December 30, 2008
Somewhere, sixteen thousand worlds away, a man was working on his house. He couldn’t do the work all alone, so he called up someone experienced in this kind of thing. This world was interesting in the respect that it had not evolved much beyond scraggly things and half-understood concepts. Mostly, no one understood anything, and they spent a good deal of time regarding a slow-moving and milky-colored river that flowed across the entire planet. Things sometimes floated by in the water, and the people would point and say things, speculate about what the item might be, or even rush down to the water’s edge to put their bare feet into the muddy and desultory current. They hoped, in their way, that they could get a sense of the thing out there in the water. It never really worked, but they kept trying.
On this planet there was no Paris, no Arc de Triomphe, nothing like that. No cities suffused with the warmth of culture and art, of history and knowledge, with lights playing over the rainy streets, dancing as if in spectacle for the sheer enjoyment of the people who lived there. There was little to triumph over, for that matter, and the inhabitants of that place didn’t consider many things that interesting—other than the river, of course, and the occasional thing that floated by. They were pretty happy just to let things be.
The man with the house was himself scraggly, wore thin pants that often had to be hitched up to keep from falling down. For some time, he worked with another—the one who had some additional knowing, and was able to make things work a little better—but not TOO well. He relied on the man, because he himself had a small garden patch he felt needed tending, even though it really required little time at all. The one thing he produced in the reluctant and clay-like soil was a kind of white potato—and sometimes he loaded them on his back and brought them to the market, where they didn’t sell very well. They weren’t any better or worse than the white potatoes the others had, but everything in this world was pretty much indistinguishable from everything else, so there was nothing to make his potatoes stand out from the crowd. He considered this once, to draw some attention to his market offering: On a worn piece of cardboard he’d plucked from the river, had then dried out in front of the fire, he scrawled this: “TASTE GOOD.” He’d propped this up in front of the pile of things, had watched as the market people pointed at his sign and laughed or tried to touch it. After that, he simply put his potatoes out the same as everyone else.
While he was at the market, watching the small space he occupied, and trying to come up with ways that his potatoes might sell better, but not daring such a risky move, the granddaughter of the man he’d hired to help him out was being murdered. She’d gone very far to meet a man she didn’t know, had crossed the river at one of the places you could pay to get across, then had covered about a fourth of the world to get to the man. He wasn’t a nice man, but she took him back home, tried to make things work. No one understood where that person had come from, what made him show up in that place. They were all at a loss, which wasn’t unusual. The holiday feast, which celebrated the lowering of the river after a particularly rainy period, was made unpleasant by this individual. The holiday could occur at any time: With the rising of the river, or at the lowering—or sometimes in between if people forgot where exactly the water level should be.
The woman was dragged outside, stomped on, then dragged some more, then stomped on again until she showed no more signs of life. The bad man ran off, headed into the river, where he didn’t know how to swim, and was caught by the bewildered and confused people. They paraded him through the town, where some people thought maybe he was a hero, and others thought he was a god. Some of the older ones saw that he was wet, and guessed that maybe the river had brought him to them, and that he was born in the water. Those people parading him tried to explain that he had just murdered a young woman, but no one understood. This went on until nightfall, when everyone got tired and closed their doors for the night.
In his house by the muddy river, the scant man with the leaning roof and crumbling steps waited. His helper wouldn’t be coming. He sat on a broken step and pulled at his trouser legs, then picked at one of his toes. Around the little dwelling all was mud and confusion and bits of broken twigs over in his garden patch to mark where he’d planted the potatoes. Sometimes he forgot where they’d been planted, went to a different area altogether. These little sticks helped quite a bit.
He thought about the news, after he’d heard from the townsfolk the confused messages about a killing and a hero and a god that had emanated straight from the river. He knew that somehow his man was mixed up in all this, and that—according to the muddy and incomprehensible laws that governed that riverside area—his helper would have to give up all work for an undetermined amount of time—possibly forever. He picked at his big toe, a particularly ugly specimen that was somewhat misshapen and sometimes looked like one of the potatoes he’d plucked from the ground.
“I guess maybe I’ll have to see about learning how to work on this place my own self,” he said.
He tried the library, where there were some printed documents about different things. Nothing was complete, however. For his subject, the one publication, written by a neighbor actually, contained only ten pages. Five of those pages were devoted to the subject of “walls,” but did not address how to construct them or what they should be made of even. Rather, there were headings that listed the Uses of Walls, Where a Wall might be Desired, Where you shouldn’t have a Wall, and so on--which was all written in a supposedly learned manner that differed greatly from how people actually spoke. The following five pages contained footnotes that cited different people of the town, some of whom the scraggly man knew—as references for the book. He looked down the list of names, did not recognize in those pages even one individual who’d ever built anything or even knew how to use any kind of tool. As a hasty addition to the subject of walls in the ten-page pamphlet, there was a paragraph about “windows.” This is how it went:
“When one looks upon a wall, it is often not possible to traverse the material of the wall with one’s gaze. It is at these times that a window might be advantageous. The window serves the purpose of allowing one to gaze at things beyond the wall.”
Then there was a citation just below this paragraph that credited the name of an insane man who lived not too far away, and whom the scant man had once caught scavenging in his garden with his bare hands. To protect his potatoes, he’d pretended he was a wild beast, and had made howling noises, which had scared the man in the pamphlet’s citation. He’d not been seen for some time after that.
He hitched up his pants, went back to the library, where the overseer told him he’d have to pay a large amount for the pamphlet, because others had asked about it while he had it. He explained that everyone had to share the pamphlet. The overseer, who was both deaf and blind, had made a mistake, as the two discovered after many hours of discussing the matter. He’d been there since morning, convinced that no one could possibly have wanted this pamphlet, and tried to make the overseer understand that, too. It was now evening. Finally the overseer understood, with painstaking drawings that the scant man forced the library man to touch and follow with his bony fingers. It was not the pamphlet about walls, after all, that had been so highly sought after: It was a very popular book of about three pages that described some things that had floated down the river. Everyone loved that book, and couldn’t wait to get their hands on it.
With nothing in the way of home improvement books at the town’s library—or any other kind of book for that matter, the potato farmer borrowed the leaflet about the river items, which had just been returned. He took it back home and sat on the front step, watched as one of the pages fell out. Now it had only two. He looked up, saw what appeared to be a stump slowly drifting by in the water. He turned to the dirty and tattered page, saw a similar illustration, noticed that it was labeled “Large Water Bird.”
On the other side of the river there was a celebration going on. A fire shone against the brown muddy water, and people sang about a river god who’d come to them straight from the dirty, swirling currents.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Interlude
Interlude
And in another part of the world, in that western part of Texas where a town called Royalty resided, Jim and Lori Ellison were readying their trailer for a camping trip.
The town was one of those places that is often romanticized, written about, with its life stories played out against a set that seemed to have been hastily put into place. The post office stood, letting in the bright day through a broken expanse of glass. The other buildings in the once-bustling boom town lay in broken pieces or were already gone. The stage, against which so many lives had played out, was being dismantled.
On the grand boulevards in Paris, writers and artists and theater people and feelers of a thousand feelings discussed those lives, or lives like them. They congratulated each other, bestowing praise for a particular turn of phrase, how a page captured an entire scene or mood. They read about themselves, or about each other, fretted that a review was maybe not as positive as they’d hoped, or secretly were pleased that some of their creative colleagues received less than glowing acclaim. They devoted so much time, so much imagination to the telling of life, and never quite got it right. They came awfully close, however, but there was always something missing. They knew it, everyone knew it, but it was the one thing they never spoke of.
Jim and Lori’s trailer was ready. The propane tank that would fuel the stove was full, the taillights and turn signals were hooked up for the drive to the lake. Beyond the tall grass that bordered their backyard the coyotes and jackrabbits watched in secret. They saw the goings-on, the car hooked to the trailer, felt instinctively that maybe there would be less food left out for them in the coming days, didn’t know for sure. They were just animals, after all. The old car, left there when the house changed hands thirty years ago, bore witness to everything in that place. The massive chrome bumpers, now pocked with rust, sagged further towards the ground with each passing year. The times that it would drive the Texas highways, all windows open and letting in the hot breeze on a summer day in 1955, were long gone.
Jim put the pickup in gear, checked the mirror for the trailer, made sure that it was following them out onto the highway. He entered the main street, where few buildings lingered, and no cars came through much any more. Pretty soon the tilting post office, ruined and cluttered with debris, was just a speck way back there on the highway. A long-eared jackrabbit jumped out from the burnt grasses, hopped instinctively towards the old Hudson with one door ajar, and a piece of rope holding it to the car still. It lingered in the afternoon shadow created by the car, nibbled at the stuff in Jim and Lori’s yard. The curtain was going down on Royalty.
And in another part of the world, in that western part of Texas where a town called Royalty resided, Jim and Lori Ellison were readying their trailer for a camping trip.
The town was one of those places that is often romanticized, written about, with its life stories played out against a set that seemed to have been hastily put into place. The post office stood, letting in the bright day through a broken expanse of glass. The other buildings in the once-bustling boom town lay in broken pieces or were already gone. The stage, against which so many lives had played out, was being dismantled.
On the grand boulevards in Paris, writers and artists and theater people and feelers of a thousand feelings discussed those lives, or lives like them. They congratulated each other, bestowing praise for a particular turn of phrase, how a page captured an entire scene or mood. They read about themselves, or about each other, fretted that a review was maybe not as positive as they’d hoped, or secretly were pleased that some of their creative colleagues received less than glowing acclaim. They devoted so much time, so much imagination to the telling of life, and never quite got it right. They came awfully close, however, but there was always something missing. They knew it, everyone knew it, but it was the one thing they never spoke of.
Jim and Lori’s trailer was ready. The propane tank that would fuel the stove was full, the taillights and turn signals were hooked up for the drive to the lake. Beyond the tall grass that bordered their backyard the coyotes and jackrabbits watched in secret. They saw the goings-on, the car hooked to the trailer, felt instinctively that maybe there would be less food left out for them in the coming days, didn’t know for sure. They were just animals, after all. The old car, left there when the house changed hands thirty years ago, bore witness to everything in that place. The massive chrome bumpers, now pocked with rust, sagged further towards the ground with each passing year. The times that it would drive the Texas highways, all windows open and letting in the hot breeze on a summer day in 1955, were long gone.
Jim put the pickup in gear, checked the mirror for the trailer, made sure that it was following them out onto the highway. He entered the main street, where few buildings lingered, and no cars came through much any more. Pretty soon the tilting post office, ruined and cluttered with debris, was just a speck way back there on the highway. A long-eared jackrabbit jumped out from the burnt grasses, hopped instinctively towards the old Hudson with one door ajar, and a piece of rope holding it to the car still. It lingered in the afternoon shadow created by the car, nibbled at the stuff in Jim and Lori’s yard. The curtain was going down on Royalty.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Power from Underground
At the garage, a few blocks from my hotel, I realized I didn’t have my exit card. I couldn’t pay, couldn’t get out. There was no one in the little parking kiosk to ask for help, to compound matters.
“What are you going to do?” The woman there was fabulous, with blue sparkles adorning her long dress and diamonds that danced casually under her ears. Long hair, jet-black, that ended abruptly halfway down her back, appeared to have been cut by a laser. Her eyes, light blue like the glistening ice deep in the Icelandic glaciers, turned towards me. I uttered a sound that resembled possibly, “Gluurt,” but may have in fact been less intelligible. I cleared my throat, wiped away some spit at the corner of my mouth, then burbled out, “I don’t know.”
“Do you think we can use the same ticket?” She’d explained that hers was already paid, that the machine refused to accept any money when she entered it into that device. Use the same ticket…she was asking me if we could share a ticket. Sharing anything with her seemed beyond anything even remotely within the parameters of reality. My mind was working as fast as it could, which isn’t very fast, actually. I considered pushing her roughly aside, yelling, “Lady, give me that TICKET!” Then running as fast as I could to my car. Instead, I said this: “I’ll wait until you get your car, then we’ll see.”
I whistled a happy tune, then—as soon as she was out of sight—ran helter-skelter to the shiny Toyota parked just down the ramp. I fired it up, threw it into gear and raced up to the exit turnstile with tires screeching on the smooth garage floor. I knew her ticket wasn’t going to work for both cars, so I set my jaw resolutely, inched forward when I saw her blue sparkles come into view, with what surely must have been her husband at the wheel. Never mind all that, I said to myself; I just wanted out of there. I rode their rear bumper as the gate went up, eased out the clutch so as not to smash their car and made one long vehicle out of our exit—as the gate paused to let me through. I honked my thanks, turned left at the next light to take the coastal highway north. I was home free.
Up the road I pulled over into a gas station and convenience store. I’d earlier consulted with a tourist office girl just up the street from the hotel, who’d told me that you could visit the power plant in Iceland and that there was plenty of time to drive out there to take a look. “It’s a nice drive,” she said. Power plant. It was all I could have hoped for to cap an already perfect visit to Iceland. I would learn about how those fierce underground forces were tapped for heat and electricity. It was like free stuff, coming right out of the ground—and there may very well be a limitless supply of it.
The young and pleasant tourist-office girl in her brown suede jacket turned out to be a little sketchy on the details of getting to this particular power plant. She showed me the little map of Iceland, highlighted a town that was near the plant, and wished me luck. “It’s easy,” she said. “It will take you about forty-five minutes.” In retrospect, what I learned about her knowledge of power plants was this: That Iceland had some. That’s it. I was headed for the wrong town—a town that in fact DID have a power plant, but was not the one that you could take a tour of. I showed my map to the convenience store clerk, and he made some marks, sent me on my way. Not very reassured, I set out again.
I followed the snowy roads out of town, through the deserted and abandoned farms and villages, with ice crunching under the car’s tires. The grey day was getting darker now, with late afternoon approaching. Now there was snow all around, and I pulled into the parking lot of another lonely outpost—the lot full of slippery ice and more crunchy snow.
I parked and ran inside, wanting to know what the place was all about. I approached the solitary man overseeing the operations there.
“Where am I? What is all this?” I demanded wildly, gesturing at his room with rocks on the walls. I pointed, “And what is that overlook? What’s down there?”
The quiet man at the end of the wooden and rocky room answered my questions patiently, told me that I was at the site of the ancient parliaments. It was in this place that the Vikings and early settlers met in the tenth century A.D. to discuss matters of great importance. “You were asking about the overlook,” he said. “That is the place where the parliament was held.”
The sun was going down, and my power plant was looking more and more like an unachievable goal. I was getting frantic, with the hour edging closer to five o’clock and my information telling me that the power generating station closed at six o’clock promptly.
I edged closer to the man of science, with his displays and guest register opened in front of him. “Now listen here,” I said. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I was told there was a power plant around somewhere, and I’ll be damned if I’m going home without seeing it.” By now I was close enough that he could see the crazy beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead. He moved slowly away, exited some maps from his small desk. He marked the route on each one, indicating a town many miles away. I’d gone to the town that the tourist girl had pointed me to, had ended up here. But this power plant was not open to visitors, he said.
“You must go to this other one,” he instructed me. “If you leave now you will have just enough time.”
I looked at the small lines on the maps, the squiggles that ran through the remote and unpopulated country—knew that he was sending me into more snow-infested territory. And the sun was going down.
“You’re crazy!” I yelled; “You’re trying to get me killed!” There were just the two of us. The tour buses and cars full of one or two tourists had by now crunched their way out of the iced-over parking lot. The ancient Vikings had only so much appeal on this cold and almost-finished day in November.
“Leave now and you can just make it,” he repeated, edging further away from me.
I grabbed frantically at the maps he’d marked for me, turned and ran wordlessly out the door.
There was a Jeep up ahead, inching along at a snail’s pace. I got around the slow-moving truck, soon putting its headlights far behind me in the dark. Pretty soon I couldn’t see them at all. I tested the brakes, found that I could not make the car’s wheels lock up due to the antilock feature, and also jerked the steering wheel from side to side. Everything seemed stable for the moment, the road’s layer of crunchy snow and ice providing just enough traction to keep me from sliding off. I kept my speed down, but pushed the car along as fast as I thought I could to make up for the huge detour to the out-of-the way town and the ancient parliament site.
Now it was raining at the lower elevations. On the road back to the capital, Route 378 branched off to the right. This led to the power plant, and I turned quickly into the darkened lane. Skidding the car into the parking lot, I parked haphazardly across the deserted spaces and ran inside the silent and gleaming power generating station. I had a half-hour to spare. The greeter there welcomed me to the bright and modernistic building, showed me around. He said he was not concerned about the time, heeded not my wild-eyed and fanatical quest to know about this intriguing source of power. He calmly led me to the huge turbines that were turned by the superheated forces from underground. These turbines then turned the generators, and made electricity that was transmitted through overhead lines across the desolate and volcanic Icelandic landscape. People in the warm homes, connected to these lines, were able to cook and watch television and enjoy any number of modern conveniences and luxuries. Not only that, but many of the homes benefited directly from the hot water that emanated directly from underground sources and was piped into their homes. Some water, too hot to be used as it came from the deep hot water wells, was used to heat cooler water, which was then pumped into service for residential use or wherever hot water was needed at the faucet.
With the hour nearing six o’clock, I gathered up some pamphlets and left the place. First, he demonstrated the simulation of earthquakes of different magnitudes. Owing to its position as one of the planet’s geologic hotspots, Iceland was no stranger to earthquakes. He pushed a button, and a thundering sound came across loudspeakers and the place seemed to shake a little. It was actually just the sound effect I was hearing. He pushed two more buttons, and I could hear earthquakes of increasing magnitude take place. I thanked him for the pamphlets and the earthquakes, and headed back to Reyjkavik.
In town, with the various roads and signs blurred against a steady rain, I took an exit off the main roadway. After a few blocks I recognized the area from a walk I’d taken earlier that day. I was only two blocks from the hotel. I found the parking garage where I’d encountered the fabulous woman with the blue sparkles, drove to the same deserted space, and closed up the car for the night. The next day I’d be leaving for Paris.
“What are you going to do?” The woman there was fabulous, with blue sparkles adorning her long dress and diamonds that danced casually under her ears. Long hair, jet-black, that ended abruptly halfway down her back, appeared to have been cut by a laser. Her eyes, light blue like the glistening ice deep in the Icelandic glaciers, turned towards me. I uttered a sound that resembled possibly, “Gluurt,” but may have in fact been less intelligible. I cleared my throat, wiped away some spit at the corner of my mouth, then burbled out, “I don’t know.”
