Babieca Goes to Texas

                             Babieca Goes to Texas (6-7/2009)

   The general idea was to take the 2008 Road King (La Babieca) to El Paso, Texas, where my friend Mike Robertson commands the medical unit at Fort Bliss. The route—subject always and inevitably to modification—will take us to the Poconos (Pennsylvania), the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Gettysburg, Skyline Drive (Virginia), Blue Ridge Parkway, Memphis, the Great Mississippi River Road (Arkansas), Texarkana and then west across Texas (Dallas, Abilene, Odessa) to El Paso. The route back will be through Albuquerque (New Mexico), Route 66 to Oklahoma City (Oklahoma), Harlan (Kentucky), the Kentucky Country Music Highway, West Virginia to I-81, and then home. We plan to be gone for at least a month.  In the event, the trip turned out to be more or less according to plan.

June 6, Saturday (300 miles)

   After postponing the trip for a day because of the rain, we started out at 8:00. It was cold and overcast, and stayed that way most of the day. Blanca was basically O.K. but had cold feet and hands. About 5:00, we arrived at Wilsonville Campground, Lake Wallenpaupack. It’s a lovely place, right on the lake. Most of the people there are in huge R.V.’s. We ate at a nice nearby restaurant, Muggs.

   During the night there were several technical problems: (a) it took me about an hour to get a fire going, even with the synthetic firestarter and a $5 pile of wood. (I should not have quit Boy Scouts so soon; but as soon as I discovered that they forbad masturbation, I figured that this wasn’t the outfit for me); (b) Blanca’s inflatable mattress went dead after about a half hour, and we ended up exchanging during the night; (c) Blanca was cold; she hadn’t worn the cap and tights that I’d suggested. Not a good night, comfort-wise.

June 7, Sunday (150 miles)

   We had a good breakfast (Muggs again), and were on the road by 11:15. The route took us south through Easton, Allentown, and Reading. Once into Amish country, the scenery was all flat, rich farmland. We encountered countless buggies, driven by people out of central casting. Once past Reading, we went through places like Honey Brook, Intercourse, and Bird in Hand. (We also passed signs for Virginville. Ah, those Amish!) We ended up on route 30, just outside Lancaster. In Ronks, we installed ourselves in the Soudersburg Motel. Then we crossed the street and pigged out at an “all you can eat” buffet. We were surrounded by a contingent of morbidly obese people who went back for third and fourth helpings. It is really disheartening when one travels and sees the physical condition of countless “average” people. Unless the country changes its lifestyle, we’re headed for certain extinction.

June 8, Monday

   We left Ronks and followed Rt.30 to Gettysburg (about 100 miles).

   We ate in a nice downtown restaurant on Lincoln Square and then checked into Artillery Ridge Campground. The weather looked ominous and the people we spoke to said there would be a thunderstorm coming, so we opted for a primitive cabin instead of a campsite. Mistake. As soon as we unpacked, the sun came out and the clouds disappeared. But the cabin was nice, although without much of anything in it and without a bathroom.

   We donned our running togs and headed out to explore the battlefield. The campground is about 50 meters from an entrance and is very close to Little Round Top, which Chamberlain and the boys from Maine had so valiantly defended. We walked the main trail along Cemetery Ridge, which was the Union line facing the Confederates across the field at Seminary Ridge. The road is lined with canon and memorials to various units and individuals. There is a huge memorial erected by the state of Pennsylvania to honor its dead, and it has as statue of the Goddess Victory on top.

We then walked to the National Cemetery, where Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address. Then back to town, where we had a drink at the same restaurant as before on Lincoln Square, looking across at the Gettysburg Hotel and the private house where Lincoln stayed the night before his speech. Then we walked back to the campground.

It was an extremely positive day (except for the inflatable mattress that we bought at a Wal-Mart along the way: weird size, heavy, doesn’t inflate as stated). But visiting the battleground was a very moving experience. The sheer beauty of the rolling fields and the smell of the honeysuckle was a strange backdrop to the horrific events we knew had occurred there. It simply boggles the mind to reflect that more men (more than 50,000) died at Gettysburg in three days than did in the whole Vietnam War. And the aura that Lincoln’s figure casts over the whole area keeps one fighting back tears.

   I’m writing this in our cabin. It has no sheets or running water, but it does have WiFi!

June 9, Tuesday (about 260 miles)

   We left Gettysburg about 10:30 and made the 100 miles to Virginia in about two hours. We got on Skyline drive and were heading to camp at Big Meadows. But when we got there it was only 2:30, and the weather and almost complete lack of traffic made me reluctant to stop. I think we saw more deer—-we raced one and won—-than people. There was a clear blue sky and after the 112 miles of Skyline Drive we segued onto the Blue Ridge Parkway.

   We’d decided to head for Otter Creek, 60 miles south where there would be camping and a restaurant. We went happily along for about 50 miles when we were hit by an intense thunderstorm, complete with hail. It came on so quickly that we were already wet before we could even think of getting into rain gear. We slowly continued for about another ten miles and took the exit for Buena Vista (=”Byoona-Vista” for the locals) and found a nice enough motel (Buena Vista Motel). The place was already filling up with other bikers heading off the Parkway. The owner said there were flood warnings and predictions of three more hours of thunderstorms. We unpacked and emerged from the room in a sunlit, almost cloudless sky! We dined at Captain Tim’s, where we had fish and chips and “sweet tea.” We then walked to downtown Buena Vista, which is filled with typical Virginia quasi shacks alongside huge Victorian mansions. After walking for about 45 minutes, we finally found a Mexican restaurant (Don Tequila), where we had acceptable margaritas and pleasant conversation with the chef. It was a nice walk back to the motel.

