In it she expresses deep regret for not writing sooner; however, it is clear to the reader she has been traumatized by the events. Hull counts herself lucky because her friends lost family members during the incident. She writes that every time she cogitates about the events her hands begin to shake. When she does compose the letter, eighteen days afterwards, she writes: “Will any of us ever forget, I wonder, I think not. But neither, I am sure, shall we ever forget the wondrous kindness shown to us, who survived that awful experience by the people of Queenstown, and by yourselves particularly to my friends and myself.” I was struck, in the middle of such tragedy, people often remember the most mundane things. Hull agonizes about not returning Mrs. Swanton’s coat sooner.

Mass grave marker for Lusitania victims

I walked to the Old Church Cemetery, just outside of Cobh, where there are 169 victims from the Lusitania buried. By the afternoon the weather had cleared up and it was a pleasant walk. This was the area of town where several local residents would do their shopping. Several boys were jumping the fence across the small path that separated the cemetery and their local football (soccer) practice field. Otherwise, I saw very few people. Most of the Lusitania victims are buried in mass graves at the west end of the cemetery. Three mounds are each marked by four Irish yew trees. As the centenary of the sinking and the First World War passes, I found myself wandering about the relevance of the events and memories to future generations. Among the other graves in the Old Church Cemetery was the British doctor who had administered to Napoleon during his exile on St. Helena. The Battle of Waterloo, which led to Napoleon’s exile, took place a hundred years prior to the sinking of the Lusitania. Yet, to most people today Napoleon is a footnote of history. A hundred years on, the Lusitania and the First World War will likely become the same. 

Early Fall, along US Route 13

The wonderful part of living in the mid-Atlantic is that during September and October the weather is incredible.  There is a great propensity of crystal blue skies, the temperature is either cool with a warm sun or warm with a cool breeze, and long shadows are a harbinger of the coming autumn. It is not uncommon to find roadside stands offering travelers pumpkins, mums, and corn mazes for entertainment.

We were traveling north on US Route 13 in Delaware. Angie, ever watchful for interesting things for us to explore, saw a sign, along the highway, for the Christian Church of Seafood. My mind started considering the interesting dogmatic contortions of theology that might be associated with such a congregation. I was beginning to consider scenarios such as the church was founded by fishermen; or, more bizarrely, a sacrament involved some edible piscatory items, perhaps involving five loaves of bread. That was, until I realized that we were in the town of Seaford, Delaware, and Angie had misread the sign, a mistake I usually make. 

Ocean City in Neon

The Empress Motel at Ocean City

At the eastern terminus of US Route 50, in Ocean City, Maryland, several motels have retained their accoutrements of a bygone era. The remaining neon signs, which adorn the main thoroughfares, harken back to a time when most vacations along the shore were taken in station wagons and focused on long days at the beach. Although there have been several high-rise hotels constructed in recent years, the entire boardwalk is an exercise in Americana. Food stands, games, amusements, restaurants, bars and motels dot the wooden boardwalk that stretches two and one-quarter miles along the Atlantic Ocean. It is a populist place, replete with cheap souvenirs and t-shirts advertising all manner of things and beliefs.

The first hotel built in Ocean City, the Atlantic Hotel, was constructed in 1875, and within a few years trains would deliver travelers to the shore. The post-Second World War economic boom and the completion of the Bay Bridge, facilitating automobile traffic from the Washington-Baltimore metropolitan area. Generations of family began using Ocean City as an annual vacation destination and it is common to hear long-term residence of Mid-Atlantic states to refer in reverential nostalgia about their summers spent at the Maryland shore.