“Do you think we can use the same ticket?” She’d explained that hers was already paid, that the machine refused to accept any money when she entered it into that device. Use the same ticket…she was asking me if we could share a ticket. Sharing anything with her seemed beyond anything even remotely within the parameters of reality. My mind was working as fast as it could, which isn’t very fast, actually. I considered pushing her roughly aside, yelling, “Lady, give me that TICKET!” Then running as fast as I could to my car. Instead, I said this: “I’ll wait until you get your car, then we’ll see.”
I whistled a happy tune, then—as soon as she was out of sight—ran helter-skelter to the shiny Toyota parked just down the ramp. I fired it up, threw it into gear and raced up to the exit turnstile with tires screeching on the smooth garage floor. I knew her ticket wasn’t going to work for both cars, so I set my jaw resolutely, inched forward when I saw her blue sparkles come into view, with what surely must have been her husband at the wheel. Never mind all that, I said to myself; I just wanted out of there. I rode their rear bumper as the gate went up, eased out the clutch so as not to smash their car and made one long vehicle out of our exit—as the gate paused to let me through. I honked my thanks, turned left at the next light to take the coastal highway north. I was home free.
Up the road I pulled over into a gas station and convenience store. I’d earlier consulted with a tourist office girl just up the street from the hotel, who’d told me that you could visit the power plant in Iceland and that there was plenty of time to drive out there to take a look. “It’s a nice drive,” she said. Power plant. It was all I could have hoped for to cap an already perfect visit to Iceland. I would learn about how those fierce underground forces were tapped for heat and electricity. It was like free stuff, coming right out of the ground—and there may very well be a limitless supply of it.
The young and pleasant tourist-office girl in her brown suede jacket turned out to be a little sketchy on the details of getting to this particular power plant. She showed me the little map of Iceland, highlighted a town that was near the plant, and wished me luck. “It’s easy,” she said. “It will take you about forty-five minutes.” In retrospect, what I learned about her knowledge of power plants was this: That Iceland had some. That’s it. I was headed for the wrong town—a town that in fact DID have a power plant, but was not the one that you could take a tour of. I showed my map to the convenience store clerk, and he made some marks, sent me on my way. Not very reassured, I set out again.
I followed the snowy roads out of town, through the deserted and abandoned farms and villages, with ice crunching under the car’s tires. The grey day was getting darker now, with late afternoon approaching. Now there was snow all around, and I pulled into the parking lot of another lonely outpost—the lot full of slippery ice and more crunchy snow.
I parked and ran inside, wanting to know what the place was all about. I approached the solitary man overseeing the operations there.
“Where am I? What is all this?” I demanded wildly, gesturing at his room with rocks on the walls. I pointed, “And what is that overlook? What’s down there?”
The quiet man at the end of the wooden and rocky room answered my questions patiently, told me that I was at the site of the ancient parliaments. It was in this place that the Vikings and early settlers met in the tenth century A.D. to discuss matters of great importance. “You were asking about the overlook,” he said. “That is the place where the parliament was held.”
The sun was going down, and my power plant was looking more and more like an unachievable goal. I was getting frantic, with the hour edging closer to five o’clock and my information telling me that the power generating station closed at six o’clock promptly.
I edged closer to the man of science, with his displays and guest register opened in front of him. “Now listen here,” I said. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I was told there was a power plant around somewhere, and I’ll be damned if I’m going home without seeing it.” By now I was close enough that he could see the crazy beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead. He moved slowly away, exited some maps from his small desk. He marked the route on each one, indicating a town many miles away. I’d gone to the town that the tourist girl had pointed me to, had ended up here. But this power plant was not open to visitors, he said.
“You must go to this other one,” he instructed me. “If you leave now you will have just enough time.”
I looked at the small lines on the maps, the squiggles that ran through the remote and unpopulated country—knew that he was sending me into more snow-infested territory. And the sun was going down.
“You’re crazy!” I yelled; “You’re trying to get me killed!” There were just the two of us. The tour buses and cars full of one or two tourists had by now crunched their way out of the iced-over parking lot. The ancient Vikings had only so much appeal on this cold and almost-finished day in November.
“Leave now and you can just make it,” he repeated, edging further away from me.
I grabbed frantically at the maps he’d marked for me, turned and ran wordlessly out the door.
There was a Jeep up ahead, inching along at a snail’s pace. I got around the slow-moving truck, soon putting its headlights far behind me in the dark. Pretty soon I couldn’t see them at all. I tested the brakes, found that I could not make the car’s wheels lock up due to the antilock feature, and also jerked the steering wheel from side to side. Everything seemed stable for the moment, the road’s layer of crunchy snow and ice providing just enough traction to keep me from sliding off. I kept my speed down, but pushed the car along as fast as I thought I could to make up for the huge detour to the out-of-the way town and the ancient parliament site.
Now it was raining at the lower elevations. On the road back to the capital, Route 378 branched off to the right. This led to the power plant, and I turned quickly into the darkened lane. Skidding the car into the parking lot, I parked haphazardly across the deserted spaces and ran inside the silent and gleaming power generating station. I had a half-hour to spare. The greeter there welcomed me to the bright and modernistic building, showed me around. He said he was not concerned about the time, heeded not my wild-eyed and fanatical quest to know about this intriguing source of power. He calmly led me to the huge turbines that were turned by the superheated forces from underground. These turbines then turned the generators, and made electricity that was transmitted through overhead lines across the desolate and volcanic Icelandic landscape. People in the warm homes, connected to these lines, were able to cook and watch television and enjoy any number of modern conveniences and luxuries. Not only that, but many of the homes benefited directly from the hot water that emanated directly from underground sources and was piped into their homes. Some water, too hot to be used as it came from the deep hot water wells, was used to heat cooler water, which was then pumped into service for residential use or wherever hot water was needed at the faucet.
With the hour nearing six o’clock, I gathered up some pamphlets and left the place. First, he demonstrated the simulation of earthquakes of different magnitudes. Owing to its position as one of the planet’s geologic hotspots, Iceland was no stranger to earthquakes. He pushed a button, and a thundering sound came across loudspeakers and the place seemed to shake a little. It was actually just the sound effect I was hearing. He pushed two more buttons, and I could hear earthquakes of increasing magnitude take place. I thanked him for the pamphlets and the earthquakes, and headed back to Reyjkavik.
In town, with the various roads and signs blurred against a steady rain, I took an exit off the main roadway. After a few blocks I recognized the area from a walk I’d taken earlier that day. I was only two blocks from the hotel. I found the parking garage where I’d encountered the fabulous woman with the blue sparkles, drove to the same deserted space, and closed up the car for the night. The next day I’d be leaving for Paris.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Breakfast in Iceland
Breakfast in Iceland
The hotel served a magnificent breakfast—all you had to do was get up early enough to enjoy it. Fresh waffles with real maple syrup, assorted fruits and yogurt, milk, tea and coffee and fresh fruit juices, whole loaves of crusty bread ready to be sliced and buttered with the excellent and yellow Icelandic butter—these and many things more awaited in the spacious breakfast room.
When I descended for my first morning meal, there was apparently a supermodel convention going on. Tall, Nordic women with straight blond hair sat opposite rugged men who appeared to be descended directly from an undiluted line of Vikings. Moreover, they looked to be professional rugby players. When I entered into that throng, still dragging my sleep-deprived body along in a rather unwilling way, the eyes of those assembled turned as one. The women wore little pill-box hats of lavender, yellow, pink and turquoise, and these all rotated in a dignified, unhurried way to regard this newcomer. An audible gasp arose from the breakfasters, and little bits of toast and spoonsful of yogurt, held in dainty and perfect fingers, stopped in mid-air, suddenly poised as if for an impromptu still-life. Feeling self-conscious, and afraid that the food might suddenly be taken away, I began stuffing handfuls of pineapple chunks into my mouth, squishing the juicy fruits together as best I could. It was at this moment that a man—something of a representative of the morning crowd—arose and came to me.
“Listen up, my good man,” he said in a conciliatory and wary way, “We don’t want any trouble here, do we? Any of us?” He gestured at the sea of pill-box hats, their morsels still suspended midway between their plates and their perfectly-formed lips. They were watching to see what would develop next. Apparently, they’d never seen my kind before.
I stared stupidly at the emissary, unable to speak due to the pineapple chunks I was still working on, with their angular geometry most likely apparent in my bulging cheeks. He pulled out a roll of bills, lots of them, pushed them into my hand.
“Here, why don’t you go into town and buy the kind of food you like,” he said encouragingly. “Get anything you want; there are plenty of shops around, and you’ll be happier out there.” I was having trouble with a particularly stubborn pineapple chunk, that seemed to have become a permanent part of my right cheek, and I looked mutely at the money I now possessed. Then I looked back at the man, who smiled while nodding: “Yes, go ahead—take it. It’s all yours.” I quickly grabbed more of the fruits and some sliced sandwich meats and ran out the door without a word. I saw, as I was exiting the modern and streamlined dining room, several of the pill-box hats collapse and their Viking men come to their aid.
The hotel served a magnificent breakfast—all you had to do was get up early enough to enjoy it. Fresh waffles with real maple syrup, assorted fruits and yogurt, milk, tea and coffee and fresh fruit juices, whole loaves of crusty bread ready to be sliced and buttered with the excellent and yellow Icelandic butter—these and many things more awaited in the spacious breakfast room.
When I descended for my first morning meal, there was apparently a supermodel convention going on. Tall, Nordic women with straight blond hair sat opposite rugged men who appeared to be descended directly from an undiluted line of Vikings. Moreover, they looked to be professional rugby players. When I entered into that throng, still dragging my sleep-deprived body along in a rather unwilling way, the eyes of those assembled turned as one. The women wore little pill-box hats of lavender, yellow, pink and turquoise, and these all rotated in a dignified, unhurried way to regard this newcomer. An audible gasp arose from the breakfasters, and little bits of toast and spoonsful of yogurt, held in dainty and perfect fingers, stopped in mid-air, suddenly poised as if for an impromptu still-life. Feeling self-conscious, and afraid that the food might suddenly be taken away, I began stuffing handfuls of pineapple chunks into my mouth, squishing the juicy fruits together as best I could. It was at this moment that a man—something of a representative of the morning crowd—arose and came to me.
“Listen up, my good man,” he said in a conciliatory and wary way, “We don’t want any trouble here, do we? Any of us?” He gestured at the sea of pill-box hats, their morsels still suspended midway between their plates and their perfectly-formed lips. They were watching to see what would develop next. Apparently, they’d never seen my kind before.
I stared stupidly at the emissary, unable to speak due to the pineapple chunks I was still working on, with their angular geometry most likely apparent in my bulging cheeks. He pulled out a roll of bills, lots of them, pushed them into my hand.
“Here, why don’t you go into town and buy the kind of food you like,” he said encouragingly. “Get anything you want; there are plenty of shops around, and you’ll be happier out there.” I was having trouble with a particularly stubborn pineapple chunk, that seemed to have become a permanent part of my right cheek, and I looked mutely at the money I now possessed. Then I looked back at the man, who smiled while nodding: “Yes, go ahead—take it. It’s all yours.” I quickly grabbed more of the fruits and some sliced sandwich meats and ran out the door without a word. I saw, as I was exiting the modern and streamlined dining room, several of the pill-box hats collapse and their Viking men come to their aid.
An American in Paris
Paris
And on this day of many days, in this rather freeform vacation, this day would be even more carefree than usual. This meant I’d be spending some money. I breakfasted quietly in the bottom dining room of the hotel, reading Le Monde. A half-baguette, some coffee or tea, a croissant and fruit spreads and butter for the bread were the standard offerings. If you wanted more, you could pay a little extra. Nutella, for example, cost more. This noxious and lethal mixture of hazelnut paste would create for me a slow and painful death, so—during the entirety of my stay—I did not once tell the hotel staff to bring around some Nutella. I hardly thought of it at all; and on those occasions when I did think of it, or accidentally spied a label affixed to the horrible stuff, a darkness passed over my visage, a contempt of the thing became apparent and I was at once unwilling to engage in the pleasantries that make human interaction somewhat more tolerable. Nutella can do that to you.
With breakfast finished, and another grey day waiting without, I headed across the Place de l’Opera to a men’s clothing shop that I thought looked fashionable. I entered that place in my blue winter jacket made by a popular outdoors clothing manufacturer. Everwhere I went the thing screamed “I AM AMERICAN!” I might as well have hung a flag done up in neon or sparklers, draped it around my neck, and paraded up and down the Champs Elysees with “Stars and Stripes Forever” blaring from loudspeakers. My jacket had the rugged styling of a sport utility vehicle back home, was functional with its many zippers and pockets, and did a great job of keeping the damp Paris days at bay. It was also a bulky thing, took up the space of maybe one and a half persons, but was overall an effective—if unattractive—thing.
I approached the young girls working in the shop, told them my aim. “I want to look more Parisian,” I said. “Or—at the very least—less American. Can you do that?”
They looked at my outer wrap of bulky blue, saw what surely must have looked like a person clad in an extra-large trash bag, and immediately understood.
“Oui, monsieur,” they smiled. “Venez.”
I followed them to a rack of clothes where different ensembles were put together, for those fashion-challenged individuals like me. We picked out a jacket, an overcoat, a shirt and matching scarf, and they also recommended a pair of black pants to round things out. That would tie everything together, the one particularly attractive young woman said.
“I don’t know about the pants,” I said. I’m already looking to pack up this stuff that I’ll no longer wear, so maybe I’ll hold off on those for now.” I could always buy them back home, I explained.
I modeled my new outfit in the mirror, struck a few poses for the store girls, who approved of the new look. They also showed me how to tie the scarf in the style of those around the city who’d grown up with these things. I will be forever grateful to those excellent helpers; their service and attention were exactly what I’d needed and hoped for.
They brought all my purchases to the counter, where I paid several hundred euros. It didn’t really matter, as I don’t consider the euro real currency. It doesn’t even sound like real money. Euro. It sounds more like a carnival token you’d purchase to ride the “Hurl-O-Rama.” I could picture a youngster with cotton candy and a burning desire to get on the big “Dizzinator.”
“I’m sorry, hon—you cain’t ride without you get five euros over to the lady in the booth.” The woman gestures to the little stand where you buy the carnival money. “You go an’ ast her for five euros and come back here an’ you kin get on…but you gotta buy some euros first.”
So I paid for my clothes, walked back to the hotel where I immediately changed. I wanted some practice with the scarf, for one thing—an item that I knew would take some getting used to. I’d also bought a subdued woolen hat that fit snugly over my head. It was not quite as loud as my Icelandic ski cap, which had a snowflake motif. I would pack that away with my blue jacket and other gear. I put on my new jacket, my shirt and overcoat and scarf. I’d already bought new shoes before leaving home, and they were incredibly comfortable and even a little stylish. I’d told the girls that I didn’t want to buy a new pair, and they said okay, the ones I had would work with what I’d just bought. They weren’t black but were made of soft brown leather, and—as I said—were some of the best walking shoes I’d ever worn. I’d already spent a few days walking around Paris in them—and Iceland before that.
With the day no warmer than when I’d first greeted it that morning, I now wanted to see if my new getup would actually protect me from the November elements. Here is what I discovered: Not only did this particular ensemble look about one thousand times better than my lumpy and blue all-weather jacket, but I felt secure in layers of warmth. The scarf, the jacket and overcoat enveloped me in a pleasant winter blanket that kept the grey and damp and cold at bay. Better even than my large all-purpose utility jacket. So, not only did the Parisians figure out a way to stay warm in the winter months that bring endless days of grey and rain, but they’d figured out how to look good at the same time.
I left the hotel for a trek across Paris. On the Rue des Capucines, a man stopped me to ask directions. I told him that I wasn’t from here, but that I would try to help him. I’d often gone the wrong way in the confused maze of streets and Boulevards that changed names at just about every intersection, so I was something of an expert on all the wrong paths to take. He was a Frenchman, visiting from some other part of the country, and told me only that he wanted to be going in the opposite direction of the Madeleine Metro stop. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” I said. “You’re already going the wrong way.” I pointed up the street, “Madeleine is right up there.” He thanked me, turned around and headed back the way he’d come. Already my new outfit was reaping dividends, if only to make me blend in with the cityscape, appear as if I belonged there. Had I been wearing my parka-like swaddling, coming down the sidewalk like a mini-compact car of garish blue, the man would not have considered asking me for directions, would have opted for another woolen-clad Parisian in his dark and timeless winter coat.
I was now in the mood, ready to become one with the city. I hopped the metro for the ride up to la Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, went inside where the man who sold me the daily pass suggested that maybe I could buy a yearly pass for only around thirty-four euros. Well, that’s all well and good, I told him, but I won’t be around much longer, have to head home, I told him. Then I added: “My research is almost finished.” He nodded, in a not very convincing way, sold me the daily pass, and I went upstairs to check on my business activities back home and to see if there were any more responses to the video project. Paris seemed to be full of filmmakers looking for work, but no actresses. I would try back again.
This day was particularly chilly, but without rain—other than the occasional drizzle that came with most days. Leaving the library, I headed across Paris, deciding not to follow the Seine, but to take the big avenues and Boulevards that cut straight across town. My destination was the Eiffel Tower, which was too far away to see from this spot. I could have easily arrived there by taking the Metro, but there was little to see down there other than stoic and reserved Parisians. On one occasion I’d seen a working man trying to strike up a conversation with one of his countrymen, who’d just bought an electronic gadget and was bringing it back home to plug in. The man with the electronic gadget appeared almost pained to respond, as if he’d just gotten the news that all his teeth would have to be pulled out. I wanted to shout to the working man: “TALK TO ME! TALK TO ME! “I’m American---we’ll talk to anyone! It’s what we do!” I wanted to tell him about my electronic gadgets back home—whether he wanted to hear about them or not—my lawnmowers, how I sometimes looked at old tractors and even bought them, how I’d once had a flat tire and fixed it in only five minutes, and how I was once pulled over for speeding but did not receive a ticket. I wanted to tell him about some bugs I’d seen at a pool party, but no one knew what kind of bugs they were, because they were different from the bugs that were in the pool, and there were more of them. I wanted him to know that I’d eaten all of my breakfast, and that the clothes I wore were brand-new, and that I didn’t normally wear those kind, but that today I was, and might be tomorrow.