June 10, Wednesday. (160 miles)

   We head back to the Parkway toward Willville (at mile mark 177, Rt. 58 West). Rain threatening, so we exit at Floyd. Lunch at Floyd Country Store, one of the cameos of the Crooked Road ($20). Back on route 8 toward Stuart (very hilly and curvy!) where we pick up Rt.58 (still Crooked Road) to Meadows of Dan and Willville. As we pulled in it started to rain, so we took a cabin. Our fellow guests were very interesting, congenial people. I walked about a mile to procure wine, bread, and turkey slices. More genial conversation. Great place!

June 11, Thursday.

   We got up a bit late, and Will came over to say goodbye. He had things to do in town. Our plan was to head for another motorcycle camp in Cruso, North Carolina, a good day’s ride south on the Parkway. Things, however, didn’t turn out that way.

   I had a hell of a time getting the motorcycle out of the shelter next to the cabin where we’d parked it for the night. The constant rain had turned the lawn into a mud pie, and it was like trying to ride on an ice-skating rink.

   We got on the road about 11:00 and had several pleasant hours on the Parkway before the rain started. Luckily we had stopped to put on our rain gear just before it hit. Unluckily, the rain gear is never perfect, and Blanca was quite uncomfortable when we stopped for lunch.

   The weather looked a bit better, but not much. We continued into North Carolina, where we encountered the Parkway closed and were forced to detour. I was miffed that there were no warnings earlier on, and I learned that there would be a series of detours—the same ones we’d caught last year. Change of plans. I turned north to Jefferson City, where I got Rt. 16, which took me to Route 58. This stretch of 58 is on the Crooked Road, and it is indeed very crooked. There are lots of mountain climbs and descents, and lots of sharp curves. When we emerged from the gnarly part at Damascus, the rain really hit us hard: thunder and lighting and torrential, blinding sheets. I chugged along, barely able to see, into Abingdon, Va., where we were able to get a room right off I-81. Everything we had was soaking wet. We walked up the hill to the gas station and bought a six-pack of beer.

   Back in the motel, we realized that we (=Blanca) had left the battery charger for the digital camera, the charger for her mobile phone, and a favorite rain jacket back at Willville. No more pictures for a while.

June 12, Friday.

   The plan is now to get on the Interstate (81 and then 40) and do some miles, one hopes without rain. That’s just what happened. We did Bristol to about 100 miles east of Memphis (400 miles). It was basically uneventful, and we were grateful to escape the threats of more thunderstorms.

June 13, Saturday. (410 miles)

   We did about 140 miles to Memphis and crossed the Mississippi into Arkansas (West Memphis) and soon picked up the Great River Road, which took us through Hughes and Mariana. (The Great River Road is the Byway that goes through ten states, from Minnesota to Louisiana, following the course of the Big River). Very flat delta farmland; not much of anybody around. At Francis State Park, we got directed—by the Byway signs--unto a 10 mile stretch of unpaved, puddle-filled dirt road strewn with tree branches. There was absolutely nobody there; we never encountered another vehicle. A sign about half way into it said “Dangerous when wet.” The “road” was extremely rutted and slippery. This was a very dangerous stretch, and I’m amazed that the “Byway” directed people unto it without warning. As is well known, heavy Harleys are not meant for off road use. We arrived in Helena rather rattled. From Helena, we took 79 towards Pine Bluff, where we finally found a Wal-Mart where we could replace Blanca’s battery charger. We couldn’t find lodging, so we continued on 530 to Little Rock, where we found a very acceptable motel. Tomorrow we’d continue on I-30 to Texarkana.

June 14, Sunday.

   We wimped and decided to pass the day hanging out in the motel (America’s Best Value Inn). We had both breakfast and lunch in the only place around: the Waffle House. I went to the convenience store to buy a six pack of beer. As I reached into the fridge, the clerk yelled at me: “You put that back there; it’s Sunday and in Arkansas you can’t buy beer on Sunday!” There was a little kid standing there, who was obviously coming back from Church. He looked at me and

grinned.

June 15, Monday.

   Today was all about miles: big, dry, hot, Texas ones (470). We passed through Texarkana into Texas. We had an excellent Mexican meal and made friends with a family from Guanajuato, where were had, years ago, enjoyed the “mummy” museum, a cave filled with desiccated human cadavers.

   There was a long, hot by-pass around Dallas-Ft. Worth. We finally broke free on Rt. I-20, headed for Abilene. About 60 miles out (Eastman), we found an acceptable “Super 8” motel and called it a day.

   The first letdown was to discover that we were in a “dry” county. What I wanted most in the whole world was a cold beer, and to satisfy my desire I had to ride five miles back into another county, where I bought a six-pack of Corona at a truck stop.

   Dinner was a bit surreal. We walked out of the motel and headed for a sign that said “Valentinos.” The building that came into view was a shining silver “diner,” with an art deco look and a fancy Italian menu. (But no wine.) The obviously gay waiter told us that he was studying theater at a local community college. I asked him about his favorite play; it was “Phantom of the Opera.” The ambient music was what you’d expect to hear in an aroma-therapy session. Local cowboys were eating several tables away. Blanca had fettuccine, and I had mushroom spaghetti with aglio & olio.

June 16, Tuesday.

   More Texas miles (about 400). It was pretty hot all day, and we had to force ourselves to keep drinking. First Abilene, and then on to Midland, where the flat green landscape became increasing dotted with oil rigs. I thought of George Bush and how completely suited he was to this barren and sterile place. Then on through Odessa, Pecos, etc. As we got closer to El Paso, the mountains began to appear in the distance, and the landscape became much more dry and desert-like, with occasional bluffs and buttes. We pulled off in Van Horn and found a little motel filled with Mexicans with grills in front of their rooms, playing rancheros. I walked a couple of blocks to snag a six-pack of Tecate. I stopped for stamps along the way and conducted my business in Spanish. I feel like we’re in Mexico already. What a difference a day’s travel can make!

June 17, Wednesday

   We did 120 miles to El Paso, with fairly impressive mountain scenery: purple mountains and dry desert. We had been on the road for about 3000 miles.