The Alamo Motel on US Route 50, Ocean City

As I was photographing the Alamo Motel, the owner asked if I were coming into the office, presumably to secure a room for the night. I sheepishly admitted that I was only photographing his neon sign. I asked him if he knew the age of the 20-foot sign. He had been at the hotel for twenty-six years, and knew that the hotel itself was opened in 1946, but was unsure of the age of the sign. He said that the original owner was one of the Flying Tigers and had returned to the area to open the motel. I had noticed the hotel and its sign a few years back while driving through and had made a mental note that, if I were ever in town again after dark, I would stop and photograph the sign. He seemed to appreciate my story as he finished putting out food for his 21 cats. He and his friend and he were getting ready to settle in for a chat on a very pleasant September evening. The cats were all beautiful, and I reached over to pet a calico on the head; after a brief hesitation, she warmed to me. The owner indicated that all of the cats were fat and happy. “And spoiled,” his friend added. 

Wanshang Huaniao Market

When we travel, we want to see something different, something out of the ordinary. The Wanshang Huaniao Market, otherwise known as the Flower and Bird Market in Shanghai, is a place many of us would not recognize. The interior of the market are multiple stalls of plants and animals, of every variety. Entering the market is to be faced with a cacophony of crickets chirping mixed with bird song. It is amazing to think that some crickets can cost up to $1000; such an animal would need to fetch my slippers and bring the mail in each day. The smell of animals is persistent, although not as unpleasant as you might first expect. Yet, the market, I suspect, is disconcerting for many Westerners. It is not difficult to find a small bird or animal who has succumbed to the eat or dehydration. Nevertheless, the uniqueness and variety intrigues the visitor. There are small fishes of multiple designs and colors; variously sized crickets, from nearly microscopic to as big as a child’s hand; kittens and puppies in very small cages; and, birds too numerous to count. While I am not given to buy many souvenirs, where else can you buy small porcelain dishes used for feeding and watering one’s pet cricket? 

The Capitol Theatre (Rome)

The auditorium of the Capitol Theatre (Rome, NY)

The Capitol Theatre, Rome, New York, is a stellar example of the grand cinemas of early twentieth century America. Opened in December 1928, with the feature film Lilac Time, the Capitol had a seating capacity of 1741 and was the largest and most important theatre in the city. It was substantially renovated in 1939, in an art deco motif. The Capitol operated as a movie theater until its closure in 1973, but reopened as a civic center in 1985. Since 2003 the theater has been home to Capitolfest, an annual festival of classic and restored motion pictures. The festival provides a unique opportunity to see interesting films, as they were meant to be seen, on a big screen, in a darken theatre, with other people, and with very few distractions.

In early December 1928, as the theater was preparing to open, the local newspaper, the Rome Sentinel was cover declining health of the British monarch, George V, who had a serious health crisis as he suffered from septicemia that complicated his pulmonary problems. At times, there were almost gruesome details about the health of the monarch. Attention in the local newspaper was divided between the opening of the Capitol and the prospect that the heir to the British crown, the future Edward VIII, would marry Lady Anne Maud Wellesley. He would not; instead, later, choosing the American Wallis Simpson, creating even more sensational headlines.

The end of the row U in the upper balcony

As the Capitol prepared for its opening, there was gossip surrounding the city’s link to Hollywood. There was a rumor that the star of the theater’s first film, Colleen Moore, spent time in Rome as a student at the Academy of Holy Name, while her father was a managing engineer at the Rome Brass and Cooper Mills. In a telegram to the newspaper, Moore said that she was living with her uncle, who managing editor of the Chicago Tribune, in Chicago, while her parents were living in Rome. No doubt a blow to the prestige of Romans.   

When the local press was given a preview of the theater a few weeks before its premiere screening, an unknown local reporter for the Rome Sentinel wrote, “To attempt to describe the beauty of the Auditorium of the Capitol Theater is futile; the interior of theater must be seen to be appreciated.” Today, it remains a beautiful theater, but with some scars received during a long life. Maintaining a theater that is close to ninety years old is a difficult task. Nevertheless, it is a real treat to visit and spend a weekend basking in the grand old theater during Capitolfest. Spending a long weekend with a couple of hundred film enthusiasts is both educational and interesting. The festival gathers four to five hundred people to the 1700 seat theater over the course of the second weekend in August, and several are elderly. At some point during the weekend, usually on the Friday evening, it is not uncommon to have three or four people snoring loudly, echoing through the cavernous auditorium.