The man with the gadget had smiled in a forced way, made clear that he and his gadget were a private matter, that these things concerned really no one but him and maybe a few close associates—and even then he’d be reluctant to share the intimate details of the thing. I felt for the working man, with his rough clothes and large wife chewing on something in the next seat. In the silence that enveloped the tense and crowded subway car, this unspoken thing could be grasped from the thick and moist air: “You’re in Paris, man; don’t you know where you ARE?”
So I skipped the crowded but efficient subway, tracked my path across town by consulting the large city maps just outside the metro stations. These are put in place really to benefit the subway riders, but the main streets—and many of the smaller ones—are also clearly marked along with the metro stops. This helps in not appearing to be a visiting tourist: For many Parisians consult these maps to find their way in the complex subway system, especially if they deviate from lines they normally take. It is common to see someone from the city looking at the map to see where they might need to switch trains—or to determine if there is a direct route to where they want to go. So I left my large city map at the hotel, simply stopped every few metro stations to look at my route, and continued on my way.
Presently I became hungry, decided to stop in at a boulangerie where they sold good sandwiches on their browned and crusty bread. I was just in time for lunch, and the sandwich supply was holding up. A line quickly formed behind me, something that I find disconcerting—because my transactions are never simple. Unaccustomed to all the good food in front of me, I have a thousand questions. The people behind me simply wanted to grab a bite and get back to work. So I picked out a few orangettes, a confection popular in France that consists of candied orange peel dipped in dark chocolate. Along with this I told the young woman to put a few of the fruit jellies into the bag as well. They looked particularly good, and are also a specialty of France. For my lunch I picked out a long ham and swiss sandwich on crusty French bread and a bottle of Orangina soda. These things I took outside into the cold November day and ate them as I walked along.
The sandwich was gone within a few blocks—a delicious but simple concoction made all the better by the use of fresh ingredients and extraordinarily good bread. As the sidewalks of Paris passed under my unhurried steps, the desserts of orangette pieces and fruit jellies also disappeared. I was making good headway, but estimated that my walk to the Eiffel Tower—at my pace—would take about two hours.
In one of the first neighborhoods I encountered a faded and neglected chateau—a once-grand place now encumbered by disrepair, lack of funds, and the passage of time. It was now a dwelling for various artists, bohemians, and assorted lazy people. Outside were broken-down things and firewood stacked against the crumbling and cracked walls. Banners and painted messages hung from windows, giving a glimpse into the lives of the people who made their home there, built fires in the immense hearths or rickety wood stoves picked up on the cheap. I looked for signs of cats—any sign at all—as I imagined the people who lived there would like cats and that cats would also be fond of the grand old place. I saw nothing in the tall windows that suggested a cat lived there, but passed by the chateau confident that it was probably home to quite a few. After another block, the turrets and grey roofs made of slate were gone from sight. It was likely I’d never see the place again.
At a café further along, I stopped for a blackberry kir and a rest from the chilly day. I sat outside the deserted café, with the overhead heaters keeping me warm. A couple of Parisians I’d talked to at another place near my hotel told me that these heaters are creating something of a controversy in the city. The argument is that they pollute. There is also no real reason why Parisians should be afforded the chance to sit outside and enjoy their drinks and food in all weather—other than that they simply like it. I should add that I am glad that these tables haven’t been taken away in the winter months, because it was something that I really looked forward to. But for the city-dwellers, there is another aspect to this: The smokers, who are represented in great numbers among the thin and fashionable population, can no longer light up inside the restaurants and other businesses. The smoking ban is complete. So they are forced to slip outside to sneak a smoke, sit for a while at one of the sidewalk tables, then duck back inside. So there is a compromise, as often happens where you get large populations of people living together in an increasingly confined area, and I noticed it as I—a non-smoker—sat enjoying the outside tables. Yes, you can enjoy a smoke-free environment if you choose to sit indoors. But if—like me—you enjoy the sidewalk tables in all seasons, you will be sitting next to smokers. I didn’t feel that the smoke was a great inconvenience, since the gusty days mostly blew it into the chilly air. Sitting indoors, with a group of smoking Parisians, it would be a different story: I’ve seen the late-night clubs so thick with the stuff that there didn’t appear to be any regular air left in there. Those days are gone forever.
Presently a teetering man came along, asked me as I sat alone at my table where the nearest metro stop was. I pointed a few feet down the street, told him it was right there. “Look, you can see the sign,” I said. He seemed to have an agenda other than finding some convenient mass transportation, so I ignored him after that. After all, I now looked like a Parisian, so I might as well start acting like one. With the constant crush of slow-moving cars along the big boulevard in front of me came a relic from the past—an ancient Solex moped, of the kind I actually have back home. This was retrieved from my cousins’ barn after about a quarter-century of collecting dust. Now it awaited some attention from me. This one motoring along the rain-slicked streets actually ran smoothly and did not appear to be smoking—something that was common amongst the machines I remember. With their two-cycle motors and oil that had to be mixed in with the fuel, it was easy to neglect the engine, let it run as it may, and trail blue smoke along the streets and boulevards of France. The combination of so many of these little front-drive motorbikes and their larger counterparts—all running on smoking two-cycle engines—made for a distinctive odor in the city. The odor was absent on this trip as this type of motor has become less common. Occasionally you'll see an older model still in service, like the ancient American cars people drive around back home, but it is increasingly rare. I looked at the bike longingly—a simple bicycle really with a very small engine outfitted to the front wheel. Back in the day, when the bike’s engine simply gave up and the owner decided that fixing it was not an option, many people simply pulled the motor off and pedaled the bike around as-is. With the Velosolex operating as it should, the starting of it was simple, could be accomplished by anyone who could pedal a bike. You simply raised it on its little center stand so that the rear wheel was off the ground, and got it spinning a bit. Then you lowered the bike, got it rolling along the street or sidewalk, and lowered the engine into its “drive” position over the front wheel. This got the engine cranking over, and resulted in it usually starting immediately. You could also just start pedaling the bike down the street and pop the motor into place or leave it in drive if you had enough leg power to pedal the bike and turn over the engine at the same time. When I finally returned home, one of my main objectives would be to get the little Solex running again.
With the afternoon’s light starting to fade, I got going, took one of the large avenues in the direction of the iconic landmark. After about two hours of walking and eating and enjoying a kir, the large metal tower came into view. It would disappear behind buildings, but by now I no longer needed the metro maps to guide me. I could basically tell—even with my abysmal sense of direction—where it was. When I arrived at the well-worn and damp grounds leading to the Eiffel Tower, the coldness of the day was emphasized by the black silhouette of the tower against the remaining light in the sky. The winter trees reached with their bony fingers to frame the regular symmetry of its graceful lines—the season seeming to want to leave nothing untouched. I took a few perfunctory photographs of the hugely-photographed thing, found the nearest metro stop and got on the train for the ride back to the hotel. I found that, thankfully, I did not have to switch trains: This line led directly back to my neighborhood.
And on this day of many days, in this rather freeform vacation, this day would be even more carefree than usual. This meant I’d be spending some money. I breakfasted quietly in the bottom dining room of the hotel, reading Le Monde. A half-baguette, some coffee or tea, a croissant and fruit spreads and butter for the bread were the standard offerings. If you wanted more, you could pay a little extra. Nutella, for example, cost more. This noxious and lethal mixture of hazelnut paste would create for me a slow and painful death, so—during the entirety of my stay—I did not once tell the hotel staff to bring around some Nutella. I hardly thought of it at all; and on those occasions when I did think of it, or accidentally spied a label affixed to the horrible stuff, a darkness passed over my visage, a contempt of the thing became apparent and I was at once unwilling to engage in the pleasantries that make human interaction somewhat more tolerable. Nutella can do that to you.
With breakfast finished, and another grey day waiting without, I headed across the Place de l’Opera to a men’s clothing shop that I thought looked fashionable. I entered that place in my blue winter jacket made by a popular outdoors clothing manufacturer. Everwhere I went the thing screamed “I AM AMERICAN!” I might as well have hung a flag done up in neon or sparklers, draped it around my neck, and paraded up and down the Champs Elysees with “Stars and Stripes Forever” blaring from loudspeakers. My jacket had the rugged styling of a sport utility vehicle back home, was functional with its many zippers and pockets, and did a great job of keeping the damp Paris days at bay. It was also a bulky thing, took up the space of maybe one and a half persons, but was overall an effective—if unattractive—thing.
I approached the young girls working in the shop, told them my aim. “I want to look more Parisian,” I said. “Or—at the very least—less American. Can you do that?”
They looked at my outer wrap of bulky blue, saw what surely must have looked like a person clad in an extra-large trash bag, and immediately understood.
“Oui, monsieur,” they smiled. “Venez.”
I followed them to a rack of clothes where different ensembles were put together, for those fashion-challenged individuals like me. We picked out a jacket, an overcoat, a shirt and matching scarf, and they also recommended a pair of black pants to round things out. That would tie everything together, the one particularly attractive young woman said.
“I don’t know about the pants,” I said. I’m already looking to pack up this stuff that I’ll no longer wear, so maybe I’ll hold off on those for now.” I could always buy them back home, I explained.
I modeled my new outfit in the mirror, struck a few poses for the store girls, who approved of the new look. They also showed me how to tie the scarf in the style of those around the city who’d grown up with these things. I will be forever grateful to those excellent helpers; their service and attention were exactly what I’d needed and hoped for.
They brought all my purchases to the counter, where I paid several hundred euros. It didn’t really matter, as I don’t consider the euro real currency. It doesn’t even sound like real money. Euro. It sounds more like a carnival token you’d purchase to ride the “Hurl-O-Rama.” I could picture a youngster with cotton candy and a burning desire to get on the big “Dizzinator.”
“I’m sorry, hon—you cain’t ride without you get five euros over to the lady in the booth.” The woman gestures to the little stand where you buy the carnival money. “You go an’ ast her for five euros and come back here an’ you kin get on…but you gotta buy some euros first.”
So I paid for my clothes, walked back to the hotel where I immediately changed. I wanted some practice with the scarf, for one thing—an item that I knew would take some getting used to. I’d also bought a subdued woolen hat that fit snugly over my head. It was not quite as loud as my Icelandic ski cap, which had a snowflake motif. I would pack that away with my blue jacket and other gear. I put on my new jacket, my shirt and overcoat and scarf. I’d already bought new shoes before leaving home, and they were incredibly comfortable and even a little stylish. I’d told the girls that I didn’t want to buy a new pair, and they said okay, the ones I had would work with what I’d just bought. They weren’t black but were made of soft brown leather, and—as I said—were some of the best walking shoes I’d ever worn. I’d already spent a few days walking around Paris in them—and Iceland before that.
With the day no warmer than when I’d first greeted it that morning, I now wanted to see if my new getup would actually protect me from the November elements. Here is what I discovered: Not only did this particular ensemble look about one thousand times better than my lumpy and blue all-weather jacket, but I felt secure in layers of warmth. The scarf, the jacket and overcoat enveloped me in a pleasant winter blanket that kept the grey and damp and cold at bay. Better even than my large all-purpose utility jacket. So, not only did the Parisians figure out a way to stay warm in the winter months that bring endless days of grey and rain, but they’d figured out how to look good at the same time.
I left the hotel for a trek across Paris. On the Rue des Capucines, a man stopped me to ask directions. I told him that I wasn’t from here, but that I would try to help him. I’d often gone the wrong way in the confused maze of streets and Boulevards that changed names at just about every intersection, so I was something of an expert on all the wrong paths to take. He was a Frenchman, visiting from some other part of the country, and told me only that he wanted to be going in the opposite direction of the Madeleine Metro stop. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” I said. “You’re already going the wrong way.” I pointed up the street, “Madeleine is right up there.” He thanked me, turned around and headed back the way he’d come. Already my new outfit was reaping dividends, if only to make me blend in with the cityscape, appear as if I belonged there. Had I been wearing my parka-like swaddling, coming down the sidewalk like a mini-compact car of garish blue, the man would not have considered asking me for directions, would have opted for another woolen-clad Parisian in his dark and timeless winter coat.
I was now in the mood, ready to become one with the city. I hopped the metro for the ride up to la Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, went inside where the man who sold me the daily pass suggested that maybe I could buy a yearly pass for only around thirty-four euros. Well, that’s all well and good, I told him, but I won’t be around much longer, have to head home, I told him. Then I added: “My research is almost finished.” He nodded, in a not very convincing way, sold me the daily pass, and I went upstairs to check on my business activities back home and to see if there were any more responses to the video project. Paris seemed to be full of filmmakers looking for work, but no actresses. I would try back again.
This day was particularly chilly, but without rain—other than the occasional drizzle that came with most days. Leaving the library, I headed across Paris, deciding not to follow the Seine, but to take the big avenues and Boulevards that cut straight across town. My destination was the Eiffel Tower, which was too far away to see from this spot. I could have easily arrived there by taking the Metro, but there was little to see down there other than stoic and reserved Parisians. On one occasion I’d seen a working man trying to strike up a conversation with one of his countrymen, who’d just bought an electronic gadget and was bringing it back home to plug in. The man with the electronic gadget appeared almost pained to respond, as if he’d just gotten the news that all his teeth would have to be pulled out. I wanted to shout to the working man: “TALK TO ME! TALK TO ME! “I’m American---we’ll talk to anyone! It’s what we do!” I wanted to tell him about my electronic gadgets back home—whether he wanted to hear about them or not—my lawnmowers, how I sometimes looked at old tractors and even bought them, how I’d once had a flat tire and fixed it in only five minutes, and how I was once pulled over for speeding but did not receive a ticket. I wanted to tell him about some bugs I’d seen at a pool party, but no one knew what kind of bugs they were, because they were different from the bugs that were in the pool, and there were more of them. I wanted him to know that I’d eaten all of my breakfast, and that the clothes I wore were brand-new, and that I didn’t normally wear those kind, but that today I was, and might be tomorrow.
The man with the gadget had smiled in a forced way, made clear that he and his gadget were a private matter, that these things concerned really no one but him and maybe a few close associates—and even then he’d be reluctant to share the intimate details of the thing. I felt for the working man, with his rough clothes and large wife chewing on something in the next seat. In the silence that enveloped the tense and crowded subway car, this unspoken thing could be grasped from the thick and moist air: “You’re in Paris, man; don’t you know where you ARE?”
So I skipped the crowded but efficient subway, tracked my path across town by consulting the large city maps just outside the metro stations. These are put in place really to benefit the subway riders, but the main streets—and many of the smaller ones—are also clearly marked along with the metro stops. This helps in not appearing to be a visiting tourist: For many Parisians consult these maps to find their way in the complex subway system, especially if they deviate from lines they normally take. It is common to see someone from the city looking at the map to see where they might need to switch trains—or to determine if there is a direct route to where they want to go. So I left my large city map at the hotel, simply stopped every few metro stations to look at my route, and continued on my way.
Presently I became hungry, decided to stop in at a boulangerie where they sold good sandwiches on their browned and crusty bread. I was just in time for lunch, and the sandwich supply was holding up. A line quickly formed behind me, something that I find disconcerting—because my transactions are never simple. Unaccustomed to all the good food in front of me, I have a thousand questions. The people behind me simply wanted to grab a bite and get back to work. So I picked out a few orangettes, a confection popular in France that consists of candied orange peel dipped in dark chocolate. Along with this I told the young woman to put a few of the fruit jellies into the bag as well. They looked particularly good, and are also a specialty of France. For my lunch I picked out a long ham and swiss sandwich on crusty French bread and a bottle of Orangina soda. These things I took outside into the cold November day and ate them as I walked along.
The sandwich was gone within a few blocks—a delicious but simple concoction made all the better by the use of fresh ingredients and extraordinarily good bread. As the sidewalks of Paris passed under my unhurried steps, the desserts of orangette pieces and fruit jellies also disappeared. I was making good headway, but estimated that my walk to the Eiffel Tower—at my pace—would take about two hours.
In one of the first neighborhoods I encountered a faded and neglected chateau—a once-grand place now encumbered by disrepair, lack of funds, and the passage of time. It was now a dwelling for various artists, bohemians, and assorted lazy people. Outside were broken-down things and firewood stacked against the crumbling and cracked walls. Banners and painted messages hung from windows, giving a glimpse into the lives of the people who made their home there, built fires in the immense hearths or rickety wood stoves picked up on the cheap. I looked for signs of cats—any sign at all—as I imagined the people who lived there would like cats and that cats would also be fond of the grand old place. I saw nothing in the tall windows that suggested a cat lived there, but passed by the chateau confident that it was probably home to quite a few. After another block, the turrets and grey roofs made of slate were gone from sight. It was likely I’d never see the place again.
At a café further along, I stopped for a blackberry kir and a rest from the chilly day. I sat outside the deserted café, with the overhead heaters keeping me warm. A couple of Parisians I’d talked to at another place near my hotel told me that these heaters are creating something of a controversy in the city. The argument is that they pollute. There is also no real reason why Parisians should be afforded the chance to sit outside and enjoy their drinks and food in all weather—other than that they simply like it. I should add that I am glad that these tables haven’t been taken away in the winter months, because it was something that I really looked forward to. But for the city-dwellers, there is another aspect to this: The smokers, who are represented in great numbers among the thin and fashionable population, can no longer light up inside the restaurants and other businesses. The smoking ban is complete. So they are forced to slip outside to sneak a smoke, sit for a while at one of the sidewalk tables, then duck back inside. So there is a compromise, as often happens where you get large populations of people living together in an increasingly confined area, and I noticed it as I—a non-smoker—sat enjoying the outside tables. Yes, you can enjoy a smoke-free environment if you choose to sit indoors. But if—like me—you enjoy the sidewalk tables in all seasons, you will be sitting next to smokers. I didn’t feel that the smoke was a great inconvenience, since the gusty days mostly blew it into the chilly air. Sitting indoors, with a group of smoking Parisians, it would be a different story: I’ve seen the late-night clubs so thick with the stuff that there didn’t appear to be any regular air left in there. Those days are gone forever.