   When we finally got to Fort Bliss, a minor drama ensued. At the guard post, we were directed to the “pass office,” where we were required to get an entry document. We were received by an extremely uncooperative woman who refused to give me a pass to enter the base because I couldn’t produce a “training certificate” for riding the bike. After a bit of “Alfonse and Gaston,” half in Spanish, she finally gave us two “walk in” passes so that we could get to Mike’s house. But she was adamant: no motorcycle on the base without said certificate. (She pulled out a regulation book, which she proceeded to highlight.) So I left the bike outside the office—although the woman said she couldn’t guarantee its safety—and walked 300 meters to Mike’s house. Luckily his son was home and was able to get in touch with his father. Mike said he’d make a phone call and get the situation straightened out. A half hour later, we all went back to the pass office, where there occurred a very unpleasant interchange with the original woman. An MP showed up, and then several more. Upshot: the woman was fired on the spot! Her substitute issued me a two-week pass for the bike and one for Blanca. It was not the sort of entrance I expected, but I was glad to be there.

   Mike took us to a fantastic Mexican restaurant, and he showed us a bit around El Paso. It’s immense! I didn’t expect anything so big! The base itself is overwhelming.

   It’s impressive to see Mike working. (He’s a Colonel in the 82nd Airborne who runs a medical unit.) He’s on the blackberry all the time, although today he had his 17th surgery on his teeth (an explosion in Iraq); he’s also been wounded in the calf, which frustrates the serious athlete that he’s always been.

June 18, Thursday

   I got up early and brought the bike to Barnett Harley, the largest H-D dealership in the world. It’s big beyond belief. Four hours later, I forked over $1000 for the 15,000 mile service, two new tires, break pads, etc. And they say that polo is the sport of kings!

   I got back to Mike’s in time to get Dario’s radio show. It’s mind boggling to think that here I am, sitting in El Paso Texas, listening to Chico Buarque, served up by my great friend on the other side of the country.

   We went for a ride to the PX, where Blanca oversaw the buying of supplies. The place is huge and offers an incredible range of first quality fruits, veggies, and everything else.

   Carlos and Mickey’s is supposed to have the best margaritas in town. I totally concur. We had a great time, hobnobbing and listening to mariachis. Blanca was at her best, schmoozing with everyone. Mike—in spite of his continuing tooth pain--was enchanted by the beautiful Mexican women.

   On the way back to the base, we drove up the mountain for an incredible view of the vast illuminated vista that is El Paso-Juarez.

   “Taps” was sounded just as we were going to bed.

June 19, Friday

   We went for a walk around the base. We especially enjoyed the replica of Old Fort Bliss, a scale model of the Fort during the mid 1800’s.

   At 6:00, we went to the boxing matches: six bouts (3 1-minute rounds). One of Mike’s soldiers had entered. (He got creamed.) Mike had been on the Army boxing team and was an avid spectator. Blanca and I had a great time.

   After the boxing, we went to Sorrento’s Italian restaurant, for great pizza and Chianti.

   June 20, Saturday

   5 km race. Blanca came in second in her age group; Mike and his son both came in third in their age groups. I ran a bit over 30 minutes, which was respectable, given my utter lack of recent training.

   We went to El Paso Airport to pick up Ben, Mike’s middle son, who had stayed with us in Spain. (He there developed a fondness for Blanca’s cooking.)

   To Carlos & Mickey’s again.

   June 21, Sunday.

   We went for a beautiful hike in the Franklin Mountains.

  Blanca made delicious paella, despite the lack of most of the “authentic” ingredients and equipment. Everyone was delighted with her efforts. The fact of the matter is that she’s an amazing cook!

   June 22, Monday.

   Shopping. Blanca bought 3 pairs of cowboy boots, and a fringe jacket. Needless to say, we had to post them back.

June 23, Tuesday.

June 24, Wednesday.

   Lunch in La Mesilla, near Las Cruces.

June 25, Thursday, June 26, Friday, June 27, Saturday.

   We did a lot of “hanging out” with Mike, often reminiscing of our former days of glory at the Old Dominion 100 Miler. We agreed that it is better, although painful, to be a “has been” than to be a “never has been.”

   We took a tram up the Franklin Mountains and then drove the “Mission trail.”

“Cattleman” restaurant, Fabens.

June 28, Sunday.

   We started the day with a sumptuous breakfast at the Officers’ Club. We then proceeded to the Chamizal Memorial, which commemorates the 1960(?) treaty with Mexico; it remarked the border after changes occurred in the course of the Rio Grande. We watched from the nearby park the traffic crossing the bridge into Juarez. (We didn’t go into Mexico because of the recent spate of drug-related violence. It was off limits to soldiers.

   The El Paso Zoo was surprisingly well done.

June 29, Monday.

   Hanging out.

June 30, Tuesday.

   Blanca’s birthday. We went to Carlos and Mickey’s for margaritas, and I sung “Besame Mucho” to an appreciative crowd.

July 1, Wednesday.

   We got up early and were on the road about 8:30. We’d had wonderful time with Mike, who treated us like royalty. He’s an amazing guy, and being around him has a tonic effect.

   We had a very pleasant ride (about 260 miles) through the desert to Albuquerque, where we picked up Route 66 east.

   Lunch near Tijeras. Blanca noticed that my exhaust pipe was hanging loose; a screw had apparently vibrated off. Luckily, we found “Kucklehead’s” Motorcycle Shop, in Edgewood, where the owner Alice fixed the problem, and we were on our way.

   We got a Super 8 motel ($70) in Moriarty, on Rt.66.

July 2, Thursday.

We left Moriarty and went through Santa Rosa (Rt.66) and Tucumcari, where Blanca brought lots of stuff. We crossed back into the Texas panhandle, through Amarillo, McClean, and stopped at Shamrock. We did about 330 miles. It was very hot, and there was lots of wind. (It blew off Blanca’s bandana.)

July 3, Friday (450 miles)

We crossed Oklahoma (Oklahoma City, Fort Smith) into Arkansas. We stopped at Morrilton, about 50 miles west of Little Rock. It was a good day, although very hot. Blanca was getting cranky at the end, going even so far as to insult Babieca’s seat.

