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? 

Walking with Cody

Many people will tell you that having a dog will increase the amount of your exercise. In my case, I am not so sure. Cody, a Shetland sheepdog, is a great dog, but his stamina and work ethic are not what they could be. He is a social dog, but he is not cutout to be the sheepherder he was bred to be. In fact, the last time a sheep bleated at him, Cody ran behind me to hide. The only reason he did not go further was because he was on the lead.

While I admit that he is a good companion, I estimate that walking three miles with Cody takes about twenty percent longer than without him. There are three general reasons for this claim that do not include bathroom breaks. First, Cody is a dog who likes to smell the flowers and other odoriferous items. I occasionally must turn around so that he will catch up. If I do not, there can be trouble. In the past, he has found smelly things, typically horse or cow manure, and wallowing in it is great fun. Once I took him for a walk before catching a flight that evening, because I had plenty of time. His great fun meant that I had to scramble to give him a bath before I had a hurried drive to the airport and missed dinner. It is one of the times I wished he could talk: “Cody, what are you thinking?” I would ask. I imagine his reply varies from “I was playing army and wanted to camouflage myself” to “You’re always telling me that I am a ‘stinky dog’ and I want to show you what stinky really is.”

Second, Cody likes to bring me sticks; but he never brings me good sticks to throw, just little twigs that easily break when applies any pressure whatsoever. Even if I could retrieve the sticks he brings, they are so light that it would be impossible to throw them any distance whatsoever. My standard response to Cody is, teasingly, “That is NOT a stick!” Then, according to Cody, it is imperative that I find a stick proper for throwing. Cody is so clueless that if he does not watch, he cannot find the stick I have just thrown. A wild search ensues to find a stick that bears any similarity to the one I have just thrown. Cody is bad at approximations and, therefore, he brings me another twig or he tries to drag a downed branch out of woods. We start the process again of trying to find an appropriate stick, which distracts us from our primary objective of walking. As I write this I realize it might be my primary objective, not his.

Finally, Cody is a popular and vain little dog. There is no doubt in my mind, when I take him for a walk, he is sure that everyone we meet along the way is there to see and greet him. He often hears phases, such as, “what a beautiful dog,” “oh, he is so cute,” and “what a cutie.” He knows exactly what these words mean because regularly sits, strikes his most enticing stares, and beckons the admirer (mostly women and children) to make a fuss over him. A local business owner in Dewey Beach, Delaware said that Shelties in general, and Cody in particular, had such an intense stare it made the restaurant owner embarrassed, as if he were naked in public. I am disturbed by the imagery; instead I think Cody tries to will people to pay attention to him. As he has gotten older he has become more resistant to walking more than two miles. Like a little kid, he hangs his head and lags far behind. At that point, I encourage him by incessantly saying, “come on” and “catch up,” all the while he looks pretty sad as I do so. But, if we happen upon an admirer, human or canine, he perks right up. He becomes frisky and there is a spring in his step. Cody will continue to prance until his admirer is out of sight.

Cody on a walk

One time, while staying at a hotel in Waterloo, Ontario, he was having trouble getting the hang of sliding glass doors to leave the hotel. During our initial twenty-four hours in the hotel, he dreaded going outside because he could never figure out how to judge when the door would open. Early on Saturday morning I took him down to the lobby and he was pulling his lead not to go out…until two young girls squealed, “look at the puppy,” and a young woman in a sundress rushed over to pet him. Then, to keep from disappointing his fans, he threw his head up, pranced across the marble floor, and out the sliding doors like a movie star. For the rest of the weekend, as soon as the elevator doors opened to the lobby, Cody would cavort out and across the lobby toward the door. As he did, he always gave a quick glance both left and right to see if there were any fans noticing him. When there were, he would make me stop and do a meet and greet session. Cody is never in a hurry to get anywhere.

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.”