Presently a teetering man came along, asked me as I sat alone at my table where the nearest metro stop was. I pointed a few feet down the street, told him it was right there. “Look, you can see the sign,” I said. He seemed to have an agenda other than finding some convenient mass transportation, so I ignored him after that. After all, I now looked like a Parisian, so I might as well start acting like one. With the constant crush of slow-moving cars along the big boulevard in front of me came a relic from the past—an ancient Solex moped, of the kind I actually have back home. This was retrieved from my cousins’ barn after about a quarter-century of collecting dust. Now it awaited some attention from me. This one motoring along the rain-slicked streets actually ran smoothly and did not appear to be smoking—something that was common amongst the machines I remember. With their two-cycle motors and oil that had to be mixed in with the fuel, it was easy to neglect the engine, let it run as it may, and trail blue smoke along the streets and boulevards of France. The combination of so many of these little front-drive motorbikes and their larger counterparts—all running on smoking two-cycle engines—made for a distinctive odor in the city. The odor was absent on this trip as this type of motor has become less common. Occasionally you'll see an older model still in service, like the ancient American cars people drive around back home, but it is increasingly rare. I looked at the bike longingly—a simple bicycle really with a very small engine outfitted to the front wheel. Back in the day, when the bike’s engine simply gave up and the owner decided that fixing it was not an option, many people simply pulled the motor off and pedaled the bike around as-is. With the Velosolex operating as it should, the starting of it was simple, could be accomplished by anyone who could pedal a bike. You simply raised it on its little center stand so that the rear wheel was off the ground, and got it spinning a bit. Then you lowered the bike, got it rolling along the street or sidewalk, and lowered the engine into its “drive” position over the front wheel. This got the engine cranking over, and resulted in it usually starting immediately. You could also just start pedaling the bike down the street and pop the motor into place or leave it in drive if you had enough leg power to pedal the bike and turn over the engine at the same time. When I finally returned home, one of my main objectives would be to get the little Solex running again.
With the afternoon’s light starting to fade, I got going, took one of the large avenues in the direction of the iconic landmark. After about two hours of walking and eating and enjoying a kir, the large metal tower came into view. It would disappear behind buildings, but by now I no longer needed the metro maps to guide me. I could basically tell—even with my abysmal sense of direction—where it was. When I arrived at the well-worn and damp grounds leading to the Eiffel Tower, the coldness of the day was emphasized by the black silhouette of the tower against the remaining light in the sky. The winter trees reached with their bony fingers to frame the regular symmetry of its graceful lines—the season seeming to want to leave nothing untouched. I took a few perfunctory photographs of the hugely-photographed thing, found the nearest metro stop and got on the train for the ride back to the hotel. I found that, thankfully, I did not have to switch trains: This line led directly back to my neighborhood.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Airport Dog
Airport Dog (Iceland)
As I lugged my one piece of carry-on luggage around—a rather dated but still functional suitcase that had a strap and was made out of soft cloth material, I spied the airport dog happily going around checking pieces of luggage for whatever it was he was trained to sniff out. He wasn't terribly busy, owing to the deserted airport on that cold November morning. I called him over to have a look at my bag, to give him something to do, and also in the hope that I'd be able to spend some time with the dog. He dragged his trainer—a uniformed security person with a gun—over to my suitcase and gave it a perfunctory once-over. He wasn’t interested in lingering, being on the clock, so I let him go his way. He was a smallish golden retriever, and had an amiable face that showed a joy in doing this work, and doing it well. His trainer, who was probably allowed to bring the dog home, was justifiably proud of the animal.
Paris
In Paris I was seated at a computer terminal in the huge national library. This place was built as a colossal monument to French history and culture. Following its timeline, I saw that it encompassed collections starting with kings who ruled in the sixth century, A.D., gathered steam through the more recent times, and now was a juggernaut of cultural wealth, a colossus that trumpeted the history of France from giant towers that loomed skyward, connected by endless and wide corridors. Serious academics flocked here, talked about serious things and their research. Everywhere the tones were hushed, the conversations whispered, as if in a sacred cathedral. I was checking my email.
I’d come to this place, had traveled from a not very well-regarded city on the east coast of the United States, had hopped the Metro with the silent and cold Parisians, and had taken a seat here with my day-pass that allowed me access to the “salles de lecture,” or “reading rooms.” This particular one was for those studying economics and law, and I saw the young students with their notebooks open, graphs depicting some complicated trend or other, or consulting the computer screens for yet more information in their quest for knowledge. I looked at the many responses I’d gotten for my online advertisement to produce a video to the song by my departed idol, Edith Piaf. “This is research, too,” I told myself, “Even if it’s not what they really had in mind when they set this whole thing in motion.”
Many cameramen and video producers had answered my call, in very proper French, and had all included resumes and links to their work. I had my pick of some very talented people, finally whittled the selection down to a man named David, who had worked extensively in Los Angeles and was fairly fluent in English. This was a bonus, as it was going to be hard enough to shoot the video, without having to give instructions in my limited French. I took down his information, put it into the cheap notebook I’d bought at one of the papeteries downtown, and scrolled through the responses for Marie Trottoir, the streetwalker who would be the focus of the production. So far, no one had expressed any interest in playing the leading role. Without her, there would be no video.
With my work on the internet completed, I walked around the library a little, thinking that maybe there was more to this place than just computer terminals. “They probably have other stuff here,” is what I said to myself. I came across an exhibition room downstairs that had the works of Gaston Leroux, a journalist and novelist previously unknown to me. I looked at his life, his works, saw what he was all about. Then I watched a few short films based on some of his works. These little films are a big part of French culture, and they seem to include them wherever an important exhibit takes place.
I wrote down the author’s name in my tattered little notebook, then wandered down the immense corridor to see what else the place had to offer. Soon I came across the audio-visual room, to which my day pass also gave me access. I looked at the rows of videos and compact discs, and knew immediately that they would have the entire works of Edith Piaf in that place. I soon found them—each compact disc true to the original album as it had appeared. These were not merely collections pieced together, like I had back home; it was the true chronology of her work. I took most of them to the front desk, explained that I was new to the process, and could I please listen to the selections. There were no CDs inside; rather, you were assigned a terminal in the immense room, and it was set up for you to use. Then you merely typed in the code on the CD case, and the whole contents of the music CD appeared on the screen and began playing. You could skip around if you wanted to, listen to some selections and ignore others.
While I was there, I also explored the many other names in French music I’d heard of but did not know: Juliette Greco, Serges Gainsbourgh, and some other person whose name did not ring a bell. I found them all equally awful, did not know how they’d come to be loved by so many listeners, nor how they’d become classics. I found one piece written for Juliette Greco, “Je Suis Comme Je Suis,” (I am how I am), especially odious. I found later during my visit, in another part of Paris, that the song had been written by a creative genius by the name of Jacques Prevert. There was yet another exhibit, with films, devoted to the man and his life. But that’s for another time. Now I was listening to Piaf and her songs, and many of them I’d never heard before. I put the comfortable headphones back on their special shelf, placed the CD covers on a table to be re-shelved later, and headed outside into the chilly November air. I would have a croque monsieur for dinner, maybe, and perhaps stop at one of the cafes I’d taken a liking to. One thing was certain: There would be a fresh crepe a la confiture d’abricot for dessert. I was crazy about my apricot crepes. With the sun setting on the cold city of Paris, I exited the hallowed halls of the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand. The crowded and steamy metro awaited me. Line number Fourteen, the newest one in the system, would take me almost directly back to my neighborhood near the Place de l’Opera.
As I lugged my one piece of carry-on luggage around—a rather dated but still functional suitcase that had a strap and was made out of soft cloth material, I spied the airport dog happily going around checking pieces of luggage for whatever it was he was trained to sniff out. He wasn't terribly busy, owing to the deserted airport on that cold November morning. I called him over to have a look at my bag, to give him something to do, and also in the hope that I'd be able to spend some time with the dog. He dragged his trainer—a uniformed security person with a gun—over to my suitcase and gave it a perfunctory once-over. He wasn’t interested in lingering, being on the clock, so I let him go his way. He was a smallish golden retriever, and had an amiable face that showed a joy in doing this work, and doing it well. His trainer, who was probably allowed to bring the dog home, was justifiably proud of the animal.
Paris
In Paris I was seated at a computer terminal in the huge national library. This place was built as a colossal monument to French history and culture. Following its timeline, I saw that it encompassed collections starting with kings who ruled in the sixth century, A.D., gathered steam through the more recent times, and now was a juggernaut of cultural wealth, a colossus that trumpeted the history of France from giant towers that loomed skyward, connected by endless and wide corridors. Serious academics flocked here, talked about serious things and their research. Everywhere the tones were hushed, the conversations whispered, as if in a sacred cathedral. I was checking my email.
I’d come to this place, had traveled from a not very well-regarded city on the east coast of the United States, had hopped the Metro with the silent and cold Parisians, and had taken a seat here with my day-pass that allowed me access to the “salles de lecture,” or “reading rooms.” This particular one was for those studying economics and law, and I saw the young students with their notebooks open, graphs depicting some complicated trend or other, or consulting the computer screens for yet more information in their quest for knowledge. I looked at the many responses I’d gotten for my online advertisement to produce a video to the song by my departed idol, Edith Piaf. “This is research, too,” I told myself, “Even if it’s not what they really had in mind when they set this whole thing in motion.”
Many cameramen and video producers had answered my call, in very proper French, and had all included resumes and links to their work. I had my pick of some very talented people, finally whittled the selection down to a man named David, who had worked extensively in Los Angeles and was fairly fluent in English. This was a bonus, as it was going to be hard enough to shoot the video, without having to give instructions in my limited French. I took down his information, put it into the cheap notebook I’d bought at one of the papeteries downtown, and scrolled through the responses for Marie Trottoir, the streetwalker who would be the focus of the production. So far, no one had expressed any interest in playing the leading role. Without her, there would be no video.
With my work on the internet completed, I walked around the library a little, thinking that maybe there was more to this place than just computer terminals. “They probably have other stuff here,” is what I said to myself. I came across an exhibition room downstairs that had the works of Gaston Leroux, a journalist and novelist previously unknown to me. I looked at his life, his works, saw what he was all about. Then I watched a few short films based on some of his works. These little films are a big part of French culture, and they seem to include them wherever an important exhibit takes place.
I wrote down the author’s name in my tattered little notebook, then wandered down the immense corridor to see what else the place had to offer. Soon I came across the audio-visual room, to which my day pass also gave me access. I looked at the rows of videos and compact discs, and knew immediately that they would have the entire works of Edith Piaf in that place. I soon found them—each compact disc true to the original album as it had appeared. These were not merely collections pieced together, like I had back home; it was the true chronology of her work. I took most of them to the front desk, explained that I was new to the process, and could I please listen to the selections. There were no CDs inside; rather, you were assigned a terminal in the immense room, and it was set up for you to use. Then you merely typed in the code on the CD case, and the whole contents of the music CD appeared on the screen and began playing. You could skip around if you wanted to, listen to some selections and ignore others.
While I was there, I also explored the many other names in French music I’d heard of but did not know: Juliette Greco, Serges Gainsbourgh, and some other person whose name did not ring a bell. I found them all equally awful, did not know how they’d come to be loved by so many listeners, nor how they’d become classics. I found one piece written for Juliette Greco, “Je Suis Comme Je Suis,” (I am how I am), especially odious. I found later during my visit, in another part of Paris, that the song had been written by a creative genius by the name of Jacques Prevert. There was yet another exhibit, with films, devoted to the man and his life. But that’s for another time. Now I was listening to Piaf and her songs, and many of them I’d never heard before. I put the comfortable headphones back on their special shelf, placed the CD covers on a table to be re-shelved later, and headed outside into the chilly November air. I would have a croque monsieur for dinner, maybe, and perhaps stop at one of the cafes I’d taken a liking to. One thing was certain: There would be a fresh crepe a la confiture d’abricot for dessert. I was crazy about my apricot crepes. With the sun setting on the cold city of Paris, I exited the hallowed halls of the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand. The crowded and steamy metro awaited me. Line number Fourteen, the newest one in the system, would take me almost directly back to my neighborhood near the Place de l’Opera.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Nighttime Arrival
Nighttime Arrival
Coasting in out of the darkened Icelandic skies, the plane touched down as it always did, cloaked in a blanket of night. Inside, the airport was brightly lit, done up as if for a party that the guests never showed up for. The 66 Degrees North shop and all the duty-free boutiques dazzled with impeccable displays, the stacks of Icelandic vodka and bottles of cologne and designer clothing arranged in neat aisles that were deserted at seven in the morning. I decided to abandon my flight to Paris, wanted to stay a few days in Iceland. In truth, I just couldn’t bear the thought of getting on another airplane. I’d had enough.
When I’d broached the idea of changing my itinerary in Boston, the ticket agent there told me it could be done—with great difficulty and at great expense. I would have to delay my trip back home, and pay more than five hundred dollars. This is about what my original round-trip ticket cost. I told him I would check with the people in Iceland and see what they had to say about it.
The ticket agents in the deserted airport arranged for my new travel dates, charged me around two hundred dollars to change, and kept my original return date. I didn’t consider this a bargain, but it was better than the deal the Bostonian had offered me. Since Iceland, like most of the world, is in a state of economic collapse, it is actually a good time to travel there. From what I could tell—based on the going exchange rate—the items I bought in that country were all but free. On this trip I became something I’d never been before: An international shopper. I chose the best hotel I could find, right in the heart of the downtown dining district, with its fashionable shops and convenient avenues that led to all the interesting places. This wasn’t in the least extravagant on my part, since the place was costing about half of what it normally would. At the hotel’s lavish and darkly burnished reception counter, I knocked on the exotic wood, exhaling the aroma of cheap licorice I’d bought on the airplane.
“Is this real?” I asked the stylish and pretty receptionist. “I can’t afford a place like this back home,” I said, extracting a piece of licorice lodged in one of my back teeth. “This is nicer than my house.”
And in the pre-dawn chill that seems colder and more remote on the drive from the airport to the capital, the car radio played. This has become something of a tradition, the expected welcome: Some piece of musical oddity, most likely a selection from the most remote corners of Americana, or a forgotten melody that maybe only haunted your memories, lingering on the periphery but never quite getting a hold on your consciousness. So it was with this trip. I tuned in the main station of the country, heard the subtle but well-executed melody coming from what surely must have been a Texas band, driving home a beat that was simple but strangely compelling, the lyrics and rhythm working perfectly to create a mood. They must do this on purpose, those Icelanders. They surely have a sense of humor, a great and abiding fascination with the absurd. I watched the darkened nightscape pass on the horizon, the outlines of jagged and low-lying mountains, while this familiar but unidentifiable song played an unlikely accompaniment.
I found a parking garage, with the sun just now climbing a little above the horizon. I parked the quiet and smooth Toyota, locked it, and went to my new hotel and a long nap after my day of travel.
Coasting in out of the darkened Icelandic skies, the plane touched down as it always did, cloaked in a blanket of night. Inside, the airport was brightly lit, done up as if for a party that the guests never showed up for. The 66 Degrees North shop and all the duty-free boutiques dazzled with impeccable displays, the stacks of Icelandic vodka and bottles of cologne and designer clothing arranged in neat aisles that were deserted at seven in the morning. I decided to abandon my flight to Paris, wanted to stay a few days in Iceland. In truth, I just couldn’t bear the thought of getting on another airplane. I’d had enough.
When I’d broached the idea of changing my itinerary in Boston, the ticket agent there told me it could be done—with great difficulty and at great expense. I would have to delay my trip back home, and pay more than five hundred dollars. This is about what my original round-trip ticket cost. I told him I would check with the people in Iceland and see what they had to say about it.
The ticket agents in the deserted airport arranged for my new travel dates, charged me around two hundred dollars to change, and kept my original return date. I didn’t consider this a bargain, but it was better than the deal the Bostonian had offered me. Since Iceland, like most of the world, is in a state of economic collapse, it is actually a good time to travel there. From what I could tell—based on the going exchange rate—the items I bought in that country were all but free. On this trip I became something I’d never been before: An international shopper. I chose the best hotel I could find, right in the heart of the downtown dining district, with its fashionable shops and convenient avenues that led to all the interesting places. This wasn’t in the least extravagant on my part, since the place was costing about half of what it normally would. At the hotel’s lavish and darkly burnished reception counter, I knocked on the exotic wood, exhaling the aroma of cheap licorice I’d bought on the airplane.
“Is this real?” I asked the stylish and pretty receptionist. “I can’t afford a place like this back home,” I said, extracting a piece of licorice lodged in one of my back teeth. “This is nicer than my house.”
And in the pre-dawn chill that seems colder and more remote on the drive from the airport to the capital, the car radio played. This has become something of a tradition, the expected welcome: Some piece of musical oddity, most likely a selection from the most remote corners of Americana, or a forgotten melody that maybe only haunted your memories, lingering on the periphery but never quite getting a hold on your consciousness. So it was with this trip. I tuned in the main station of the country, heard the subtle but well-executed melody coming from what surely must have been a Texas band, driving home a beat that was simple but strangely compelling, the lyrics and rhythm working perfectly to create a mood. They must do this on purpose, those Icelanders. They surely have a sense of humor, a great and abiding fascination with the absurd. I watched the darkened nightscape pass on the horizon, the outlines of jagged and low-lying mountains, while this familiar but unidentifiable song played an unlikely accompaniment.
I found a parking garage, with the sun just now climbing a little above the horizon. I parked the quiet and smooth Toyota, locked it, and went to my new hotel and a long nap after my day of travel.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A Few Days Earlier: Iceland
A few days earlier in Iceland the phone was ringing in my room. I picked it up, hung up the receiver in the darkened room that still let in hardly any light—even at ten o’clock in the morning. It rang again---the off-road expedition truck had come to pick me up, and it turns out I’d ignored my earlier wake-up call, had simply rolled over and gone back to sleep at seven o’clock.
“Huh? What is it? Oh, okay…the trip. I’ll be right down.”
I showered, got my photo gear together, and headed out into the dark morning, with light just now beginning to show in the east.
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for this kind of thing?” I asked, as I hopped up into the enormous truck. Then added: “Do you have a toothbrush?” Thus the tone was set for our outing. Eggert spoke excellent English, made it clear that he was the head chef at some local establishment, did this only because he liked it—and besides he had the big truck, so he may as well make it pay.
“Head chef, huh?” I yawned; “Well, I guess people have to eat.”
We stopped out in the midst of that area of Iceland that is never very far from where people actually live. It was a waystation for tourists, but—as usual—I was not there during the tourist season. As a result, the place was deserted on this Sunday morning, save for the woman who ran it and who offered me some traditional Icelandic soup while I was waiting for Eggert to get the truck in order outside. He actually needed to let air out of the tires for the next leg of the trip, which would take us onto a rough and nearly impassable road up to the glacier.