July 4, Saturday

   We crossed the rest of Arkansas into Tennessee. The bridge over the Mississippi at Memphis offers a majestic view. We stopped at Stanton, about 150 miles west of Nashville.

July 5, Sunday.

   We went east to Nashille, where we picked up 65N to Kentucky. A bit past the border, we finally got off the Interstate and had a delicious ride on Kentucky 100. When we got to the Cumberland Parkway, however, the rain had become serious, and we went through some pretty heavy duty thunderstorms before calling it quits at Somerset.

July 6, Monday.

   Today was a great day of riding (260 miles). After leaving Somerset, we were soon able to get off the beaten track and enjoy some beautiful roads. The sun shone all day. W passed briefly into Virginia and then went over the mountain to Cumberland, which was spectacular. The miners’ museum was closed. Passing Whitesburg, we got on Rt23, the “Country Music Highway,” and got as far as Pikeville.

July 7, Tuesday.

   Today was a particularly delicious one as far as riding was concerned. We did 288 miles, mostly through southern West Virginia coal country. (After Paintsville, we took Rt. 40, which took us to 52, where we crossed into West Virginia (Kermit). Just before we left Kentucky, we stopped in a small roadside restaurant, where we had our usual gargantuan breakfasts. As we leaving the man who had been sitting next to us stood up and started singing. It was a scene right out of “Songcatcher,” and I now very much regret leaving without talking with him and hearing more of his raspy voice. From then on it was southeast to Bluefield. Then up I77 to Beckley, where we picked up I64 going east. We stopped at Lewisburg, West Virginia, not far from the Virginia border. We had sun all the way.

   A principal way that travel empowers is by giving one the opportunity to progress from thoughts, squiggles on maps, and tentative sentences to making goal directed bodily movements. The conversion of a plan into experience is one way in which to leave one’s imprint on the world: in Nietzsche’s terms to exercise “the will to power.” Like an amoeba who incorporates parts of its surroundings, the traveler shapes and greedily sucks up bits of the future, integrating them into himself, providing nourishment, growth, and new substance. You are what you experience, no?

Three Days in Madrid

                                                  Three Days in Madrid

   For the better part of the last 19 years, Blanca and I have been living on a highly irregular schedule. When we were both working, we were constrained by the school calendar, at times different for each of us. Upon my retirement, things became a bit more flexible, and when Blanca received her ticket to Heaven last year, we became free as birds. Up until now, Blanca had traveled simply using the three-month visa that is standard issue for Spanish tourists. But now we had the possibility of staying in the U.S. for longer periods of time, and the obligation of shelling out a thousand euros just to come back and then return seemed onerous. So we decided that we’d try to get her a “temporary immigrant” visa, which would permit her to come and go at will.

   After some investigation, it became clear that we’d have to make an appointment at the U.S. Embassy in Madrid, where we would have to prove to the satisfaction of an “interviewer,” that once in the United States, Blanca would not stay there for ever.

   During my month back in Massachusetts, Blanca made the appointment and diligently collected a huge sheaf of documents—including letters from bankers, doctors, and me—showing that she had roots in Spain and would be going back. She could easily prove that she had a Spanish pension and would not be depending on welfare or Medicare. She bought train tickets—obligatory given that we would be traveling during the Valenican “fallas,” and made a reservation at our favorite hotel near the Plaza Mayor.

   We got the 7:00 “Alaris” (rapid train) in Xátiva and were in Madrid in three hours. We arrived at Atocha station, and the sun was bright—about 20 degrees. We walked for about half an hour and got to our hotel, checked in, and headed out for the Plaza Mayor.

   We walked west down Calle Mayor to Calle Bailén, with the Almudena Cathedral and Royal Palace in front of us. We had a coffee (for me) and a beer (for Blanca)—a whopping 8 euros!—and proceeded north to the Plaza de España, which is dominated by the magnificent statue of Cervantes with Quijote and Sancho below.

   Disappointment followed: the Cerralbo Museo, which I’d very much looked forward to visiting—was closed for repairs. But we crossed the street and enjoyed the views from the Temple of Dabod, a transplanted Egyptian affair, which was dismantled and shipped to Spain during the construction of the Aswan Dam.

   After a turn in the Parque del Oeste, we pushed our way down the Gran Via and eventually back to the Plaza Santa Ana. After mediocre paella, we went back for a siesta and read until it was time for bed.

   Out of the hotel by 6:30, we got the Metro at Callao and got off at Rubén Darío, where there is a delightful outdoor sculpture garden. Then up Calle Serrano to the Embassy.

   After a coffee and muffin at Starbuck’s (8 euros!), we got on line and were waiting when they opened. We were the first to get numbers, which would be used to call us for three different processes: presentation of application, passport, picture, bank receipt, etc; fingerprinting; interview.

   When we were finally called to the interview, we approached a window and had to speak through a small hole. I succinctly explained what we wanted, and the amiable bureaucratic responded that giving Blanca a ten year visa would be no problem, but he couldn’t guarantee that his colleagues in the U.S. would not demand proof of Blanca’s bona fides at the border. So she’ll always have to travel with her sheaf of documents. Our interviewer closed by discreetly asking if we planned to get married. When I demurred, he immediately dropped the subject and wished us goodbye.

   Exhilarated, having achieved our objective, we emerged with light hearts. The Calle Serrano—Madrid’s “Fifth Avenue”—was alive with “gente guapa,” and the sun was bright and warm: a perfect day!

   One of the spots that we’d decided to check out was the Sorolla House-Museum (Paseo del General Martínez Campos 37), where the prolific Valencian painter lived during his stint in Madrid. The place is a gem! It’s filled with works from all his various periods, and the completely preserved house permits entry into the artist’s quotidian world. His studio is just as he left it, with paints mixed on his palette, and filled with sumptuous antiques. His favorite subject was fairly obviously his wife Clotilde. This place is a superb addition to my list of “small museums,” which I much prefer to the overpowering giants like the Prado, Thyssen, and Reina Sofia.