More Dogs…

Champion Patrick of Ifold
(1923-1931)

I continue to be fascinated by the Anglo-American penchant for memorializing our canine friends in interesting and strange ways. I was touring the Ulster Museum, the national museum of Northern Ireland, when I happened upon Patrick, a massive taxidermy dog that stood about the height of my chest. Pattack was an Irish wolfhound, bred at Ifold Kennels in West Sussex and born on St. Patrick’s Day 1923. Reportedly, he was very famous in his day, accumulated national championships and sired many champion offspring. He died in 1931.

Former magazine model in her retirement years

As I have begun to notice and inventory dog monuments, I have mentally noted that there are not an equal number of places dedicated to cats. It seems that since the Ancient Egyptian civilization, cats have been maligned by poor publicity. Even Hollywood would prefer dogs over cats. However, when you think of the poses struck by dogs, as opposed to cats, one can see how dogs like Patrick, Bobby, or Station Jim might be more majestic that our feline friends. 

Morley's Dog

It was a cold and wintry February afternoon in Johnstown. An incredible snowstorm had just dumped a couple inches of snow on the city within minutes. While it was not conducive for walking outdoors, I decided to trek a few blocks to consider the statute of a dog I saw while driving into town. After finding a parking spot, I braved the high winds to inspect and photograph Morley’s Dog, a nineteenth century lawn ornament that has become famous in this central Pennsylvania town.

The dog originally sat on the front lawn of James Morley and was washed away in the famous Johnstown Flood of 1889. After the flood it found in a debris pile at the Stone Arch Bridge and returned to its owner. Various stories arose (some erroneously suggesting that the dog had saved people during the flood) and people grew fond of the statue. The dog was passed down through Morley’s family and finally donated to the city in the 1940s.

The dog had a cameo in the film Slap Shot, which was filmed in Johnstown in the 1970s. The statue has had to be repaired several times and its makers probably never intended for it to survive so long. Today, located at the corner of Main and Market Streets, the dog (a testament to our love of our canine friends) watches over the city. Or, at least what he can see looking over the snow. 

My Life with Trains (Part 2) Nostalgia

I grew up in a railroad family; both my father and my grandfather worked for the same small railroad, the Kentucky & Indiana Railroad, better known as the K&I. Before the final sale of the K&I in late 1981, my dad transferred to the L&N (Louisville and Nashville Railroad). Both of these railroads are no more. The L&N as a separate entity disappeared into the larger corporate name of CSX. The fortunes of the K&I, its workers and my grandfather were key topics of discussion in my early childhood.

Although the yards of the K&I are still in the Portland section of Louisville, the only substantial reminder of the old company is a railroad bridge, the K&I Terminal Bridge, from Portland to New Albany, Indiana. When I was growing up, we would often cross into southern Indiana over the bridge. I often remember it as a nerve-racking adventure. The bridge was high and the paths for automobiles were narrow. It seemed that there were only inches on either side for the car to pass through the blackened steel fences.

Lady watching the model train around our
Christmas tree (still from family 8mm film)

From my young perspective, the best thing to come from that old railroad was a dirty old dog. I do not actually remember it, but the family legend was that my dad called my mother and asked if it was alright to bring her home. When she arrived, the dog, which had been hanging around the yards for a few days looking for food was filthy. It took several baths to clean the oil and soot out of her fur. That dog, despite her humble beginning, would go on to become one of the legends of family. Given the name Lady, she became very protective of me. She climbed on top of my toy box each night and waited for me to go to sleep before creeping out of the room, signaling my parents that I was, indeed, asleep. She was a trusted, and loved, member of the family.

On another occasion the K&I yards offered an abortive miracle. My father, the religious man he was, was transfixed and perplexed by a question my brother once asked. We have driven down to the K&I yards so that my father could speak with my grandfather about something. (Perhaps it was a ruse to get out of the house) It had been a longstanding practice to see my grandfather at work. He was kind and always glad to see us; however, on this day, my brother and I were told to sit in the truck (a 1950 Ford Pickup) and wait because it was too dangerous to go in to the shop where my grandfather worked. While sitting there I asked my younger brother if he had noticed the little plastic crucifix that was propped up on the side of the building.