“Traditional Icelandic soup? What’s in it?” I asked, almost holding my nose with disdain. She mentioned all the good and wholesome ingredients, including tender lamb, and I said I would take a bowl, extra large, please. While I waited for the soup and the fresh rolls and Icelandic butter, I told the woman that I was American, and that we didn’t have soup like that back home because we hardly had any buffalo left. She explained that she and her husband had sold their business in the capital to escape the hectic life of the big city, were happier out here where they’d built this little restaurant and catered to the tourists who came and sat at the little tables with red-checkered tablecloths on their way to the glacier. I told her that—if she thought Reykjavik was a big city, maybe she’d best not visit the east coast of the United States—and definitely stay away from New York.
Eggert came in as I was devouring the hearty and delicious soup and rolls. He’d finished with the truck, now looked at me.
“We’re burning daylight,” he said. This was almost too much for him: First I’d wandered down to meet him after oversleeping, and now it appeared that I just wanted to sit and eat traditional Icelandic soup. The weather conditions were perfect at the moment—something that was likely to change in an instant. It was obvious he’d never encountered a client like me.
“I had no breakfast this morning,” I made the words through mouthfuls of bread and soup. “The people at the hotel wouldn’t give me any food on account of it was too late and the ringer wouldn’t work in my room, and when it finally did, it was you—but I thought it was something else—or maybe the phone was ringing for no reason.” I paused for a moment. “Do you have the newspaper?”
Eggert threw his hands up in despair, “Okay, you’re the boss,” he said. “Spend the whole day here with your soup if you like, but we’re not going up on the glacier after dark.” I waved him away, couldn’t respond because I’d stuffed two of the little dinner rolls into my mouth at once, and was having difficulty chewing, much less having a discourse with the driver. After things had cleared up a bit, I asked once again if he had a toothbrush.
After the enormous bowl of soup and rolls, I staggered out to the truck with my bottle of Coca-Cola and some more rolls wrapped in a paper napkin. I took my place in the passenger seat, unwrapped the buttered bread and silently munched as we made our way up the rutted and rock-strewn road in the Icelandic wilderness. A little barricade at the start of the glacier road, propped up by some rocks but mostly just broken down and put out there to offer the essential information with as few words as possible, said this: IMPASSABLE.
I soon found out why. The truck, with its huge balloon tires, floated over the jagged ruts and uneven road with its large rocks washed into the mix from storms and ice and the extreme weather that took its toll on the landscape. I’d bragged to Eggert that I’d once driven out into the Icelandic wilderness in my rental car, had even gotten up close to a glacier. To attempt such a thing on this road would have been insanity: The dips and climbs and uneven terrain with large rocks would have quickly broken a regular sedan, would have left it crippled out there in a place it shouldn’t have been to begin with. Eggert made it clear that he and his comrades often came across hapless and stupid individuals like this, and gave them a hard time before rescuing them and bringing them back to civilization. They probably also affixed a hefty price for these people to pay.
We continued into an area where the road evened out, became more of a regular dirt path through the rocky landscape. Up ahead was a silent Caterpillar bulldozer, a relic from the nineteen-seventies, parked with its enclosed cab sealed off against the winters. It was a piece of equipment used by the state, started usually once or twice a year to do an annual smoothing out of the road, a general cleanup of boulders and other large imperfections that might impede traffic way out there. The road we were on—as awful as it was—was still a state-maintained highway. It might be maintained only one time per year, by the reliable and now-silent machine parked improbably out there in the wilderness, but it still got a going-over.
While I ate my buttered rolls and drank Coca-Cola, Eggert stopped periodically to decrease the tire pressures. We were now driving on snow, and the climb was making the truck work harder. We would finally get the pressure down to just one psi. My tires back home, when fully inflated, took about thirty psi or so.
“One psi?” I said. “That’s not very much; you sure you know what you’re doing?” I took another bite of buttered dinner roll, delicately wiped at the corner of my mouth. I wasn’t so interested in his reply, because now it was cold outside. I rolled up the window, allowed him to go about his business out there in the bitter cold of the snowy Icelandic no-man’s land.
With the tires down to the minimum pressure we could get away with, we now climbed up onto the deep snow of the glacier, the truck making tracks on top of the snowpack, as if it were wearing snowshoes. Now it was very cold outside; the temperature was only just around the freezing mark, but it felt much colder. The glacier makes its own weather, and right now it was a brilliant and low sun and a blue sky beyond the expanse of white—with only more white beyond that.
We stayed up there, enjoyed the solitude of the experience, with no other passengers on this tour, but a group from another company that also was parked there—had arrived at the same time. I didn’t like their truck, didn’t like the looks of the tourists, either, so kept close to our vehicle and relished having the truck and driver to myself. I took some video footage of Eggert putting the big Nissan through its paces up there, got good shots of the truck floating over the white blanket atop the glacier, against a uniform field of white. When we’d done that for a while, and I’d also captured his exploits on his cell phone video camera, we got back in the truck to head down. That’s when—in the blink of an eye—the weather hit.
There was no visibility now, only a smoky and all-encompassing envelope of grey. It had blown in suddenly, but now I see it in the photographs, overtaking the landscape with stealth. The photos I’d taken just a few minutes prior were clear with sunshine; now the clouds had descended onto the white plain, had made our world a fog of grey soup that couldn’t be penetrated more than a foot or two beyond the windshield. To start driving now would mean driving randomly into the void, with no sense of direction or any feeling for where we might be in the vast glacial landscape.
I panicked, began whimpering—then crying outright. I clawed at the truck’s windows: “Let me out! Let me out!” I wailed, ineffectually trying to exit the truck. In my general thrashing about, I upset the driver’s air freshener, which landed on the floor between us. It had an electronic chip in it, and now said this: “For best results, change air freshener now.” This had a calming effect on me, and I now fell silent. We both looked at the thing that had fallen on the floor, and I picked it up, heard it utter its message once again, then it went dead for good. I shook it, still upset about our plight, shook it some more. “Talk, you! Say something! Say the thing you did before! Talk! Talk!” Eggert looked at me; this wasn’t going to be such an easy trip after all.
I was pushing buttons at random on the truck’s elaborate dashboard—with many knobs and controls, still trying to effect some change in our situation. One of the controls opened a DVD screen—which then began playing the movie “The Little Mermaid,” something that the driver’s young son enjoyed watching. I asked if I could watch Muriel the mermaid for a while, since I’d never seen the movie.
“Sure, go ahead!” said Eggert, glad that I now had something to occupy myself. I took out another buttered roll, watched the fishes and their friends cavort on the off-road truck’s video screen, and washed down my last bread with another swig of Coke.
Meanwhile, Eggert had gotten the truck in motion, was steering in fact by using the onboard navigational system, or what is commonly referred to as GPS. This system had tracked our route exactly up the glacier—where there was no road—and now it remained to just follow the line on the screen. He needed only to align two markers—one representing the truck, and the other representing the path we needed to take. He would do this by steering over to the thin little pencil line on the screen, until the truck marker was in sync with it. On my video screen, the Little Mermaid splashed about and the fishes all adored her. I didn’t think she was too bad, either.
We tracked back down off the glacier, descended below the cloud cover to where it was clear but overcast. We could see now. I cried great torrents of tears, bawled and bawled, while trying to catch some of the action on the movie that was playing still. My rolls were gone, and I had only a little warm Coke left. I blubbered that I wanted more traditional Icelandic soup. We pulled into the lonely outpost restaurant, which had no name. On the front, it said—in simple Icelandic style: RESTAURANT. I went back inside, while Eggert inflated the tires back to normal pressure using the truck’s air compressor and hoses. I asked for more of the soup, and plenty of rolls, please.
After a few minutes the driver came in, pointed to me at the table with my soup, said to the owner, “This one’s had a bad day.” He and the restaurant owner knew each other, and I could hear—in their incomprehensible Icelandic conversation, references to the Little Mermaid.
Eggert dropped me off at the hotel. Inside, my luxurious room awaited, with hot water straight from the bowels of Iceland itself. The water smelled more than a little of sulphur, but I didn’t mind so much. I thought it pleasant that the people were able to tap into this resource, bring gurgling hot water up to the surface and—in many cases—pipe it directly to the faucets of Icelanders. As we parted, the driver handed me a brochure, said to call that number in case I ever needed a tour in the future. I looked at the company’s booklet, didn’t recognize the name. He’d given me the name of another off-road tour company.
“Huh? What is it? Oh, okay…the trip. I’ll be right down.”
I showered, got my photo gear together, and headed out into the dark morning, with light just now beginning to show in the east.
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for this kind of thing?” I asked, as I hopped up into the enormous truck. Then added: “Do you have a toothbrush?” Thus the tone was set for our outing. Eggert spoke excellent English, made it clear that he was the head chef at some local establishment, did this only because he liked it—and besides he had the big truck, so he may as well make it pay.
“Head chef, huh?” I yawned; “Well, I guess people have to eat.”
We stopped out in the midst of that area of Iceland that is never very far from where people actually live. It was a waystation for tourists, but—as usual—I was not there during the tourist season. As a result, the place was deserted on this Sunday morning, save for the woman who ran it and who offered me some traditional Icelandic soup while I was waiting for Eggert to get the truck in order outside. He actually needed to let air out of the tires for the next leg of the trip, which would take us onto a rough and nearly impassable road up to the glacier.
“Traditional Icelandic soup? What’s in it?” I asked, almost holding my nose with disdain. She mentioned all the good and wholesome ingredients, including tender lamb, and I said I would take a bowl, extra large, please. While I waited for the soup and the fresh rolls and Icelandic butter, I told the woman that I was American, and that we didn’t have soup like that back home because we hardly had any buffalo left. She explained that she and her husband had sold their business in the capital to escape the hectic life of the big city, were happier out here where they’d built this little restaurant and catered to the tourists who came and sat at the little tables with red-checkered tablecloths on their way to the glacier. I told her that—if she thought Reykjavik was a big city, maybe she’d best not visit the east coast of the United States—and definitely stay away from New York.
Eggert came in as I was devouring the hearty and delicious soup and rolls. He’d finished with the truck, now looked at me.
“We’re burning daylight,” he said. This was almost too much for him: First I’d wandered down to meet him after oversleeping, and now it appeared that I just wanted to sit and eat traditional Icelandic soup. The weather conditions were perfect at the moment—something that was likely to change in an instant. It was obvious he’d never encountered a client like me.
“I had no breakfast this morning,” I made the words through mouthfuls of bread and soup. “The people at the hotel wouldn’t give me any food on account of it was too late and the ringer wouldn’t work in my room, and when it finally did, it was you—but I thought it was something else—or maybe the phone was ringing for no reason.” I paused for a moment. “Do you have the newspaper?”
Eggert threw his hands up in despair, “Okay, you’re the boss,” he said. “Spend the whole day here with your soup if you like, but we’re not going up on the glacier after dark.” I waved him away, couldn’t respond because I’d stuffed two of the little dinner rolls into my mouth at once, and was having difficulty chewing, much less having a discourse with the driver. After things had cleared up a bit, I asked once again if he had a toothbrush.
After the enormous bowl of soup and rolls, I staggered out to the truck with my bottle of Coca-Cola and some more rolls wrapped in a paper napkin. I took my place in the passenger seat, unwrapped the buttered bread and silently munched as we made our way up the rutted and rock-strewn road in the Icelandic wilderness. A little barricade at the start of the glacier road, propped up by some rocks but mostly just broken down and put out there to offer the essential information with as few words as possible, said this: IMPASSABLE.
I soon found out why. The truck, with its huge balloon tires, floated over the jagged ruts and uneven road with its large rocks washed into the mix from storms and ice and the extreme weather that took its toll on the landscape. I’d bragged to Eggert that I’d once driven out into the Icelandic wilderness in my rental car, had even gotten up close to a glacier. To attempt such a thing on this road would have been insanity: The dips and climbs and uneven terrain with large rocks would have quickly broken a regular sedan, would have left it crippled out there in a place it shouldn’t have been to begin with. Eggert made it clear that he and his comrades often came across hapless and stupid individuals like this, and gave them a hard time before rescuing them and bringing them back to civilization. They probably also affixed a hefty price for these people to pay.
We continued into an area where the road evened out, became more of a regular dirt path through the rocky landscape. Up ahead was a silent Caterpillar bulldozer, a relic from the nineteen-seventies, parked with its enclosed cab sealed off against the winters. It was a piece of equipment used by the state, started usually once or twice a year to do an annual smoothing out of the road, a general cleanup of boulders and other large imperfections that might impede traffic way out there. The road we were on—as awful as it was—was still a state-maintained highway. It might be maintained only one time per year, by the reliable and now-silent machine parked improbably out there in the wilderness, but it still got a going-over.
While I ate my buttered rolls and drank Coca-Cola, Eggert stopped periodically to decrease the tire pressures. We were now driving on snow, and the climb was making the truck work harder. We would finally get the pressure down to just one psi. My tires back home, when fully inflated, took about thirty psi or so.
“One psi?” I said. “That’s not very much; you sure you know what you’re doing?” I took another bite of buttered dinner roll, delicately wiped at the corner of my mouth. I wasn’t so interested in his reply, because now it was cold outside. I rolled up the window, allowed him to go about his business out there in the bitter cold of the snowy Icelandic no-man’s land.
With the tires down to the minimum pressure we could get away with, we now climbed up onto the deep snow of the glacier, the truck making tracks on top of the snowpack, as if it were wearing snowshoes. Now it was very cold outside; the temperature was only just around the freezing mark, but it felt much colder. The glacier makes its own weather, and right now it was a brilliant and low sun and a blue sky beyond the expanse of white—with only more white beyond that.
We stayed up there, enjoyed the solitude of the experience, with no other passengers on this tour, but a group from another company that also was parked there—had arrived at the same time. I didn’t like their truck, didn’t like the looks of the tourists, either, so kept close to our vehicle and relished having the truck and driver to myself. I took some video footage of Eggert putting the big Nissan through its paces up there, got good shots of the truck floating over the white blanket atop the glacier, against a uniform field of white. When we’d done that for a while, and I’d also captured his exploits on his cell phone video camera, we got back in the truck to head down. That’s when—in the blink of an eye—the weather hit.
There was no visibility now, only a smoky and all-encompassing envelope of grey. It had blown in suddenly, but now I see it in the photographs, overtaking the landscape with stealth. The photos I’d taken just a few minutes prior were clear with sunshine; now the clouds had descended onto the white plain, had made our world a fog of grey soup that couldn’t be penetrated more than a foot or two beyond the windshield. To start driving now would mean driving randomly into the void, with no sense of direction or any feeling for where we might be in the vast glacial landscape.
I panicked, began whimpering—then crying outright. I clawed at the truck’s windows: “Let me out! Let me out!” I wailed, ineffectually trying to exit the truck. In my general thrashing about, I upset the driver’s air freshener, which landed on the floor between us. It had an electronic chip in it, and now said this: “For best results, change air freshener now.” This had a calming effect on me, and I now fell silent. We both looked at the thing that had fallen on the floor, and I picked it up, heard it utter its message once again, then it went dead for good. I shook it, still upset about our plight, shook it some more. “Talk, you! Say something! Say the thing you did before! Talk! Talk!” Eggert looked at me; this wasn’t going to be such an easy trip after all.
I was pushing buttons at random on the truck’s elaborate dashboard—with many knobs and controls, still trying to effect some change in our situation. One of the controls opened a DVD screen—which then began playing the movie “The Little Mermaid,” something that the driver’s young son enjoyed watching. I asked if I could watch Muriel the mermaid for a while, since I’d never seen the movie.
“Sure, go ahead!” said Eggert, glad that I now had something to occupy myself. I took out another buttered roll, watched the fishes and their friends cavort on the off-road truck’s video screen, and washed down my last bread with another swig of Coke.
Meanwhile, Eggert had gotten the truck in motion, was steering in fact by using the onboard navigational system, or what is commonly referred to as GPS. This system had tracked our route exactly up the glacier—where there was no road—and now it remained to just follow the line on the screen. He needed only to align two markers—one representing the truck, and the other representing the path we needed to take. He would do this by steering over to the thin little pencil line on the screen, until the truck marker was in sync with it. On my video screen, the Little Mermaid splashed about and the fishes all adored her. I didn’t think she was too bad, either.
We tracked back down off the glacier, descended below the cloud cover to where it was clear but overcast. We could see now. I cried great torrents of tears, bawled and bawled, while trying to catch some of the action on the movie that was playing still. My rolls were gone, and I had only a little warm Coke left. I blubbered that I wanted more traditional Icelandic soup. We pulled into the lonely outpost restaurant, which had no name. On the front, it said—in simple Icelandic style: RESTAURANT. I went back inside, while Eggert inflated the tires back to normal pressure using the truck’s air compressor and hoses. I asked for more of the soup, and plenty of rolls, please.
After a few minutes the driver came in, pointed to me at the table with my soup, said to the owner, “This one’s had a bad day.” He and the restaurant owner knew each other, and I could hear—in their incomprehensible Icelandic conversation, references to the Little Mermaid.
Eggert dropped me off at the hotel. Inside, my luxurious room awaited, with hot water straight from the bowels of Iceland itself. The water smelled more than a little of sulphur, but I didn’t mind so much. I thought it pleasant that the people were able to tap into this resource, bring gurgling hot water up to the surface and—in many cases—pipe it directly to the faucets of Icelanders. As we parted, the driver handed me a brochure, said to call that number in case I ever needed a tour in the future. I looked at the company’s booklet, didn’t recognize the name. He’d given me the name of another off-road tour company.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Day One in Paris: E. Piaf
Following is a stylized account of my travels in Iceland and Paris. As told here, this chronicles the activities of possibly the most obnoxious tourist to have ever set foot outside his own country.
“That cat’s gonna bite you,” I said authoritatively. “I wouldn’t get near that thing if I were you.” The man had approached me in Pere Lachaise, the cemetery where Edith Piaf was laid to eternal rest. I was still looking for her when he asked me about the little black cat. Yes, I’d gone to the cat, but had left it alone, feeling that it wasn’t in the mood to entertain visitors—now or ever. He went to Blackie, seated and looking wary at the corner of a stone building. The cat snarled, gave fair warning that the man was about to be slashed. The Parisian, a longtime resident of the quarter, recoiled; he asked me about the political situation back home, shifted the groceries that he carried from the local shops he’d visited all his life. He used the cemetery as a shortcut. I told him I didn’t care about the political scene, wasn’t aware that there had been a presidential election even, and asked him if he knew who the candidates were—because maybe there was someone there to my liking. I then asked if France still had kings and where I could visit the guillotine or if they only brought it out on special days. And our conversation dissolved there in the November rain, the words washing away onto the glistening cobblestones. We went our separate ways.