   The Castellana is the main north-south thoroughfare in Madrid. It is an elegant, broad avenue, lined with palatial banks, hotels, and government buildings. We followed it down past the Plaza de Colón, where we entered the National Library. On the bottom floor is the small Museo del Libro, which featured a terrific exhibit dedicated to the history of the Spanish “copla,” perhaps the most typical manifestation of the Spanish musical soul. We’re talking here about people like La Argentinita, Pastora Imperio, Raquel Meller, Miguel de Molina, Estrelita Castro, Concha Piquer, Nati Mistral, Lola Flores, Manolo Caracol, Carmen Morell y Pepe Blanco, Antonio Molina, Manolo Escobar, Rocio Jurado, Isabel Pantoja, Pasión Vega, Diana Navarra, Carlos Cano, Concha Buika y Plácido Domingo. It addition, there was an exhibition dedicated to the Zarzuela composer Ruperto Chapí. Finally, we enjoyed the permanent display of ancient books and manuscripts and an explanation of book binding.

   Back to Plaza Santa Ana and a three-course lunch (20 euros).

   After siesta, we headed out to the warren of streets below the Plaza Mayor, and ended up walking down the Calle Segovia, which leads under a by-pass famous for being a preferred spot for suicides. (As coincidence might have it, I was currently reading a book by Muñoz Molina, Los Misterios de Madrid, that unfolds in many of the spots that we were visiting, including the Segovia viaduct.)

   Climbing up past the Cathedral, we took in the sunset from the gardens of Las Vistillas, and then walked back through the barrio of La Latina.

   Again in the Plaza Santa Ana, a hub of Madrid nightlife, we had outrageously expensive tapas at La Trucha (25 euros). I impressed the Colombian bartender by showing her my still functioning wallet that I’d bought nearly 20 years ago in Bogotá.

   The next day we got up late, packed, and left our bags at the hotel reception.

   We crossed the Plaza and the Calle Mayor and began the day with a chocolate—imagine a liquid Nestle’s bar—at the landmark Chocolatería San Ginés (10 euros).

   The Calle de Alcalá is the elegant thoroughfare that goes from Puerta del Sol to the Puerta de Alcalá. It’s lined with elegant buildings, most of which are now banks.

   We stopped at the Instituto de Cervantes (Alacalá 49), where there is a fine library of books related to the Quijote.

   Café Gijón (Paseo de Recoletos 21) is one of the classic Madrid most renowned literary spots. We had a beer and a coffee (8 euros).

  Our main destination for the day was the Museo Lázaro Galdiano. This is a collection put together by an interesting fellow, who was a businessman, bibliophile, and connoisseur (1862-1947). He built this palatial colossus in the beginning of the 20th century, and later spent periods in New York and Paris, where he continued to collect. The guard told us that half of the collection is still in storage. There are over 6000 pieces on display, including paintings by Goya and other Spanish “greats,” foreign painters from all periods, and an astounding collection of jewelry, metalwork, silver, and furniture. This is a magnificent find and should be a required stop on return trips to Madrid.

   Back down Serrano past Plaza Cibeles and west through the “Barrio de Las Letras,” where we passed Cervantes’ house and the convent where he’s buried. After picking up our luggage, we headed back down to Atocha.

   On Calle Almadén 12, Blanca noticed a sign that said “My Name’s Lolita Art,” and recognized the gallery of an ex-colleague and good friend from Valencia, Ramón García Alcaraz. (I also knew him, and will always be grateful that he let Blanca and me make love in his warehouse when we first met and she still lived with her kids in the house.) Ramón was out of town, but we left a message with his delightful assistant Marta, who giggled when I told her about our tryst in Ramón’s “almacén.”

  Two doors down the street we passed an attractive looking Moroccan bar (Tetería Bar Marrakesh). We went in and were delighted with the elaborate décor. We made friends with the waiter—who was himself from Marrakesh and married to a Spaniard—who was friendly with Ramón, and we had super falafel and mint tea (15 euros).

   Back in the huge greenhouse that is Atocha Station, we were able to board the train immediately. The three hours flew by while we were served a fine dinner by attentive staff.

   This was a very successful little trip. There are times when everything, especially apparently insignificant details, seems to work out just right. There were no groups of bratty school children, no bands of drunken football hooligans, and the sun shone all the time. The museums were uncrowded and everyone we dealt with---without exception—was pleasant and agreeable. I left with a much more benevolent feeling about Madrid than I’d had before, and I was extremely satisfied with several of the “discoveries” we’d made. I was also a bit proud of myself, since despite passing literally hundreds of beckoning bars and countless bottles of the Spanish finest, I didn’t fall off the wagon. (I admit that the gift of free will was probably helped out by the two medications that are helping me in the battle for Temperance.) And, of course, I’m glad that Blanca will presumably be able to move more freely back and forth across the Pond.

   A very fine three days.

Of Moose and Men

                                       (Baxter State Park/Katadhin)

“The moose is singularly grotesque and awkward to look at.” (Henry David Thoreau, The Maine Woods)

   This year has been one of stark contrast. After a delicious stint in New York (mid-February to June), we concentrated on hiking and camping. We camped at North Hero (Lake Champlain, Vermont), Gifford Woods (Killington, Vermont), Mount Mondadnock (Jaffrey, New Hampshire), Dolly Copp (Gorham, New Hampshire), Lily Bay (Moosehead Lake, Maine), Rangeley Lake State Park (Rangeley Lake, Maine). (There will be a third phase of the year, when I join Blanca in Spain at the end of October.) However, the highpoint of the summer has been, without question, Baxter State Park, near Millinocket, Maine.

   Baxter State Park is a 210,000 acre tract of almost virgin forest, mountains, ponds, and streams, in the northern part of Maine. Its “crown jewel” is Katahdin, the highest prominence in the state.