When my dad returned my brother asked, “Can we go around to the side of the building and see Jesus?” The look on my dad’s face was enough to tell me what he was thinking. Either that his young son was having visions of the Christ appearing at, of all places, the rail yards of the Kentucky & Indiana Railway, or he was having hallucinations with religious overtones. Either way, this was something monumental. I relished the moment for a split second. I enjoyed the confusion; the irony of something mundane being mistaken for something extraordinary. But in an instant, my dad gave me a look. All of the sudden I was being considered with suspicion. What had I done or said to lead my brother to assume that Jesus was inhabiting the side of a building at the K&I? My father’s stare became more focused on me, “What the hell is he talking about?”

I explained that there was a plastic crucifix on the side of the building where my grandfather worked. My dad drove around to look at it, one of the arms, the right one if I am not mistaken, was missing – probably broken off after a fall. My brother asked if we could have it and dad replied that he would rather buy us one. This one had been exposed to the elements and coal soot, and was broken.

Abandoned rail line behind the library in Lewes, Delaware

The disappearance and history of railroads continues to interest me. Although one of the great nineteenth century inventions, its utility and allure continues well into the twenty-first century. Railroad archaeology, abandoned stations, former right-of-ways converted into paths for walkers and cyclists, and historic excursion rides are all evidence of the profound effect the railroad industry has had on the modern world. For me, it is a reminder of a bygone, yet personal, past that evokes a great deal of nostalgia.

Berlin Zoo

Entrance to the Berlin Zoo

I have an ambivalent feeling about zoos as travel destinations. On one hand the animals are not free to roam their habitats and live a life that is natural to them. On the other, the animals are well-fed and protected from predators, disease and discomfort. With the decline of natural habitats, zoos around the world might be the place to save many species, at least until better solutions can be found. Nevertheless, over the years zoos have been an excellent place to take nieces, nephews and younger friends for an entertaining day out.

The Berlin Zoo opened on 1 August 1844 and was the first zoo in Germany, and the ninth in Europe. The animals were originally part of the menagerie of Prussian King Frederick William III. After his death, his heir (Frederick William IV) gave the animals and land for the construction of the zoo. After successful building campaigns and collection, the zoo faced a crisis during the Second World War. Prior to the war, the zoo had a population of 1196 mammals and 2516 birds. The zoo, along with the rest of Berlin, was heavily damaged and many buildings housing animals were destroyed. By the end of the war only ninety-one animals (mammals and birds) survived, including Knautschke, a male hippopotamus.

Born in in 1943, Knautschke was the only remaining hippo in the zoo after the war and became a favorite among visitors as a symbol of survival amongst the ruins of Berlin. It made international headlines in the 1950s when Knautschke was reunited with his mate Grete from the Leipzig zoo for breeding purposes. He lived until 1988 when he was seriously injured by his own son (Nantes) and had to be euthanized. The seemingly quixotic monument to Knautschke is a statue that stands at a heavy-used intersection of the park, just outside the hippopotamus enclosure.

The statue of Knautsche

Knautschke remains highly popular at the Berlin Zoo, at least his statue does. While I waited patiently to take a picture of him, many children came running out of nowhere to climb on him and have, what appeared to be, an obligatory photography by doting parents. At one point I had been waiting for a while when a father placed his two children on Knautschke’s back for the second time (the first time he had taken pictures while other children were on the great hippo as well). He fumbled with his camera/phone, snapped a picture and then disaster occurred. He was talking to his daughter who I assume was about four years old, when his three year old son tried to get down, slid off the back of Knautschke and landed face first on the mulch surrounding the statue. There was a hesitation, and then the three year old let out a deafening scream. When his father picked him up, the little boy’s face and nose were a mixture of mulch and blood. Another father, who was pushing an empty pram, came running over with a travel-sized package of tissues and to offer support. A while later, I saw the father, no doubt, explaining the situation to the children’s mother via the same phone he so anxiously took the fateful photograph. There was a look of panic in his eyes.