In the City of the Dead, I was getting closer. I’d bought a map and a photo of the tomb out front, from the man who made his life there at the entrance to the massive place. I was joined by French tourists, also on the same quest.
“Guess you didn’t buy a postcard, like I did,” I said with an air of reproach. “Look, I have a map, too.” So armed, I had everything I needed to locate the grave in the huge grounds, which encompassed many city blocks. Still I couldn’t find it. The man with the groceries pointed out the grave of Yves Montand, whom I didn’t even know was buried there. He was a contemporary of Piaf’s, sang the same kinds of songs, even covered the same ones at times.
“I guess I’ll show you a picture of the grave, so at least one of us can find it,” I said grudgingly. “Seems like some people might part with a couple of francs for a lousy map and a postcard—even if they are French.” The woman, solemn in her devotion to the departed singer—but not devoted enough to buy a postcard—looked at the photo and soon found the grave.
“Monsieur!” She called me over, where she and her husband were standing in front of Piaf’s tomb. I came over, laid a bright yellow rose on the resting place. I’d bought it at one of the local florists, and it hadn’t come cheap. I pointed this out to the others there, with the implication that some of us were maybe a bit more sincere in our pilgrimage to that place, and that for others it was just something to do.
“I’m American,” I said to the small gathering that was paying its respects. “She isn’t even from my country,” I added. “But I’ve come to this place with a map, a postcard, and a bright yellow rose. And I’ve crossed an ocean.” I paused. “What do you have?” I asked the visibly upset French woman. “A video camera,” I said mockingly. With the assembled persons seething with resentment, I took my leave. I’d asked one of the cemetery workers if there was water in the vase atop her tomb, where other assorted flowers were displayed, and put the beautiful and fully bloomed rose in it to keep it from wilting too soon. It would also be a deterrent to cheap tourists, who would be tempted to snatch it for the adornment of another’s grave.
So ended my first day in Paris.
“That cat’s gonna bite you,” I said authoritatively. “I wouldn’t get near that thing if I were you.” The man had approached me in Pere Lachaise, the cemetery where Edith Piaf was laid to eternal rest. I was still looking for her when he asked me about the little black cat. Yes, I’d gone to the cat, but had left it alone, feeling that it wasn’t in the mood to entertain visitors—now or ever. He went to Blackie, seated and looking wary at the corner of a stone building. The cat snarled, gave fair warning that the man was about to be slashed. The Parisian, a longtime resident of the quarter, recoiled; he asked me about the political situation back home, shifted the groceries that he carried from the local shops he’d visited all his life. He used the cemetery as a shortcut. I told him I didn’t care about the political scene, wasn’t aware that there had been a presidential election even, and asked him if he knew who the candidates were—because maybe there was someone there to my liking. I then asked if France still had kings and where I could visit the guillotine or if they only brought it out on special days. And our conversation dissolved there in the November rain, the words washing away onto the glistening cobblestones. We went our separate ways.
In the City of the Dead, I was getting closer. I’d bought a map and a photo of the tomb out front, from the man who made his life there at the entrance to the massive place. I was joined by French tourists, also on the same quest.
“Guess you didn’t buy a postcard, like I did,” I said with an air of reproach. “Look, I have a map, too.” So armed, I had everything I needed to locate the grave in the huge grounds, which encompassed many city blocks. Still I couldn’t find it. The man with the groceries pointed out the grave of Yves Montand, whom I didn’t even know was buried there. He was a contemporary of Piaf’s, sang the same kinds of songs, even covered the same ones at times.
“I guess I’ll show you a picture of the grave, so at least one of us can find it,” I said grudgingly. “Seems like some people might part with a couple of francs for a lousy map and a postcard—even if they are French.” The woman, solemn in her devotion to the departed singer—but not devoted enough to buy a postcard—looked at the photo and soon found the grave.
“Monsieur!” She called me over, where she and her husband were standing in front of Piaf’s tomb. I came over, laid a bright yellow rose on the resting place. I’d bought it at one of the local florists, and it hadn’t come cheap. I pointed this out to the others there, with the implication that some of us were maybe a bit more sincere in our pilgrimage to that place, and that for others it was just something to do.
“I’m American,” I said to the small gathering that was paying its respects. “She isn’t even from my country,” I added. “But I’ve come to this place with a map, a postcard, and a bright yellow rose. And I’ve crossed an ocean.” I paused. “What do you have?” I asked the visibly upset French woman. “A video camera,” I said mockingly. With the assembled persons seething with resentment, I took my leave. I’d asked one of the cemetery workers if there was water in the vase atop her tomb, where other assorted flowers were displayed, and put the beautiful and fully bloomed rose in it to keep it from wilting too soon. It would also be a deterrent to cheap tourists, who would be tempted to snatch it for the adornment of another’s grave.
So ended my first day in Paris.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Air Horns
I pulled up to the intersection in central Virginia, on a road named—simply enough—Route 3. I was hoping to find Route 301 somewhere up ahead, and thus be able to follow the familiar road home. My map was vague about this area, choosing to indicate some roads, and neglecting to identify others. You had to connect the dots, with some of the dots missing. I looked over at an enormous dump truck that was beside me, with a tattooed arm resting on the door and music coming from inside. Coincidentally, it was the same popular music station that my radio was tuned into. I turned down the volume, yelled to the driver, who then turned down the music in his cab to see what I wanted. Not having a top on the car is an unexpected bonus in situations like this, since there is no way I could have attracted his attention in the little fluff of an automobile that I was driving. Enclosed and shut off, I could have croaked out a salutation, and no one would have bothered to even look twice.
“Is 301 up ahead somewhere?” I asked.
He nodded, “Follow this road, cross over the bridge, and bear to the right,” he said, indicating with his right arm which direction to go. “Go about twenty-four miles and you’ll run right into it.”
I thanked him, pulled away from the intersection when the light turned green, and prepared to follow his directions. I crossed the bridge and started to exit where I thought maybe I should, taking the first chance to go right. The name of the town on the sign sounded familiar in any case, being called Port Royal. I heard the sound of his air horn blasting in short bursts a few cars back. He could see my progress from high up in the truck, decided he didn’t like where I was headed. I veered off to the left, suddenly driving erratically, but correcting my course without incident. No one was run off the road, and I got the car going where it was supposed to. In my confusion, I was not able to wave thanks, but the communication was complete: With a wave of his arm and words and blasts from the air horn, we’d managed to get the thing right. The truck he was piloting was an enormous beast, capable of hauling about forty tons of payload, and equipped with three axles under the dump body. The name emblazoned on the hood was Peterbilt, and the engine was most likely made by Caterpillar or Cummins.
I drove on, having spent the night at a friend’s place he and his wife had built by a tremendous lake out in the country. They’d decided to go for broke, building a boathouse and then housing a brand-new pontoon boat with which to cruise the lake and entertain friends. Everything was new and sparkling, and the immense house itself was larger than many homes people claim as their principal residence. We took the boat out on the lake, passing through the rural farmland that had once been without this body of water, which so happens to be Virginia’s largest lake. As a result, we passed through fields that now were sliced by the lapping waves of the man-made lake, saw old barns and stately farmhouses, that—in 1972, would have claimed the area we were cruising as part of their land holdings. The feeling was surreal, knowing that the fields continued under the boat, that the sandy beaches that dotted the shoreline were just thorn bushes and field crops and cow pastures that continued on through the beautiful landscape until the dammed up river rose to obscure great swaths of the countryside. It was a marvel.
Back at the lake house we looked at a small lawnmower that was having problems. It wouldn’t stay running, and my friend had told me beforehand that he would like me to take a look at it. Before leaving my house I’d thrown a few tools together and glanced around for anything else that might be helpful. There on my workbench were some parts from a lawnmower—namely, the fuel tank and carburetor combination. I threw these into the car with the other things. It was something of a shot in the dark, since I didn’t know what kind of lawnmower was waiting at the end of my trip, nor exactly could I be sure of the problem it was experiencing. However, when I looked at the machine, I immediately saw that it had the same components as the ones I’d brought along. I swapped the parts, put gas in the replacement fuel tank, and got the mower fired up and running. The new carburetor worked like a dream, and I was happy to be rid of the unwanted parts—which were just taking up space back home. My friend took the newly-repaired mower down to the lakeside and cut some of the long tufts of grass that were growing at the water’s edge. While he was thus engaged, I waded through the tall grasses to a neighboring property that featured an abandoned house. I followed the shoreline for about a hundred feet, then headed to the two-story frame house that looked not in the least bit welcoming. The owner maybe came by from time to time, poked around a bit, perhaps threw a few logs into the large wood-burning stove I could see in the main room, and pondered his dilapidated surroundings. Old furniture, of the kind you’d expect to see left behind in such a place, was strewn about. A mattress was propped against a sofa that I could just make out in the dimly-lit interior. Pieces of cloth hung from the windows, making the place dark on this bright afternoon. The front door was padlocked, and the house was closed off, but someone had smashed the front window, maybe to gain entrance—maybe just to break the window. In any case, you could gain entry into the house that way if you were so inclined. I felt it best to leave the thing alone, give it back to the weeds and weather that were more rapidly claiming the creaky old house with each passing year. This house was not so very different from a place that would be common in the nineteen-twenties; it had probably been built in that era, and had little in the way of improvements over the years. Two doors down was the newly-erected lake house, with twin climate-control systems, immense areas for recreation and relaxing, an open kitchen with a breakfast bar, five or more bedrooms with fantastic views of the water, and decks, patios, and a boathouse with another screened-in eating area for large gatherings. I took one backwards look at the place as I left the abandoned property, saw a poor little barbecue grill someone had anchored into the ground at an angle, and two warped and weathered picnic tables set randomly in the tall grass. This was my kind of vacation house.
Later, as I took my friend’s young son for a ride to the end of the long driveway in the open car, the little boy remarked in wonder: “That is a TINY car!” It so happens that he loves convertibles and was overjoyed to have a ride in one at last. I was on my way home, would be asking the man at the wheel of the heavy truck how to make better progress in about a half-hour. I let the little boy out at the end of the driveway, where he rejoined his dad on the riding mower he’d driven up there to see me off.
“Is 301 up ahead somewhere?” I asked.
He nodded, “Follow this road, cross over the bridge, and bear to the right,” he said, indicating with his right arm which direction to go. “Go about twenty-four miles and you’ll run right into it.”
I thanked him, pulled away from the intersection when the light turned green, and prepared to follow his directions. I crossed the bridge and started to exit where I thought maybe I should, taking the first chance to go right. The name of the town on the sign sounded familiar in any case, being called Port Royal. I heard the sound of his air horn blasting in short bursts a few cars back. He could see my progress from high up in the truck, decided he didn’t like where I was headed. I veered off to the left, suddenly driving erratically, but correcting my course without incident. No one was run off the road, and I got the car going where it was supposed to. In my confusion, I was not able to wave thanks, but the communication was complete: With a wave of his arm and words and blasts from the air horn, we’d managed to get the thing right. The truck he was piloting was an enormous beast, capable of hauling about forty tons of payload, and equipped with three axles under the dump body. The name emblazoned on the hood was Peterbilt, and the engine was most likely made by Caterpillar or Cummins.
I drove on, having spent the night at a friend’s place he and his wife had built by a tremendous lake out in the country. They’d decided to go for broke, building a boathouse and then housing a brand-new pontoon boat with which to cruise the lake and entertain friends. Everything was new and sparkling, and the immense house itself was larger than many homes people claim as their principal residence. We took the boat out on the lake, passing through the rural farmland that had once been without this body of water, which so happens to be Virginia’s largest lake. As a result, we passed through fields that now were sliced by the lapping waves of the man-made lake, saw old barns and stately farmhouses, that—in 1972, would have claimed the area we were cruising as part of their land holdings. The feeling was surreal, knowing that the fields continued under the boat, that the sandy beaches that dotted the shoreline were just thorn bushes and field crops and cow pastures that continued on through the beautiful landscape until the dammed up river rose to obscure great swaths of the countryside. It was a marvel.
Back at the lake house we looked at a small lawnmower that was having problems. It wouldn’t stay running, and my friend had told me beforehand that he would like me to take a look at it. Before leaving my house I’d thrown a few tools together and glanced around for anything else that might be helpful. There on my workbench were some parts from a lawnmower—namely, the fuel tank and carburetor combination. I threw these into the car with the other things. It was something of a shot in the dark, since I didn’t know what kind of lawnmower was waiting at the end of my trip, nor exactly could I be sure of the problem it was experiencing. However, when I looked at the machine, I immediately saw that it had the same components as the ones I’d brought along. I swapped the parts, put gas in the replacement fuel tank, and got the mower fired up and running. The new carburetor worked like a dream, and I was happy to be rid of the unwanted parts—which were just taking up space back home. My friend took the newly-repaired mower down to the lakeside and cut some of the long tufts of grass that were growing at the water’s edge. While he was thus engaged, I waded through the tall grasses to a neighboring property that featured an abandoned house. I followed the shoreline for about a hundred feet, then headed to the two-story frame house that looked not in the least bit welcoming. The owner maybe came by from time to time, poked around a bit, perhaps threw a few logs into the large wood-burning stove I could see in the main room, and pondered his dilapidated surroundings. Old furniture, of the kind you’d expect to see left behind in such a place, was strewn about. A mattress was propped against a sofa that I could just make out in the dimly-lit interior. Pieces of cloth hung from the windows, making the place dark on this bright afternoon. The front door was padlocked, and the house was closed off, but someone had smashed the front window, maybe to gain entrance—maybe just to break the window. In any case, you could gain entry into the house that way if you were so inclined. I felt it best to leave the thing alone, give it back to the weeds and weather that were more rapidly claiming the creaky old house with each passing year. This house was not so very different from a place that would be common in the nineteen-twenties; it had probably been built in that era, and had little in the way of improvements over the years. Two doors down was the newly-erected lake house, with twin climate-control systems, immense areas for recreation and relaxing, an open kitchen with a breakfast bar, five or more bedrooms with fantastic views of the water, and decks, patios, and a boathouse with another screened-in eating area for large gatherings. I took one backwards look at the place as I left the abandoned property, saw a poor little barbecue grill someone had anchored into the ground at an angle, and two warped and weathered picnic tables set randomly in the tall grass. This was my kind of vacation house.
Later, as I took my friend’s young son for a ride to the end of the long driveway in the open car, the little boy remarked in wonder: “That is a TINY car!” It so happens that he loves convertibles and was overjoyed to have a ride in one at last. I was on my way home, would be asking the man at the wheel of the heavy truck how to make better progress in about a half-hour. I let the little boy out at the end of the driveway, where he rejoined his dad on the riding mower he’d driven up there to see me off.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Connections
October 31, 2008
I opened the paper at the local diner, turned to the Style section. There—jumping from the page--was a brilliant photograph capturing a scene in the West, with a man and his pickup truck and his dog. In the background was a weathered and splintering old building set against the vast Montana landscape. The scene imparted an emotional impact that went beyond the simple images contained on the page, and it is for that reason that I first thought the work was that of a painter—someone who’d colored the scene through their own eyes and views of the world. I dwelt on the truck, a Ford from the nineteen-sixties—the same model I’d owned several times over the years as a casual collector and admirer of the style. Then I traveled back over the roads, to a scene played out along old Route 66 somewhere in Oklahoma, where a man had talked to me about his old truck, in pristine condition, parked there in his driveway along the remnants of the old road. As the Oklahoma afternoon’s light gave way to the softened hues of a late summer evening, he spoke of the differences in the trucks, the way you could tell one from the other—stuff that only a person who’d spent his life around hard work and pickup trucks would know. He pointed to the front bumper, explained that the number of bolts holding the thing onto the truck was different from 1964 to 1965. I listened with half an ear, was really taken with how his old Ford, which he’d owned since new, looked as though it had just rolled away from the dealership on its very first day on the road.
Then, traveling back to the diner, with my waffle and order of bacon and iced tea—a thousand miles and more from that driveway out west along an iconic highway--I looked again at the front of the truck in the photograph, counted the bolts attaching the bumper to the front. It was a 1965.
I opened the paper at the local diner, turned to the Style section. There—jumping from the page--was a brilliant photograph capturing a scene in the West, with a man and his pickup truck and his dog. In the background was a weathered and splintering old building set against the vast Montana landscape. The scene imparted an emotional impact that went beyond the simple images contained on the page, and it is for that reason that I first thought the work was that of a painter—someone who’d colored the scene through their own eyes and views of the world. I dwelt on the truck, a Ford from the nineteen-sixties—the same model I’d owned several times over the years as a casual collector and admirer of the style. Then I traveled back over the roads, to a scene played out along old Route 66 somewhere in Oklahoma, where a man had talked to me about his old truck, in pristine condition, parked there in his driveway along the remnants of the old road. As the Oklahoma afternoon’s light gave way to the softened hues of a late summer evening, he spoke of the differences in the trucks, the way you could tell one from the other—stuff that only a person who’d spent his life around hard work and pickup trucks would know. He pointed to the front bumper, explained that the number of bolts holding the thing onto the truck was different from 1964 to 1965. I listened with half an ear, was really taken with how his old Ford, which he’d owned since new, looked as though it had just rolled away from the dealership on its very first day on the road.
Then, traveling back to the diner, with my waffle and order of bacon and iced tea—a thousand miles and more from that driveway out west along an iconic highway--I looked again at the front of the truck in the photograph, counted the bolts attaching the bumper to the front. It was a 1965.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
God's Little Chirrens
October 27, 2008
“Yore gone get yore car stolt you leavin’ them windows open.” The half-wit’s hose dangled at her side, splashing water onto the ground, with drops of spray on the gleaming white Ford she was always hosing down.
I hoisted up my soiled and stained overalls, hopped on one foot, and scratched deep in the seat of the dirty denim.
“If’n the good LORD sees as I shouldn’t have no car, HE will take it from me,” I said, pointing at the sky. “There’s no arguin’ with the big guy—I learnt that first day at Miss Rebecca’s Sunday school when I weren’t no bigger’n that stump-topper.” I indicated a flower pot set atop an old tree stump—the last vestige of a mighty oak that had once stood in the yard.