One of the points of pride for the Capitol today is its 1928 Moller Organ, installed as an original piece of equipment. The opening of theater coincided with the beginning of sound films. The theater had equipment for both sound films and the Moller organ, which was not used until a month after its opening. According to the theater’s managing director, records indicate that the organ was only used to accompany about twelve films prior to the beginning of Capitolfest in 2003. The theater opened just in time to take advantage of the excitement of sound films, and silent films were regulated to older, inferior cinemas.

The screen from row EE in the upper balcony

The upper balcony, which has not undergone a renovation or restoration any time recently, is an archive of historical curiosities. Someone pointed out to me, years ago, that a few seats retained hat racks. In the days when it was unfashionable for men to venture in public with an uncovered head, bolted to the bottom of the seat was a metal circle that would hold most kinds of hats. Wearing a hat in the theater would not be appropriate, so a man could safely store his Stetson, or other type of hat, tucked away beneath him during a movie. In the very upper reaches of the balcony, the last row EE indicates thirty-one rows of seat, old carpet still adorns the stairway. If the carpet is original to the theater, which is a possibility, then it was from the Bigelow Carpet Company of Enfield, Connecticut.

The city of Rome was settled along the pathway known as the Oneida Carrying Place, where the Iroquois people transported boats and goods from the Mohawk River, which leads to the Atlantic Coast, to Wood Creek, which leads to the Great Lakes, and vice versa. Historically, this portage area was of great strategic value and led to the founding of Fort Stanwix (1758-1762), just a couple of blocks from the Capitol. Subsequently, construction of the Erie Canal, connecting Albany and Buffalo, began in Rome on 4 July 1817. The city is home to many other historical landmarks that make it a fun place to explore.

Projector room

I have become increasingly familiar with Rome because of my attendance at Capitolfest each August. The center of the city has been devastated by a declining economy and urban blight. Other than the Capitol, some churches, and few stray buildings, there are very few structures remaining from the pre-Second World War period. One of the exceptions is Eddie’s Paramount Diner, located on West Dominick Street, which was opened in 1941. While the exterior of the building has had brick façade built around it, the interior still boasts the stainless steel and wood fixtures, which appear to be original, of a diner from the 1940s. Each year, I usually try to have breakfast on Friday mornings before many of the festival’s attendees arrive. Otherwise, Eddie’s is filled with several people interested in extending their nostalgia trip from the theater to their dining experience. It is a good place to do so; it looks very much like a diner from a film of the 1930s or 1940s, such as Sullivan’s Travels. There’s something satisfying about having breakfast of a couple of fried eggs, sunny-side up, with hash browns, prepared on a flattop grill in front you, and a cup of coffee served in a ceramic mug. Reading a local newspaper, while listening to the chattering, gossip and joshing of regulars, adds to the ambiance.

In addition to the lack of older buildings, several of the buildings constructed during the 1960s and 1970s in the downtown section are under occupied or abandoned. Over my years of attending Capitolfest, particularly since the 2008 financial crisis, I have watched as the center of Rome become increasingly depopulated of businesses. The surrounding residential neighborhoods appears to be hold their own. But the loss of the Griffiss Air Force Base in 1995, and the subsequent economic downturn in the region, have done damage to the city.

The Erie Canal

The Erie Canal from Lock 21 (near New London)

When I was in Miss Underwood’s fourth grade class, our music lesson was one of the highlights of the week. One of our favorite songs was “Low Bridge” (The Erie Canal Song). As fourth-graders we were still not very self-conscious. Therefore, we sang the song unabashedly and at the top of our lungs. Shouting, “Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal!”  It is one of those songs that is a cherished childhood memory. When the song reached the chorus, we would once again yell, “Low Bridge! Everyone down!” Even today, when I hear references to the Erie Canal, like an earworm, the song filters back into my mind. I can’t but help to recall the opening lines, “I’ve got a mule, her name is Sal.” I find myself, for a few days afterwards, still playing the song in my head on a loop.