500-year old English Oak

Given the devastation of the war, it is amazing when any objects of being survived the Second World War in Berlin. As such, that a 500-year old tree still survives in the zoo is amazing. The English Oak, also near the hippopotamus pen, is estimated to have begun growing in 1480 and survived the founding and growth of the park, as well as the war. Today the oak is the oldest tree in the zoo and very much alive; however, it has lost its crown. Thus, its days are likely numbered.

Bobby the Gorilla

Germans have long been known for revering and commemorating animals.  At the entrance to the zoo there is a statue of Bobby the Gorilla (1928-1935) who inspired the popular song, Mein Gorilla hat ‘en Villa im Zoo (My Gorilla Has a Villa in the Zoo). A sculpture of a group of polar bears, created in 1930, forms a gathering place near cafes and food stands adjacent to the exit of the park. My real objective for the trip was to find the memorial statue of Knut, the young polar bear that captured the world’s attention a few years ago. After winning the hearts of many people around the world, his tragic death was a shock and a year later the Berlin Zoo unveiled the tribute in his honor. I, like many people, was captivated by the pictures of the young polar bear. I even have a small plastic polar bear on a window seal that I refer to as Knut.

Eisbär (Polar Bear) - not Knut 

My Sunday morning at the zoo, by myself, made me think a lot about the purpose of such a venue. One of the first things I saw in the zoo was a little boy, of about six or seven years, who clearly has a fascination for things that reminded me of myself. When I saw him, he was at the flamingo pen dutifully copying the information that was provided on the sign. Meanwhile his parents and younger siblings looked on. After I spotted him, I immediately went to the nearest shaded park bench to write a brief note about what I had observed in my journal. Perhaps what that little boy and I record in our journals are different, but I understand and respect his motivation. For this little boy, the zoo was a source of inspiration.

Animals, especially our pets, are a central part of our lives. When I travel this comes into sharp focus; I miss my own and I see how many people in Europe walk and tote their dogs around (presumably, most house cats are too cool and disinterested to walk around European cities). Monument and memorials to famous animals are not uncommon. For example, the monument to Martha, the last known passenger pigeon, at the Cincinnati Zoo is particularly moving.  In an era where we are experiencing a mass extinction of several species, the practice of memorializing animals might become even more common. 

One More Dog Story from This Trip

It is a misnomer to say that it is only the British who love dogs. I have noticed, in virtually every city on this trip, people out walking dogs despite inclement weather. Many Europeans, not just the British, love their canine friends. As evidence, consider this 1904 stain glass window in Tyska kyrkan (The German Church of Stockholm). As the family gathers to give thanks for their meal, their faithful dog remains sufficiently reverential in waiting for his/her dinner. The sharp eye might notice the bird in the birdcage in the background, but there is no doubt the dog figures more prominently.

Bobby

It is a cliché to say that the British love dogs. My earlier entry on Station Jim is a dog story that is rather obscure (and bizarre). A much more famous canine tale is that of Greyfriars Bobby in Edinburgh. The legendary story of Bobby is one of fidelity and faithfulness, which is why it probably has lasting appeal.

The story goes that Bobby’s master, a policeman by the name of John Gray, died in 1858 of tuberculosis. From the day of the funeral until the day Bobby died on 14 January 1872, the Skye terrier kept a vigil at his master’s grave site. Dignitaries from around Britain came to meet Bobby and later a drinking fountain was erected in his honor. Since that time books and films have been written to celebrate the terrier’s devotion to his master and duty, including the 1961 Disney film Greyfriars Bobby: The True Story of a Dog.

Ah, but this great story may not be quite what it appears. Naysayers note that there is evidence that the whole legend was cooked up to boost tourism along Candlemaker Row, the street where the statue now stands. In fact, there might have been a second dog to carry on the story after the original Bobby died. Frankly, seeing a dog lay upon a mound of dirt for days seems a little far-fetched; however, this is not to say it is impossible. What the legend points to is what we want to be true. We want dogs (and people) to be true and faithful companions. Thus, even if the story stretches the truth a little we will buy into the myth. The habits of dogs, unquestioned loyalty, is what we want in our friends and companions.