Her garden hose drooped some in wonderment and confusion, its gurgling output not so proud as once it had been. I stopped my hopping, which had continued throughout our interactions in the driveway.
“Problem as I see it,” I said, “You ain’t got no faith in all his little chirrens what run ‘roun here and ain’t nearly so bad as those who don’t believe says they is.” I pointed to the flower pot again, said, “Over by that stump-topper I seen one an’ I said ‘Boy if’n I were to leave this car wifout so much as a closed window an’ mebbe one night even forgotten to put my keys down there in my pants like I mostly always do, what’n you expect I see nex morning---er, mebbe don’ see?’” And then I told her the boy, with half-trousers and a red bandanna, and one shining gold tooth, jumped three times over the stump-topper, and said sure as he was one of God’s chirrens he would lay awake all the night long and listen for the first birds speaking of the glory of the mornin’ and then only then would he steal away to bed, shore that my old car, which surely ain’t worth more’n three sacks of coffee, was still there.
The hose gurgled and splashed on the ground, and the half-wit drooped with sagging confusion, a heavy load of misunderstanding that weighed on her every movement, making navigation through the most trivial of chores accomplished as if by a dumb beast of burden.
“They’s gone done stolt a wickety-wack what belong to Zach an’ he cried sump’n awful carried on like I don’ know what all.”
I then recited a poem I’d composed on the spot:
“Wickety-Wack
What belonged to Zack
Done stolt
And ain’t comin’ back
The hose gurgled, the most eloquent thing there, and it spoke of unending confusion, universes of highways that ran counter to reason, to the furthering of understanding. I wasn’t helping things much.
“Madame,” I said, hitching up my stained overalls. “I am a poet.” Then paused for emphasis, and said importantly: “I wrote to the daily papers once.”
Later I spied her coming around the house, hailed her in mock indignation, of the kind I’d heard uttered when two idiots are addressing each other, their thoughts and speech colliding in idiotic orbits. Here is what I said:
“Whyn’t you tolt me you had them heavy bags to tote out’n the road?” She had two trash bags she was hauling to the roadside for tomorrow’s pickup. I got the right affectation down, sounded almost convincing: “I woulda toted them bags out’n the road if’n you coulda tolt somebody leastaways ain’t no call fer you be carryin’ them heavy bags an the whole time I was standin’ right over there doin’ nuthin’ more’n pickin’ at that ol’ rag, and couldn’a been more’n three peg-legs right from where you is standin’ right now this very time.” I put my hands on my waist, as if she’d committed the most frightful affront, the most egregious infraction against my honor, my esteem. “I swear some folks be totin’ things an’ all the while they’s help right where they kin plain sees em’ ain’t like they blind.”
“I carries ‘em all the time at work,” she said, “And them’s at work mostly more heavy’n what-all I got right now.” I still sputtered in indignation, her comments only adding to my idiotic ire, which had now veered off into lunacy and the insistence on knowing why they made her tote such heavy bags at work, and couldn’t someone young and vibrant be set to the task?
“Everyone’s gots they own job,” she shrugged.
It is the only way I can make sense of the interactions that must inevitably occur between me and the slow-chewing woman, her jaw working insistently at something always in her mouth. As usual, I view the scene in cinematic terms, recognizing at once the jarring collision of her speech and mine, see no way to reconcile the horrible and grating disconnect, the leaping back and forth between two worlds, two irreconcilable cultures—with all communication turned haywire and upside down and backwards—with a good deal of static thrown in to boot. I simply throw my whole being into it, am immersed in the idea that I will be an idiot for a little while, for it makes some kind of order out of the exchange. To a great extent, it is actually quite liberating; once I’ve made the conscious decision that adhering to any semblance of reason is not an option, it is almost a pleasure to carry on a discourse with her.
October 28, 2008
Up in the north part of the county I stopped at a mall, decided to see what it had to offer. It was a low-lying affair, with one level only, and a Sears at one end. At least they would have the lawn and garden equipment I love to look at.
Also in the mall was a Friendly’s ice cream parlor, and I decided to stop and have a combination of breakfast and lunch. For my meal I chose a cup of the clam chowder, which was actually quite good, and a bacon cheeseburger that came on toasted white bread, which I found appealing. The main course was ok, but as usual it came with too many French fries, which I always feel bad about not finishing. I can only eat so many of the damned things and, besides, the cheeseburger was substantial. However, for dessert I ordered one of their good sundaes, with two scoops of ice cream and caramel syrup that was very good. They had a special deal whereby you could get a few things and finish with a sundae and it would run only ten bucks. I hadn’t thought ahead to take advantage of this offer, but the server told me she could change it to make it work. The only thing that cost extra was the soup.
As I sat and ate, with no newspaper because I’d forgotten to bring one in, and the car was too far away to go get it, I read more of their menu offerings. Under the appetizers section was a thing listed as a “chicken slider.” Thoroughly revolted, I read on. Now there were “cheeseburger sliders” as well. I know there are people who are fluent with this terminology, are conversant with the different appetizers offered by the bland chains of family restaurants that don’t do much more than fill up their customers with doses of fat and carbs, but I found the names disgusting. I imagined myself in an empty cafeteria at an airport in between the busy times, with a lone, aproned worker wiping at the dull stainless steel countertops in a desultory kind of way, and occasionally glancing over at me to see what I was doing there exactly. With food maybe an afterthought, I would ask about anything left to eat in that place.
“All’s we got right now is them chicken sliders,” she would say, not bothering to look up, and we would both know—from the way she said it—that she didn’t invite further discussion of the topic. But I would pursue it.
“Chicken sliders?”
“Huh….?” Not looking up again.
“I guess I’ll have an order of chicken sliders,” I’d say. And we would both know, as she wearily put down her washrag and labored over the simple task of loading up some of whatever this food item might have been, putting the pieces into a little cardboard container, that I’d made possibly the worst decision of my life.
Later this week I’ll have Del and Ryan over to continue working on the project house. This name, “project house,” now applies to both places, since I am in the process of readying my own house for the addition of a new bathroom and completely renovated kitchen—in addition to other extensive projects that I don’t even want to think about. But I mostly refer to the place next door in these writings, and will try to distinguish between the two to eliminate any confusion. This will no doubt be a relief to the masses of people tuning in for regular progress reports. Since I am relatively new to the world of online blogging, I was happy to check my visitor count and learn that it was around five hundred people. Then I checked a random blog—something about a woman and her prize roses, I think—and saw that it had a tally of maybe fifteen thousand and counting. Oh, okay—never mind.
Out back there is a monstrous amount of work to be done, and I plug away at it in a fairly halfhearted way. Usually the cats will come around to see what I’m doing, and then the work stops—as I roll them in the tall grass and watch as they graze the sharp blades which they later spew out onto the floor inside. Then it’s back to work. At the moment I am putting some finishing touches on the low walls surrounding the patio area, which is just under the new deck. The end result will be more or less pleasing, and it makes no difference if no one actually uses it as a patio: The fact that it makes the back of the house more appealing is enough. The place needs all the help it can get.
When Del and Ryan pull up in their big work truck, they quickly get to it, don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. This is in direct contrast to my approach, where approximately seventy-five percent of the time is spent wondering how I’m going to do a particular job, and the remainder is spent either doing it or chasing the cats around the yard—or a combination of the two. I need to work on my time management a bit. I told them that I would demolish two more walls—one of the things I’ve become rather adept at—in an effort to open up the area between the kitchen and the small dining room, and the dining room and the back of the house—where there is now a long and rather narrow utility room with a washer and dryer. I plan to move those appliances down into the basement, or perhaps upstairs into the new bathroom area if possible. In any case, the absence of these two walls will give an impression of more space and openness in the layout of the house. When I told Del of my plan, he agreed that it was a good idea. I will also delete a window that is facing my house, which will free up more wall space for counters and cabinets and the like. The main work area in the kitchen will face the back of the house, so that someone doing the dishes or cooking will have a nice view of the backyard, which really is quite pleasant. Before I started tearing the kitchen apart, the sink and only counters and cabinets in the room were mounted against the wall that separates the kitchen from the bathroom. This layout will be much more to my liking.
Down the road is a pile of dirt that I’ve been eyeing. It is advertised free for the taking, and is the result of a large dig-out of a basement in the building nearby. This is the same idea I’ve had for my own house: To dig down an additional foot or so, pour a concrete floor and then finish off the basement as additional living space. It may give me a fighting chance when it comes time to sell the place, since it is a house that the years have passed by, with not much in the way of major improvements. When it is time for me to move, it will have all the things I might have enjoyed while living there—two bathrooms, three full bedrooms, a large, eat-in kitchen, finished basement and possibly some additional landscaping out back. I may have to stick around for just a little while longer to see what it’s actually like to live in a nice house. One of the first steps is to find a structural engineer who can tell me how safe it is to dig down further in the basement, and what precautions I need to take to shore up the walls. I don’t want the whole house to come tumbling down. One nice thing is that I can use all of the dirt from the dig-out to add to the backyard—which is extraordinarily lumpy and irregular. It will help smooth things out.
“Yore gone get yore car stolt you leavin’ them windows open.” The half-wit’s hose dangled at her side, splashing water onto the ground, with drops of spray on the gleaming white Ford she was always hosing down.
I hoisted up my soiled and stained overalls, hopped on one foot, and scratched deep in the seat of the dirty denim.
“If’n the good LORD sees as I shouldn’t have no car, HE will take it from me,” I said, pointing at the sky. “There’s no arguin’ with the big guy—I learnt that first day at Miss Rebecca’s Sunday school when I weren’t no bigger’n that stump-topper.” I indicated a flower pot set atop an old tree stump—the last vestige of a mighty oak that had once stood in the yard.
Her garden hose drooped some in wonderment and confusion, its gurgling output not so proud as once it had been. I stopped my hopping, which had continued throughout our interactions in the driveway.
“Problem as I see it,” I said, “You ain’t got no faith in all his little chirrens what run ‘roun here and ain’t nearly so bad as those who don’t believe says they is.” I pointed to the flower pot again, said, “Over by that stump-topper I seen one an’ I said ‘Boy if’n I were to leave this car wifout so much as a closed window an’ mebbe one night even forgotten to put my keys down there in my pants like I mostly always do, what’n you expect I see nex morning---er, mebbe don’ see?’” And then I told her the boy, with half-trousers and a red bandanna, and one shining gold tooth, jumped three times over the stump-topper, and said sure as he was one of God’s chirrens he would lay awake all the night long and listen for the first birds speaking of the glory of the mornin’ and then only then would he steal away to bed, shore that my old car, which surely ain’t worth more’n three sacks of coffee, was still there.
The hose gurgled and splashed on the ground, and the half-wit drooped with sagging confusion, a heavy load of misunderstanding that weighed on her every movement, making navigation through the most trivial of chores accomplished as if by a dumb beast of burden.
“They’s gone done stolt a wickety-wack what belong to Zach an’ he cried sump’n awful carried on like I don’ know what all.”
I then recited a poem I’d composed on the spot:
“Wickety-Wack
What belonged to Zack
Done stolt
And ain’t comin’ back
The hose gurgled, the most eloquent thing there, and it spoke of unending confusion, universes of highways that ran counter to reason, to the furthering of understanding. I wasn’t helping things much.
“Madame,” I said, hitching up my stained overalls. “I am a poet.” Then paused for emphasis, and said importantly: “I wrote to the daily papers once.”
Later I spied her coming around the house, hailed her in mock indignation, of the kind I’d heard uttered when two idiots are addressing each other, their thoughts and speech colliding in idiotic orbits. Here is what I said:
“Whyn’t you tolt me you had them heavy bags to tote out’n the road?” She had two trash bags she was hauling to the roadside for tomorrow’s pickup. I got the right affectation down, sounded almost convincing: “I woulda toted them bags out’n the road if’n you coulda tolt somebody leastaways ain’t no call fer you be carryin’ them heavy bags an the whole time I was standin’ right over there doin’ nuthin’ more’n pickin’ at that ol’ rag, and couldn’a been more’n three peg-legs right from where you is standin’ right now this very time.” I put my hands on my waist, as if she’d committed the most frightful affront, the most egregious infraction against my honor, my esteem. “I swear some folks be totin’ things an’ all the while they’s help right where they kin plain sees em’ ain’t like they blind.”
“I carries ‘em all the time at work,” she said, “And them’s at work mostly more heavy’n what-all I got right now.” I still sputtered in indignation, her comments only adding to my idiotic ire, which had now veered off into lunacy and the insistence on knowing why they made her tote such heavy bags at work, and couldn’t someone young and vibrant be set to the task?
“Everyone’s gots they own job,” she shrugged.
It is the only way I can make sense of the interactions that must inevitably occur between me and the slow-chewing woman, her jaw working insistently at something always in her mouth. As usual, I view the scene in cinematic terms, recognizing at once the jarring collision of her speech and mine, see no way to reconcile the horrible and grating disconnect, the leaping back and forth between two worlds, two irreconcilable cultures—with all communication turned haywire and upside down and backwards—with a good deal of static thrown in to boot. I simply throw my whole being into it, am immersed in the idea that I will be an idiot for a little while, for it makes some kind of order out of the exchange. To a great extent, it is actually quite liberating; once I’ve made the conscious decision that adhering to any semblance of reason is not an option, it is almost a pleasure to carry on a discourse with her.
October 28, 2008
Up in the north part of the county I stopped at a mall, decided to see what it had to offer. It was a low-lying affair, with one level only, and a Sears at one end. At least they would have the lawn and garden equipment I love to look at.
Also in the mall was a Friendly’s ice cream parlor, and I decided to stop and have a combination of breakfast and lunch. For my meal I chose a cup of the clam chowder, which was actually quite good, and a bacon cheeseburger that came on toasted white bread, which I found appealing. The main course was ok, but as usual it came with too many French fries, which I always feel bad about not finishing. I can only eat so many of the damned things and, besides, the cheeseburger was substantial. However, for dessert I ordered one of their good sundaes, with two scoops of ice cream and caramel syrup that was very good. They had a special deal whereby you could get a few things and finish with a sundae and it would run only ten bucks. I hadn’t thought ahead to take advantage of this offer, but the server told me she could change it to make it work. The only thing that cost extra was the soup.
As I sat and ate, with no newspaper because I’d forgotten to bring one in, and the car was too far away to go get it, I read more of their menu offerings. Under the appetizers section was a thing listed as a “chicken slider.” Thoroughly revolted, I read on. Now there were “cheeseburger sliders” as well. I know there are people who are fluent with this terminology, are conversant with the different appetizers offered by the bland chains of family restaurants that don’t do much more than fill up their customers with doses of fat and carbs, but I found the names disgusting. I imagined myself in an empty cafeteria at an airport in between the busy times, with a lone, aproned worker wiping at the dull stainless steel countertops in a desultory kind of way, and occasionally glancing over at me to see what I was doing there exactly. With food maybe an afterthought, I would ask about anything left to eat in that place.
“All’s we got right now is them chicken sliders,” she would say, not bothering to look up, and we would both know—from the way she said it—that she didn’t invite further discussion of the topic. But I would pursue it.
“Chicken sliders?”
“Huh….?” Not looking up again.
“I guess I’ll have an order of chicken sliders,” I’d say. And we would both know, as she wearily put down her washrag and labored over the simple task of loading up some of whatever this food item might have been, putting the pieces into a little cardboard container, that I’d made possibly the worst decision of my life.
Later this week I’ll have Del and Ryan over to continue working on the project house. This name, “project house,” now applies to both places, since I am in the process of readying my own house for the addition of a new bathroom and completely renovated kitchen—in addition to other extensive projects that I don’t even want to think about. But I mostly refer to the place next door in these writings, and will try to distinguish between the two to eliminate any confusion. This will no doubt be a relief to the masses of people tuning in for regular progress reports. Since I am relatively new to the world of online blogging, I was happy to check my visitor count and learn that it was around five hundred people. Then I checked a random blog—something about a woman and her prize roses, I think—and saw that it had a tally of maybe fifteen thousand and counting. Oh, okay—never mind.
Out back there is a monstrous amount of work to be done, and I plug away at it in a fairly halfhearted way. Usually the cats will come around to see what I’m doing, and then the work stops—as I roll them in the tall grass and watch as they graze the sharp blades which they later spew out onto the floor inside. Then it’s back to work. At the moment I am putting some finishing touches on the low walls surrounding the patio area, which is just under the new deck. The end result will be more or less pleasing, and it makes no difference if no one actually uses it as a patio: The fact that it makes the back of the house more appealing is enough. The place needs all the help it can get.
When Del and Ryan pull up in their big work truck, they quickly get to it, don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. This is in direct contrast to my approach, where approximately seventy-five percent of the time is spent wondering how I’m going to do a particular job, and the remainder is spent either doing it or chasing the cats around the yard—or a combination of the two. I need to work on my time management a bit. I told them that I would demolish two more walls—one of the things I’ve become rather adept at—in an effort to open up the area between the kitchen and the small dining room, and the dining room and the back of the house—where there is now a long and rather narrow utility room with a washer and dryer. I plan to move those appliances down into the basement, or perhaps upstairs into the new bathroom area if possible. In any case, the absence of these two walls will give an impression of more space and openness in the layout of the house. When I told Del of my plan, he agreed that it was a good idea. I will also delete a window that is facing my house, which will free up more wall space for counters and cabinets and the like. The main work area in the kitchen will face the back of the house, so that someone doing the dishes or cooking will have a nice view of the backyard, which really is quite pleasant. Before I started tearing the kitchen apart, the sink and only counters and cabinets in the room were mounted against the wall that separates the kitchen from the bathroom. This layout will be much more to my liking.
Down the road is a pile of dirt that I’ve been eyeing. It is advertised free for the taking, and is the result of a large dig-out of a basement in the building nearby. This is the same idea I’ve had for my own house: To dig down an additional foot or so, pour a concrete floor and then finish off the basement as additional living space. It may give me a fighting chance when it comes time to sell the place, since it is a house that the years have passed by, with not much in the way of major improvements. When it is time for me to move, it will have all the things I might have enjoyed while living there—two bathrooms, three full bedrooms, a large, eat-in kitchen, finished basement and possibly some additional landscaping out back. I may have to stick around for just a little while longer to see what it’s actually like to live in a nice house. One of the first steps is to find a structural engineer who can tell me how safe it is to dig down further in the basement, and what precautions I need to take to shore up the walls. I don’t want the whole house to come tumbling down. One nice thing is that I can use all of the dirt from the dig-out to add to the backyard—which is extraordinarily lumpy and irregular. It will help smooth things out.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
West Texas Radio
Ok--this should probably be in some other collection of writings, but this is where I've decided to put it, so we'll all just have to do the best we can with that.