A gold finch along the canal

As a fourth grader, I am not sure that that I had a sense of what it meant to be traveling from Albany to Buffalo. I knew that the song was in New York, but that could have been Mars to me. Running 363 miles from Albany to Buffalo, as the song indicates, the canal was a technological triumph of the early nineteenth century. Over the past few years, I have taken a few walking excursions along the Erie Canal. I have thought about the hard life those who worked along the canal, and all canals in the eastern United States, must have had. Today, these paths are primarily for pleasure with blacktop that makes the journey easier. But the journey, hauling barges and battling insects, must have been very difficult. Even though I know this, I can help but thinking of Sal, and the extraordinary adventures of the Erie Canal.

John J. McGraw

John McGraw Monument, Truxton, NY

Traveling on New York State Route 13 in Truxton, the road makes a long, sweeping bend of nearly ninety degrees. At the apex of that bend there is a white stone monument with a baseball atop, easily missed to those not paying attention. The monument honors baseball great John McGraw, a player and manager elected to the Hall of Fame, who was born in the village in 1873.

McGraw played in the major leagues between 1891 and 1906, and went on to coach the New York Giants, first as a player-manager, from 1902 to 1932. His career was legendary; he was considered one of the best hitters of the dead ball era. Among a younger generation of baseball fans, I think that McGraw is largely forgotten. He did not hit a lot of homeruns, there are very few, if any, films of him playing. McGraw has been reduced to a baseball immortal that you read about.

The monument is a symbol of the importance of baseball in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the United States. It reflects the influence the game had on binding small communities across the country to a game, stories and narratives. It helped to create a sense of narratives, the statistics used to describe the game were easily transcribed into newspapers. Because many people played the game, as it was easily accessible, many could translate those newspaper articles into an imaginary highlight reel. The game also allowed for a narrative in which a small-town boy, in this case from Truxton, New York, could make good and succeed; his deeds and character would be rewarded.

McGraw Grandstand from the infield

On 8 August 1938, a game was played between the Giants and the local team from Truxton to raise money for the monument. The game was presumably played at the field now named in McGraw’s honor. I stopped by the field to find grass mowed, but the infield overtaken by weeds and grass. It obviously had not been used as a baseball field in quite some time, despite bases still be affixed in the ground. The small grandstand, which bears the native son’s name, is in good repair but not used. Indeed, Truxton itself, show signs of decline. It reflects the place of baseball in our society.  

Raspberry Picking

I was walking on the Cumberland Valley Rail Trail early in July, when I happened upon a young Mennonite girl of about eight years and her younger brother, who was no more than five. On my way out, I passed the two riding their bike. She was wearing a green patterned dress, her long blond hair in two braided pigtails; her brother, in suspenders and a hat that covered his shortly cropped blond hair.  We exchanged brief greetings as we passed and I noticed, as unobtrusively as possible that the little guy was unsure of his bike and working very hard to keep up with his sister.

On my return trip, I saw their bikes parked near a small path that ran off the trail. As I neared area, the girl appeared with a big smile on her face, carrying an empty plastic tub. I asked if she were picking raspberries, and she replied, “Yep, if we can find ‘em!” Given their empty container, and her brother’s mischievous grin, they had found the raspberries, they just never made it to the pail. 

My Breakfast with Mel

Meals are particularly good times for discovery and traveling, domestically or internationally. It is an event that affords many opportunities to learn about food, culture, and ourselves. Melanie and I embarked on a tour of food places in the old neighborhood near the Xintiandi subway stop the morning after my flight from Newark to Shanghai. She proposed that we have a breakfast of street food in the traditional places, where there are no menus and very few people speak English. It was a particularly sweltering morning, with high humidity and 90 degrees (F) at 9AM. Combined, our knowledge of Mandarin was limited, with my vocabulary primarily limited to two words (“hello” and “thank you”). Nevertheless, we a good attitude we ventured to the street.