   The park is the creation of essentially one man: Percival Baxter, former governor of the state, who, over a 30 year period, bought up and assembled various tracts that today form the park. He then donated his property to the people of Maine, with the proviso that it be maintained in a “wild” state. There are thus no paved roads, no running or potable water, no domestic pets or motorcycles allowed; logging and hunting are restricted to small areas within the park. There is a “tote road” that runs through the park; it’s about 40 miles from the southern gate at Togue Pond to the northern entrance. There are 10 campgrounds, offering various combinations of tent sites, leans to’s, cabins, and bunkhouses. There are also a number of “remote” sites, reached by hiking or canoe.

   Blanca and I had been to the park on several prior occasions. This summer, we took a ride up there from Moosehead Lake in the hope of getting a camping spot. No luck. A few weeks later I did my homework and made a reservation on line, and we had three delightful nights at Abol Campground in a lean-to. The weather, however, was rotten, and we didn’t attempt any serious climbing.

Tuesday, September 28.

   It took me 7 hours to get to Millinocket. After lunch at Pelletier’s Logger’s Restaurant, I repaired to the Park Gate, 16 miles away.

   A few miles after passing the entrance gate, I stopped by Stump Pond, where a number of cars and people had gathered by the shore. There were three magnificent moose—a male, a cow, and a calf--peacefully grazing in the water, about 10 meters from shore. (George Bush might have referred to them as a “nook-yoo-ler family.”)

   Seeing the moose was rather a big deal for me. We’ve been coming to Maine for 5 years straight and had only seen one moose! I’d begun to think that at the moose business was a creation of the tourism industry.

   I arrived at Abol and set up camp. It was raining off and on, but the forecast for the next day was promising.

Wednesday, September 29.

   I signed out at the Ranger’s cabin at 7:00 and started up the Abol Trail. After about a half mile of easy climbing, another of more pronounced ascent, I got to the bottom of the Abol Slide. This is essentially a “path” of giant boulders, going up at an extremely stiff incline, which are the remains of an early 19th century rock avalanche. The megaliths made for some very tough going, as they were often too big and smooth to be easily climbed. At one point I could find no path other than a “tunnel”; I slid my pack through O.K., but when I tried to follow, I got stuck. (I thought: this is a hell of an undignified way to get found.) Finally, I got some leverage with my foot and pushed myself free.

   After several hours of hard climb, the trail levels out at Thoreau Spring, where it becomes the Hunt Trail, equivalent to part of the Appalachian Trail. (The A.T. runs 2100 miles from Georgia; its northern terminus is Katahdin.)

   At this point the wind was picking up steadily, and it continued to gain strength as I worked up the final slopes to the summit.

   At the top, there is nothing but a sign and several cairns. Nothing was to be seen due to the heavy fog.

   Perhaps the most memorable thing about the summit was meeting a young man who was just finishing the A.T. To say that he was exuberant would gravely understate the matter. He climbed atop the summit sign, and raised his hands in a victory gesture. I warmly shook his hand and said to him what someone had said to me after I finished the Western States 100 Mile Run: “If you can do this, you can do anything.”

   Time to go down. But I decided I did not want to deal again with the Cyclops playpen of the Abol Slide, especially heading down. I decided to take the Saddle Trail over the other side of the mountain. It would lead to the campground at Chimney Pond and then on to the major trailhead at Roaring Brook. From there I figured I’d be able to hitch a ride back to Abol Campground (about 15 miles).

   A woman at the summit said that the Saddle Trail was “easy.” It wasn’t. There were lots of steep descents on wet rocks, often covered by running water. It took me a lot longer to make Chimney Pond than I had figured, and the “really easy” trail that I expected to find after that never materialized. (One veteran I talked with said, “There are no easy trails in this park.”)

   After 11 hours, I pulled into Roaring Brook. I caught a ride with a couple I’d met on the trail, who took me as far as the park entrance gate. From there it was 6 miles to the campground. I started walking, figuring that no one would be coming by now that it was dark and people were already where they were going to be for the night. I’d walked about two miles when a car passed and gave me a lift. Its occupants were a Mexican named Miguel and a priest who looked liked a goyische Allan Ginsburg. They were speaking Spanish, so I had an effective opening gambit. Luckily, they were going on to Katahdin Stream, past where I was headed.

   I signed in; I’d been gone 13 hours. I headed for the lean to, stripped off my wet clothes, and went for the sleeping bag, tired but contented.

   Before long, a Ranger came by and said that they expected a “tropical storm.” They had closed the summit for the next day, and I was to batten down everything I could.

Thursday, September 30.

   I was up early. The plan was to spend my last day exploring the park and doing some kayaking.

   I prepared breakfast, which consisted of coffee and oatmeal with a banana. Scarcely had I sliced my banana and put it in the bowl of oatmeal when a fearless chipmunk scampered over the table and brazenly popped a piece in his mouth; I was hardly a meter away, but he showed not the slightest fear.

   Daicey Pond and Kidney Pond are former “sporting camps,” both on the shores of large ponds. I first went to Daicey, did a spin in the kayak, then moved on to Kidney, and then back to Daicy for a loop hike around the perimeter of the pond.

   In the middle of Kidney Pond, I played hide and seek with a loon. These amazing creatures (Gavia immer) look like ducks, but they don’t sound like ducks, and they spend a great deal of time under water. When they dive, they can disappear for long periods of time, which is what my friend did with me. After getting tired of waiting for him to surface, I paddled on, only to see him about 15 minutes later in the same spot.

Friday, October 1.

   I had discovered that both Daicey and Kidney have cabins reserved for handicapped people and that if they were not taken by 8:00 in the morning, they could be rented on a first come basis. I’d decided the night before that I’d try to get one and thus extend my stay for another night.

   The plan was successful, and I ended up in a beautiful rustic cabin on the shore of Kidney. It came equipped with two beds/mattresses, two chairs and a table, a bureau, a propane lamp, and a wood stove. The small porch looks out over the pond, 5 meters away.