WEST TEXAS RADIO
West Texas Radio
It is not scintillating
It is not a tea-time
Chat
No night
at the opera
Ballet
It is not
It is hard-baked;
The dirt dried
On a tractor
Wheel
A ’76 Caprice Classic
The paint
Sun-Blasted
Off the hood
The searing heat
From the relentless
Sky
And the motor below
Etch the weariness
On the fatigued
Finish
So brilliant once
Now submissive
As are those
Whose lives
Are etched there
As if into the dirt
Itself
Citizens
Of the vastness
They get the worst
West Texas
The sun saves them
For last
And they avoid
Looking at
The sky
For their gaze
Will not be
Forgiven
Or rewarded
With rain
“Get in real soon,
You better
Jump on this
Deal
Else yore gonna
Be sorry
Seeds for plantin’
Early-season special
All this week
Tractor tires
Half-price on
Selected sizes
Tell Bill or Erma
You heard it on
West Texas
KAWW—Farm Country”
And I cry
Blinded by
The emotion
The other-worldly
Voices
That I cannot
Belong to
Not from
The same planet
A drive-through
Visitor
Alone
“Crop report next,
Right after this
Message
From Dale’s
West Texas Farm
Supply and Feeds
Where you
Always have a friend.”
WEST TEXAS RADIO
West Texas Radio
It is not scintillating
It is not a tea-time
Chat
No night
at the opera
Ballet
It is not
It is hard-baked;
The dirt dried
On a tractor
Wheel
A ’76 Caprice Classic
The paint
Sun-Blasted
Off the hood
The searing heat
From the relentless
Sky
And the motor below
Etch the weariness
On the fatigued
Finish
So brilliant once
Now submissive
As are those
Whose lives
Are etched there
As if into the dirt
Itself
Citizens
Of the vastness
They get the worst
West Texas
The sun saves them
For last
And they avoid
Looking at
The sky
For their gaze
Will not be
Forgiven
Or rewarded
With rain
“Get in real soon,
You better
Jump on this
Deal
Else yore gonna
Be sorry
Seeds for plantin’
Early-season special
All this week
Tractor tires
Half-price on
Selected sizes
Tell Bill or Erma
You heard it on
West Texas
KAWW—Farm Country”
And I cry
Blinded by
The emotion
The other-worldly
Voices
That I cannot
Belong to
Not from
The same planet
A drive-through
Visitor
Alone
“Crop report next,
Right after this
Message
From Dale’s
West Texas Farm
Supply and Feeds
Where you
Always have a friend.”
Thursday, October 9, 2008
"A lot of people want that soda"
I asked the cashier about the sign posted there at the checkout. “How do you feel about that?” I said.
“Not on my watch,” she instantly replied.
Here is the gist of it: If the cashier doesn’t circle a little item at the bottom of the receipt and inform you of an online contest that the company is promoting, then you are entitled to a free soda. Simple as that. This cashier was confident that no one would get a free soda while she was on duty, because she always fulfilled that obligation—another part of her tedious job. The customer was instructed to inform a manager in order to receive the free drink.
I tried to get to the heart of the matter, wanted to expose the indignity of having customers rat out the employee with the promise of a free beverage. This of course would have a detrimental effect on that employee, who would now be subject to sanctions and probably receive less than favorable performance evaluations. The whole enterprise was so distasteful on so many levels, it’s hard to know where to begin. This cashier, who has been with the company for a long time, summed it up quickly:
“A lot of people want that soda.”
Across town in a high-security building, men and women wearing white lab coats were discussing things in a gleaming steel building. They were focused on the latent rage that bubbled like molten rock, just below the surface of the general population. Where was it all coming from, they wanted to know? Outside, tight-fisted motorists were using their cars like battering rams to plow their way through the thick and sticky tension that enveloped everything, made the very air vibrate with hostility. Store clerks were throwing their change in the general direction of customers, watching with disinterest as it scattered across the floor. Bank clerks were once again incapable of counting money—even the smallest amounts, and wore sullen expressions of superiority when a customer happened to point out that he’d like the correct amount of money, please.
Inside the complex of laboratories, computers flashed endless calculations, bright lights encircled the cavernous research facility, whirring sounds came from expensive machines that helped them with their puzzle, signs flashed on and off: “Restricted Area: Authorized Personnel Only.” More figures were fed into the calculating machines, more results, more incertitude about the source of all the rage.
“Look at this spike,” Elder Hoffsgrauten, a prominent Swedish statistician said, pointing to a jagged peak on a graph. “It is significant, no?”
The others bunched together, murmured unintelligible noises of acquiescence or dissent, then dispersed to the activity room for their afternoon ping-pong game.
Not knowing the extent of their research, I might nonetheless offer this: Suggest to the managers of those large companies that employ thousands of people to stop enticing their customers with the promise of a soda in the hope that they’ll serve as an informal and rag-tag group of spies for the people in charge. I’ll bet the significant peak in Dr. Hoffsgrauten’s graph would diminish substantially by the time their next ping-pong game rolled around.
“Not on my watch,” she instantly replied.
Here is the gist of it: If the cashier doesn’t circle a little item at the bottom of the receipt and inform you of an online contest that the company is promoting, then you are entitled to a free soda. Simple as that. This cashier was confident that no one would get a free soda while she was on duty, because she always fulfilled that obligation—another part of her tedious job. The customer was instructed to inform a manager in order to receive the free drink.
I tried to get to the heart of the matter, wanted to expose the indignity of having customers rat out the employee with the promise of a free beverage. This of course would have a detrimental effect on that employee, who would now be subject to sanctions and probably receive less than favorable performance evaluations. The whole enterprise was so distasteful on so many levels, it’s hard to know where to begin. This cashier, who has been with the company for a long time, summed it up quickly:
“A lot of people want that soda.”
Across town in a high-security building, men and women wearing white lab coats were discussing things in a gleaming steel building. They were focused on the latent rage that bubbled like molten rock, just below the surface of the general population. Where was it all coming from, they wanted to know? Outside, tight-fisted motorists were using their cars like battering rams to plow their way through the thick and sticky tension that enveloped everything, made the very air vibrate with hostility. Store clerks were throwing their change in the general direction of customers, watching with disinterest as it scattered across the floor. Bank clerks were once again incapable of counting money—even the smallest amounts, and wore sullen expressions of superiority when a customer happened to point out that he’d like the correct amount of money, please.
Inside the complex of laboratories, computers flashed endless calculations, bright lights encircled the cavernous research facility, whirring sounds came from expensive machines that helped them with their puzzle, signs flashed on and off: “Restricted Area: Authorized Personnel Only.” More figures were fed into the calculating machines, more results, more incertitude about the source of all the rage.
“Look at this spike,” Elder Hoffsgrauten, a prominent Swedish statistician said, pointing to a jagged peak on a graph. “It is significant, no?”
The others bunched together, murmured unintelligible noises of acquiescence or dissent, then dispersed to the activity room for their afternoon ping-pong game.
Not knowing the extent of their research, I might nonetheless offer this: Suggest to the managers of those large companies that employ thousands of people to stop enticing their customers with the promise of a soda in the hope that they’ll serve as an informal and rag-tag group of spies for the people in charge. I’ll bet the significant peak in Dr. Hoffsgrauten’s graph would diminish substantially by the time their next ping-pong game rolled around.
Monday, October 6, 2008
It's the Law
So the American economy has been brought to its knees. And—by all appearances—it can’t get up without help. We’re a nation of laws, so many laws. Laws that protect us from being stupid, laws that say we have to know what the law is, laws about writing new laws. We love our laws. So, while the mortgage lenders were busy writing worthless loans, hoodwinking people into thinking they could afford a house of their own, then ruining those very people with financial disaster, where were our precious laws? Am I to understand that—as the lenders chipped away at the country’s financial footing—first with a chisel and hammer and then with great blows from a humongous sledgehammer, after the greed had set in for good, that NO ONE knew what was going on? Granted, we have the dimmest president in the history of the civilized world, but it wasn’t his job to oversee these kinds of activities. He gets a pass on this one. His financial advisers, however, shouldn’t have been so insulated from the machinations of the mortgage industry—one of the most high profile and closely watched businesses in the financial world. What exactly were they doing while the lenders were going for broke—writing new laws?
On the plus side, there is an unexpected benefit to bankrupting the country: When I go to the Colosso-Box home improvement center I can walk the aisles unmolested by other customers: The place is empty.
On the plus side, there is an unexpected benefit to bankrupting the country: When I go to the Colosso-Box home improvement center I can walk the aisles unmolested by other customers: The place is empty.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
"Can I have them?"
October 2, 2008
And then back to the muck of my life. I got together some things that I thought might be useful for someone else, but that I no longer wanted or needed. This is in preparation for a complete renovation of my kitchen—which looks much as it did in the nineteen-forties. Maybe worse. Anyway, I am currently not so averse to throwing things away, as it is in fact the most expeditious way of getting rid of them. However, the guilt sets in, and I find myself making an effort to get the unwanted items to a new home. So I photographed the little basket of miscellaneous things—most of them new—and put an ad on the forum that people in the computer world use. That very evening I got a response for the giveaways, and this is what it said:
That's so wonderful of you. I love being a "Catonsville" person. It's so perfect in every way imaginable. Hope this sells for you!
I immediately felt sickened beyond belief, fought back a wave of nausea. It was as if the cat had slurped up an entire can of creamed corn and spewed it all over the floor; then, in a midnight run to the fridge, I'd trod barefoot through the unexpected mess. A short time later, the only other response to the advertisement:
“Can I have them?”
That’s all it said, and I loved that person more than all the boulders in Iceland, more than the great, gulping waterfalls that swallowed rivers and dumped them explosively hundreds of feet into the rocky moraine below. I wanted to bring that person to Paris, show him or her the arc de triomphe, the place where I went to school, walk to the little firecracker shop that sold magicians’ tricks to the professionals who made their life that way. Excitedly look upon Notre Dame de Paris as if it were the first time, give the respondent to the ad a backstairs tour of the tower, where you could climb and climb and finally have a magnificent view of the city. I would lead that person, who’d humbly asked, “Can I have them?” around to the little-known corners of the vibrant city, would encourage him to keep up the pace, as he slogged along in large shoes and pants, wondering at the strange sights, asking about this and that, and if they had a McDonald’s around someplace—and if they did, was it the same stuff you could get back home or different? And by the way, what language do they speak here anyway? I wanted to say, “You may have the basket and its contents—the ink pens, the chalk and baking chocolate and marmalade and staples and tin can and other things, but you must come with me on a journey first. It will be fun.”
Instead, this is what I wrote: “I’ll leave the things on the porch. Pick up anytime.”
And then back to the muck of my life. I got together some things that I thought might be useful for someone else, but that I no longer wanted or needed. This is in preparation for a complete renovation of my kitchen—which looks much as it did in the nineteen-forties. Maybe worse. Anyway, I am currently not so averse to throwing things away, as it is in fact the most expeditious way of getting rid of them. However, the guilt sets in, and I find myself making an effort to get the unwanted items to a new home. So I photographed the little basket of miscellaneous things—most of them new—and put an ad on the forum that people in the computer world use. That very evening I got a response for the giveaways, and this is what it said:
That's so wonderful of you. I love being a "Catonsville" person. It's so perfect in every way imaginable. Hope this sells for you!
I immediately felt sickened beyond belief, fought back a wave of nausea. It was as if the cat had slurped up an entire can of creamed corn and spewed it all over the floor; then, in a midnight run to the fridge, I'd trod barefoot through the unexpected mess. A short time later, the only other response to the advertisement:
“Can I have them?”
That’s all it said, and I loved that person more than all the boulders in Iceland, more than the great, gulping waterfalls that swallowed rivers and dumped them explosively hundreds of feet into the rocky moraine below. I wanted to bring that person to Paris, show him or her the arc de triomphe, the place where I went to school, walk to the little firecracker shop that sold magicians’ tricks to the professionals who made their life that way. Excitedly look upon Notre Dame de Paris as if it were the first time, give the respondent to the ad a backstairs tour of the tower, where you could climb and climb and finally have a magnificent view of the city. I would lead that person, who’d humbly asked, “Can I have them?” around to the little-known corners of the vibrant city, would encourage him to keep up the pace, as he slogged along in large shoes and pants, wondering at the strange sights, asking about this and that, and if they had a McDonald’s around someplace—and if they did, was it the same stuff you could get back home or different? And by the way, what language do they speak here anyway? I wanted to say, “You may have the basket and its contents—the ink pens, the chalk and baking chocolate and marmalade and staples and tin can and other things, but you must come with me on a journey first. It will be fun.”
Instead, this is what I wrote: “I’ll leave the things on the porch. Pick up anytime.”
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Vision Tarp Part II
I entered the store with my pair of glasses, so new a few months ago—but now utterly ruined. They had scratches, abrasions, looked like the ice after an especially brutal hockey game. Sitting at the fitting table in the optometrist’s shop was the rotund little woman I’d spoken to last week. I’d held up the glasses on that day, asked her to look at them, told her I needed new lenses. She took the glasses, turned them this way and that, said that they were “a little scratched,” and that she could do nothing for me. With her pursed lips and distrusting eyes—close-set in her chubby face-- she regarded me as if I were Osama Bin Laden, come into her store to spread terrorism and ask for free lenses. Her expression was unchanged, regardless of the situation: A customer could come in and buy five hundred dollars worth of eyewear, or present a defective pair of eyeglasses—it was all the same to her. The customers who wandered into her shop were simply a moving and noisy nuisance that she needed to be rid of as quickly as possible. For those idle times when people were not bothering her with their unreasonable requests, she considered Dorito possibilities or maybe how long it would take to eat a whole package of fig newtons, if she found herself alone in those enviable circumstances. I told her evenly that she could have helped me if she’d wanted to, and left the shop—where she was alone with absolutely no one else to occupy her.
But on this day, things turned in my favor. I approached the kindly-looking woman who was not the rotund one, said I’d spoken to that other last week, and that I really needed some help with these glasses—for which I’d paid a premium price. She took them from me, said immediately, “Let’s get you some new lenses.” The squat little woman looked up from her work-station, was not pleased to have to oblige this demanding and nuisance customer with his terrible demands. But on this day I had the DISTRICT MANAGER on my side--the woman whose job it was to oversee the operations of all the stores. She set the other woman to work on my order, getting the necessary paperwork filed so that my new lenses could be sent out as quickly as possible. I was not obnoxious, as I am right now and most of the time, actually; I was simply grateful to finally get some help with this issue, didn’t even mind that it had required two trips to resolve the matter.
“You ordered the top-of-the-line lenses,” the district manager said. “They’re made by Nikon.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” I told her, which—I added—was all the more surprising that they’d only lasted a few months.
“It happens,” she said. “Sometimes you get a defective pair.”
This woman knew EVERYTHING about eyewear, how the sunglasses worked and which colors were best for different kinds of conditions. I mentioned that I was looking for a pair of sunglasses to be made with my prescription, and she showed me the frames that would work, and that didn’t cost too much. I ordered a pair of them, recognizing the thirty years of experience the woman brought to our interactions was probably the best I could hope for in my quest for eyewear. I looked forward to the last days of warm weather, with the top of the sports car slid back, letting in the autumn sky and the stray colored leaf brushing past me, and my new glasses keeping the glare and insistent stares of bystanders at bay. You see, when I'm at the wheel of the little car—and it is often—I am suddenly successful, somebody to be reckoned with. I’ve promoted a concert for Edith Piaf in her early years in Paris, where she triumphed over a packed crowd that knew not what to expect, and she and I embraced—the confusion of her success still not quite sinking in—and unspoken were the conquests that awaited, and the terrible times we both knew lay ahead, but were drunk now on that potent mixture of lights and cigarette smoke and wild applause and brilliant music. Outside, with the late-night Parisians still gathering at nearby hot-spots, we sat, tete-a-tete, at a café’s table. Out on the sidewalk played an accordionist, with the tottering revelers throwing a few francs his way.
It’s a wonder I can keep the car going straight.
But on this day, things turned in my favor. I approached the kindly-looking woman who was not the rotund one, said I’d spoken to that other last week, and that I really needed some help with these glasses—for which I’d paid a premium price. She took them from me, said immediately, “Let’s get you some new lenses.” The squat little woman looked up from her work-station, was not pleased to have to oblige this demanding and nuisance customer with his terrible demands. But on this day I had the DISTRICT MANAGER on my side--the woman whose job it was to oversee the operations of all the stores. She set the other woman to work on my order, getting the necessary paperwork filed so that my new lenses could be sent out as quickly as possible. I was not obnoxious, as I am right now and most of the time, actually; I was simply grateful to finally get some help with this issue, didn’t even mind that it had required two trips to resolve the matter.
“You ordered the top-of-the-line lenses,” the district manager said. “They’re made by Nikon.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” I told her, which—I added—was all the more surprising that they’d only lasted a few months.
“It happens,” she said. “Sometimes you get a defective pair.”
This woman knew EVERYTHING about eyewear, how the sunglasses worked and which colors were best for different kinds of conditions. I mentioned that I was looking for a pair of sunglasses to be made with my prescription, and she showed me the frames that would work, and that didn’t cost too much. I ordered a pair of them, recognizing the thirty years of experience the woman brought to our interactions was probably the best I could hope for in my quest for eyewear. I looked forward to the last days of warm weather, with the top of the sports car slid back, letting in the autumn sky and the stray colored leaf brushing past me, and my new glasses keeping the glare and insistent stares of bystanders at bay. You see, when I'm at the wheel of the little car—and it is often—I am suddenly successful, somebody to be reckoned with. I’ve promoted a concert for Edith Piaf in her early years in Paris, where she triumphed over a packed crowd that knew not what to expect, and she and I embraced—the confusion of her success still not quite sinking in—and unspoken were the conquests that awaited, and the terrible times we both knew lay ahead, but were drunk now on that potent mixture of lights and cigarette smoke and wild applause and brilliant music. Outside, with the late-night Parisians still gathering at nearby hot-spots, we sat, tete-a-tete, at a café’s table. Out on the sidewalk played an accordionist, with the tottering revelers throwing a few francs his way.
It’s a wonder I can keep the car going straight.
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