Our first stop was a popular place on Jiang Road where there was an assortment of fried dough with various fillings and toppings. The fillings remained a mystery until we started eating, and sometimes remained a mystery even after that. The food, already prepared, remained surprisingly hot atop what appeared to be homemade stoves constructed of barrels. Our methodology in ordering food was to point to items that looked good and indicate, with hand gestures, how many we wanted. We picked out enough that, under normal circumstances, would have been enough for A big breakfast. The woman serving us named a price, and I was both surprised and impressed when Melanie correctly understood that the cost was 13¥ (about $1.91).

We took our fried bounty to the second adjacent storefront where there are about four or five small tables with stools. Mel wondered, given the handbook we ordered, if we were supposed to sit in the seating area. All the other people sitting there were eating congee (rice porridge). Nevertheless, it was unlikely that anyone would ask us to leave. I surmised that they thought I didn’t know what I was doing, which is completely correct.

One of the fried dumplings was filled with pork (I think) and was delicious; another I enjoyed was a fried bread, not dissimilar from naan, but not as sweet. There was not anything to drink, so after we finished we went down the street for bottle of water at a tobacco and drink shop.

Our second destination was a narrow storefront on Hefei Road, where a woman made a pancake that was like a crepe. Using a round flattop grill, similar to one used in a crêperie, the woman took batter and spread it thin across the skillet with a wooden wedge tool that appeared to be homemade. It was about the size of her fist with a handle and a thin blade. As the pancake cooked, she cracked an egg on top, spread it across, added some assorted greens and a little bit of chili sauce for heat. Before folding it over, she took some prices of, what appeared to be, fried dough, place carefully across the crepe. This gave the pancake a texture, without adding any discernible flavor.

We walked along more of the streets, exploring shops, grocery stores, and a traditional medicine shop. On some of the more remote streets, there were communal washing machines and people playing cards. Old women swept the sidewalks with long straw brooms. Most of us have this image of a quickly modernizing China, which is completely true. Yet, many would be surprised that the several lilongs continue to have communal toilets. 

Our final stop, for breakfast anyway, was a small pastry shop on Huaihai Road that served a tasty curry turnover. By this time, however, we were both full. The heat of the day was beginning to have an effect and we retired to a coffee shop for drinks and air conditioning.

Walking in Ordos

We checked into the hotel in Ordos late at night following a long day. After spending an afternoon in the desert, I was tired, hot, sweaty and my skin was oily with residual sunscreen. Not able to figure out the password to the wifi, I made the trip back to the front desk to ask for help. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor where a party was in full swing. Several young people crowded onto the elevator backing me into a corner. Four young women, recognizing me as a westerner, crowded around.  They threw one young woman with glasses in front of me and during the ride she grew increasingly comfortable leaning against me. I was not feeling my freshest, and did not relish the opportunity to have someone overly close or taking photographs, especially without a shower. Inevitably, as the door closed, the young woman’s friends began to take pictures with their smart phones.

New apartment flats in the center of Ordos

It is not uncommon for people in China to request westerners to pose for photos or to take a picture as secretly as possible. This is especially true for people with blond hair or blue eyes. The practice happens more frequently outside of Beijing and Shanghai. In Inner Mongolia, I have had many such encounters. Most of the time I am happy to oblige; but on occasion, when one is not at their best, I am less enthused about participating in the practice. I faced my encounter on the elevator with a certain amount of resignation.

In part I was surprised about the number of people in the hotel because Ordos is famously known as a “ghost city.” A city of a little over half a million people, Ordos is a remarkably small city by Chinese standards. The bus ride into the city center took us through the district that looked to be a ghost district. Many high-rise buildings were clearly empty, and awaiting tenants. The center of the city was more lively and busy.