   On the desk in the cabin was a spiral notebook in which residents were invited to make comments. I amused myself by reading through them. Many gave thanks to the Rangers, to God, and to Jesus, for a wonderful woodland experience. One of my favorites was:

“I came here to climb Katadhin. It was the best hike I ever had + most challenging even though I did not get past the Re-Baro; I am 82 years old so I forgive myself.”

And there’s always a wise-ass in every crowd:

“Shot and ate a moose today. Tortured it first. Prayed. Sarah Palin, Wasilla, AK.”

   I spent the day on the porch, reading, snacking, and looking at the incessant rain. The fog and mist covered the water, but one could sill see the loons and ducks as they swam by.

   I lit a fire in the wood stove and read for a while in my sleeping bag. It had been a wonderful day.

Saturday, October 2

   I got up early, drank some coffee, and took a spin around the pond in the kayak. It was cloudy, but the rain had stopped, and it was agreeably warm.

   I packed up my stuff, said goodbye to Diane, the Ranger, and headed for Millinocket, where I had a huge pancake breakfast. Seven hours later I was home, completely satisfied and content.

   Baxter State Park will be a great resource for the future. Next summer I hope to take Blanca into one of the “remote” sites. There are many more peaks to climb and almost countless paddling opportunities. Thanks very much, Governor Baxter! What a mitzvah!

The Dragon (complete)

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Rick & La Tia de Judit---New York

Spring in New York

                                                           Spring

   When T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” he lied. April is just wonderful, especially when it comes after a rainy March. Last week, spring hit New York big-time, and we celebrated by taking some very long walks.

   Staten Island. We proceeded downtown along the Hudson, stopping briefly at the slip in front of the World Financial Center, where two Spanish sailboats were tied up. They were preparing for an attempt at setting a world record from New York to Barcelona. (http://www.bymnews.com/news/newsDetails.php?id=67581) At Battery Park, we marveled at the miles long queue of tourists waiting to take the excursion boat to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We did an end run around them and hopped on the ferry to Staten Island (free; 20 minutes).

   About two miles from the ferry landing in St. George, along Richmond Terrace, is Snug Harbor, an extremely interesting collection of buildings set in a spacious park. This was the site of a former residence for retired and infirm merchant seamen, and has now been converted into museums, a cultural center, and botanical garden. A delightful place with almost no one around. (http://www.snug-harbor.org/)

   We then bushwhacked across Staten Island, some parts of which are not very appealing, to the Verrazano Bridge. Unlike the day of the New York Marathon, pedestrians are not allowed on the bridge, so we had to take a bus to Bay Ridge.    

   We then walked many miles along 4th Avenue, stopping at a fine Mexican Restaurant for lunch. We then continued up to Brooklyn Heights, where we walked the Promenade, with its incredible views, and caught a subway back to Manhattan.

   Upper West Side. Our plan to visit the New York Historical Society, on West 77th St., came to grief after we got there and discovered that the main collections were closed for renovation. (I declined to pay the $18 to visit the temporary exposition on the Grateful Dead.)

   We ran for a half hour around Central Park, which was teeming with people celebrating the advent of fine weather. On Columbus Avenue, we ran into a Good Friday Procession of Spanish speaking Christians. One young man was playing Jesus, more or less a la Mel Gibson. Others, dressed as Roman soldiers, were pretending to beat him, several times pushing him to the sidewalk. An elderly woman walked a bit behind reading Scripture. And they say that Holy Week in Seville is weird!

   We walked back downtown from 59th St. and sidetracked off on the “Highline” at 20th Street. (This is a restored stretch of industrial elevated railroad, which runs through the heart of the Meatpacking District.) (http://www.thehighline.org/)

   We were getting hungry, but were disinclined to fight the crowds at Gansevoort Market. Once on Horatio St., wed lucked out at the El Faro, run by a couple of Spaniards whose families have been running the place since the 1920’s. Jose, the owner, claims that El Faro is the oldest Spanish restaurant in New York. Great paella, wine, and interesting conversation. (http://elfaronyc.com/page/o14v/A_70-Year_History.html)

   Red Hook. Red Hook is a hard-nose industrial/port district in southern Brooklyn. You can get there for free by taking the New York Water Taxi from Pier 11 (near Wall Street). This is a delicious ride, with amazing views of Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Statue of Liberty, and Governor’s Island. The boat leaves you off right in the front of the new IKEA store, which has more or less redirected the destiny of Red Hook—some say for the worse. We walked around the port area, where there are Civil War era warehouses and lots of industrial-maritime decay. We had key lime pie at Steve’s, on the waterfront, and then walked along Van Brunt Street, which seems to be the best the area has to offer. We got a bus back to downtown Brooklyn, walked around the Heights a bit, and then came back to Manhattan.

   Easter Sunday. The sun shone brightly, and it was very warm. Blanca chose to go to the Easter Parade and then to the Guggenheim. I, being more traditional, decided to go to church: another go-round with the Baptists at Canaan on 116th Street. ( http://www.cbccnyc.org/) As one would expect, things were hopping. The place was filled to the brim, and there was a long line for visitors. (I by-passed the line, paying the price of sitting through Bible Study for an hour before the main service.) Pastor Johnson was in his glory, and everyone seemed especially pumped up. The sermon was “Good News from the Graveyard” and featured an “Extra, Extra, Read all About It!” motif. (Three guesses what the news was!) One thing struck me particularly. During the latter part of the service there was a choreography number. Five women in diaphanous white appeared before a cross at the back of the stage, where they did their movements. But then a guy dressed as Jesus appeared from behind the curtain at the side of the cross. He lifted his hands in prayer and then began to circulate around the church. Some people appeared to fall on their knees and worship him; he patted the heads of children who adoringly surrounded him. Apart from the inherent bizarreness of the scene was the fact that “Jesus” was a white guy with dreadlocks! I must also confess that hearing the Disciples referred to as “the boys,” was a bit of a culture shock. Entre nous, however, I sort of liked it. But as before, everyone from the Church was extremely gracious and welcoming. I think that they are genuinely good people.