On my early morning walk the following day, I was interested to observe the city and the ghost city phenomenon. It was a pleasant morning, but my phone warned that the weather was cloudy and “unhealthy for sensitive groups.” To be sure, there was a thin fog that hovered over the city, probably from the coal industry that has fueled the economic boom of the region.

It was shortly after 6am when I started my walk from the hotel. Despite the early hour, there were several workers assiduously sweeping the streets with long straw brooms. It was very quiet, as opposed to the previous evening, the only the loud sound was of older men clearing their throats and spitting. I was continuing to feel like an outsider. A man drove by on his moped and nearly fell off as he continued to stare at me while driving.

I stopped for a few minutes at a park near the main police station. I began thinking about had little wildlife I had seen in Inner Mongolia.  The most common bird, by far, was sparrows and I remembered the fate of these birds during the Great Leap Forward in the late 1950s. In an attempt to modernize the country, from 1958 to 1962, the government called on citizens to attack the “four pests”: rats, flies, mosquitoes and sparrows. The sparrows were targeted because they ate grains especially rice. So many sparrows were killed it resulted in an ecological disaster because the birds ate a large number of insects as well.  

In the park there was a bridge that crossed a small creek on bridges that highlighted a pride in the community. A group of women, who were exercising in the park, formed a double circle. Most wore white pants, pink tops, and white gloves while stepping in place to do exercises coordinated to Chinese pop music. As I sat on a bench and surreptitiously watched the exercise, I noticed a woman in the distance doing the same exercises some fifty yards away. I made up stories in my mind that she might have been disowned from the group because of some indiscreet gossip or other communal infraction.  Meanwhile, some men and teenagers played basketball and badminton closer to the building.

Women (and a few men) exercising 

As I walked back to the hotel, to make sure I had breakfast before the bus left, I decided that Ordos had a façade of development that did not benefit everyone in the city yet. Lavish hotels and restaurants along the main thoroughfares hid more modest apartments in the center of most blocks. It is an area poised for a great future, or precariously clung to the hope that foreign visitors and deeper investments might bring prosperity for all. I found it difficult to believe that many international visitors would stay at the Meet You Hotel, which to me sounded more like a place for a liaison than an accommodation for tourists. My tour booked rooms at a very nice high-rise hotel, but just two blocks away was a small dwelling that used a blanket as a door with a hot plate and kettle just outside.

Walking in the Mongolian Grasslands

After spending a day in the Xilamuren Grassland, I awoke early to a contemplative walk before most others were stirring. The day before had been so busy that it is difficult to comprehend where I was exactly: the grasslands of Inner Mongolia. It was both exotic and normal. Not understanding the language and the barrage of different cultural symbols and traditions meant that I was fully aware of a very different place. Yet, there a sense of a normality as well.

Horses on the road

Shortly after leaving our camping site and began walking on the road, I happened upon seventeen horses, including several foals, meandering down the road toward me. Although most of the horses were on the opposite side of the road, I had some trepidation. I started to slow my pace, anticipating being in close contact with unfamiliar and legendarily semi-wild horses, a man on a dirt bike appears from nowhere and began to usher the horse with whistles, voice commands, and intimidation into an adjacent field. He had a pole, about the size of a long broomstick, that caught the horses on the back of their knees and cajoled the most obstinate into the prescribed behavior. The herd were soon in the field across the road; the man on the dirt bike disappeared, after he returned from the direction he came, without ever making eye contact.

Xilamuren Temple in the early morning mist

As I turned back for my return trip, the sun had risen higher in the sky and I cast a long shadow on the road. More local people have begun their diurnal activities. I saw my first car of the day, followed by two more, during the one-kilometer walk back to Mongolian Holy Land camp. In many ways, it is a walk like any other. People, everywhere, had routines. The landscape and fauna appear similar, but there are differences: the water bugs are larger than they would be in North America; the grass a little finer. As I entered the camp I meet two young Chinese women walking out. They were singing along to a song on their smart phone. I exchanged Ni-hao with one while to other surreptitiously snapped a picture of me.

Meeting A Chinese Police Officer

At a roadside rest stop on the Jingzang Highway, between Hohhot and Baotao, a police officer stood guard near the entrance to the toilets. As I approached the entrance with several Chinese travelers, it was clear the police officer had singled me out with a smile. I returned his smile and said “Ni-hao.” The officer straightened a little and gave me a salute as I walked by. 

On a Train from Vienna to Bratislava

In an otherwise quiet coach, a woman wearing a floral-patterned sundress, spoke with some vigor into her phone. Speaking in German, she was speaking too fast for me to understand the actual conversation, but the tone of her voice indicated she was agitated and exasperated. She held her long brown hair in one hand as she kept rapidly repeating phrases, two or three times over, indicating that she was emphasizing a point to her argument. Perhaps there was a tinge of embarrassment because she drew attention to herself on a train that was only about half full. It was Sunday, maybe Saturday night did not go well. I amused myself by remembering the opening scene of Before Sunrise, the seminal travel film, in which Jesse witnesses and argument on a train bound for Vienna and meets (and falls in love with) Céline after she explains the argument. In my version, the story playing out in reverse: the train was traveling away from Vienna and there were no romantic connections being made as a result of the argument.

When the train arrived in Bratislava, I wondered if the woman in the sundress was “escaping” for the day, running away if you will. What little I understood from the conversation, she wanted something from the person on the other end of the phone.  When we emerged into the antiquated, communist-era train station, I saw her, several feet in front of me, take out her phone and snap a picture of the sign across the exit that read: “Welcome to Slovakia.”

Tempelhofer Feld

Tempelhof was one of the oldest and most important airports in the world. Opened in 1923, it was particularly famous as being the focal point of the Berlin Airlift of 1948-49, when the Soviet Union denied Western Allies access to West Berlin in one of the first major crises of the Cold War. Cargo airplanes from several different countries landed at Tempelhof to provide provisions to the beleaguered city. Soon airmen, led by Gail Halvorsen began dropping pieces of candy attached to small parachute to the children of Berlin in an attempt to raise morale. Halvorsen would earn the name “Uncle Wiggly Wings” and the “Candy Bomber” because of his efforts. The airport remained a major transportation hub throughout the Cold War period, but closed in 2008. After its closure, and a campaign to retain the airport, it was decided that the airport and its runways should be used as a park. Today, in addition to a couple of “Grillplatz” (A BBQ area), the runways are used for human activities while most of the grass areas are used by wildlife, including several ground-nesting bird species.

I made the trip to Tempelhofer on the Pentecost holiday. Many people were taking advantage of the park despite the weather being overcast, cool and windy. I decided, as a novelty, to walk the entire length of the runway thinking about what a different perspective it was traveling the large concrete path by foot rather than by airplane. As I walked, there was a myriad of family stories going on around me on runway 27A: An older brother, or cousin, in his late teens is patiently teaching a girl of about eight how to ride a skateboard. A quarter of a mile further, I saw a father on rollerblades teaching his young daughter how to ride a bike. Several people were flying kites of various shapes and sizes.

There were several young men, joined by a small number of young women, drinking beer in the park. The sight of two or three men carrying a case or two of beer into a public park would probably we worrying to many Americans. Indeed, the amount of beer being consumed by a few people was staggering, and it is common to see men, with their backs to the crowds, urinating into the meadow where, I suspect, some of those thousands of nesting birds receive a not-so-nice surprise. Given the number of people who use the park, especially in the grill area, the amount of debris and trash is remarkable low. A similar park in the US would generate more litter. That is not to say that Tempelhofer is pristine, there are the occasional broken beer bottles on the runway, but it is remarkably cleaner than one would expect.