   Emerging into the blinding sunlight, I walked up towards 125th Street, where I found a completely empty African restaurant (“South Beach”), where I had jerk chicken, rice, and beans (for $6). I walked across 125th and stopped in to the Studio Museum of Harlem, where there is a moderately interesting collection of mostly very modern paintings and multi-media offerings. (http://www.studiomuseum.org/)

   Back in the Village, I noted a total absence of anything like a financial crisis. The restaurants were all jammed to the gills, with waiting lines at many. Streets like Bleecker were almost impassible. It looks like the Euro-tourists might well save N.Y.’s butt after all. That’s O.K.: they owe us.

"Like"

Towards the Archeology of a virus: a hermeneutics of (dis)like

     “Everything is what it is, and not another thing.” Bishop Butler

     I recently landed in New York in the midst of a severe epidemic. I had, of course—having served for 30 years as a schoolmaster--been conscious for a long time that it was in progress, but I was hardly prepared for the ubiquity and virulence of what I have witnessed. It’s Camus all over again: “La Peste.” I cannot pretend to provide a scientifically adequate description of the malady, which I happily leave in the competent hands of my medical colleagues.[1]

     But the essence of the matter is simple: the extremely frequent (quantify?) and apparently compulsive insertion of the word “like” into putative sentential units of spoken discourse. (As far as I have been able to discern, the written language remains virtually uncontaminated.)

     Just in case you don’t know what I’m referring to, here’s a sample:

     “It was, ya’ know, like yesterday, and we were, like, looking for, like, a t-shirt [rising inflection of the voice]? We, like found this, like, store, but, ya know, fuck, like the owner was, like, soo like, stupid, that he didn’t, like, have any? Like, it was so, like, fucking depressing, I, like, ya know, almost, like, barfed.”

     The disease seems to afflict primarily the young, although it has been proliferating for so long now that 30 year old arbitragers are as likely to exhibit symptoms as the pre-pubescent. (I suppose that the inception of the outbreak can be dated to more or less the same time in which nose-rings, purple hair, and tattoos, became de rigueur.)

     The disease seems equally to attack all social classes, races, sexual persuasions, and genders. I had originally thought that “higher” education provided the ideal environment for transmission, but I now see this is probably not the case. I’ve observed Ivy League graduates, recent Indian immigrants, and pretty much all the contributors to the New York ”melting pot” who have been infected. I’d also flirted with the idea that susceptibility was greater in women, perhaps as a manifestation of learned deference and fear of appearing overly assertive. But again, I now see that this is wrong. It is quite clear: no one is immune.

     The “like disease” is an example of what Richard Dawkins (THE SELFISH GENE) calls a “meme”: a unit of social behavior or belief that can be transmitted in a manner analogous to the inheritance of genes. (Other examples of memes would be the neurotic use of baseball caps (put backwards) and the custom of young black men wearing their pants down around their knees, exposing a large swath of designer underpants.)

     What is the causus infectionis? Perhaps part of the explication lies in its unquestionably attractive metaphysical presuppositions. Pace Butler, it seems true that everything is, in some respect or other, like other things. Bagels are like neutrinos, in that both are “material.” New York is like the Sahara, in that both are “big.”

     On the other hand, the phenomenon might well be a reflection of Postmodernist angst about truth. If you say that “X is, like Y,” perhaps you might evade the full intellectual responsibility implied in brazenly asserting that X is Y. (You never know if Derrida is lurking, disguised in a hooded sweatshirt, on 7th Avenue.) To be exposed to the afflicted is a severe trial on the patience of the healthy.                

     Yesterday, I was stuck behind two, otherwise attractive, young female carriers on crowded Canal Street and was forced, for at least a block, to witness their symptoms. I was more tempted to stop them and throw a tantrum than I had been earlier during the day when countless fellow pedestrians blew cigarette smoke in my face or let their dogs piss on my shoes. I’m glad I was able to maintain my discipline, for surely I would have received nothing more than a “Like, whatever,” for my pains.

     Last night, it happened again. I was pinioned, in an otherwise delightful Spanish restaurant in the Village, next to two Asian executive types, who drove me almost to the point of “going postal” with their moronic, high pitched, prattle.     

     How should we as a civilization respond? This is indeed a difficult problem, and I offer the following reflections only as tentative suggestions.

     Obviously the first step in confronting the epidemic is clearly and publicly to recognize its existence. Perhaps a major philanthropic foundation, e.g., one of those that power drill their dot.com addresses into our minds on NPR, could finance an epidemiological study.

     One potential line of cure would be Pavlovian. I’m sure it would be child’s play for some amateur inventor to design a device that would administer a mild electric shock in response to each superfluous “like.” More humanely, perhaps, the device could emit a “beep” (like those which mask profanity on the radio), although initially the din in public space would be a major concern.[2]

     Another tactic might be to enlist the resources of higher education. For example, universities and colleges could make it part of the admissions process that the applicant be able to conduct a five-minute conversation with a (trained) speech “counselor” without using “like” more than once. And/or, there might be an “exit exam” before graduation.

     These solutions, evidently, have severe drawbacks; one of the most consequential would be a massive curtailment of participation in higher education. Another is the unpleasant fallout for sons and daughters of the rich and powerful. In the end, the situation—as is the case with AIDS, global warming, and overpopulation--looks grim. The disease, like cholera and the mumps, is not responsive to reasoning. Pending the discovery of an effective vaccine, one must be content to protect oneself and to ensure that minor children in one’s care be vigilantly monitored. At the first signs of contagion, children should be quarantined and, if necessary, sent to a foreign country whose language is not Indo-European, for a protracted period of time. And perhaps it’s time to revive my dear mother’s frequently invoked home remedy: “You say that again, and I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap!”

[1] Perhaps a promising line of investigation would be to calculate a value for the likelihood of “like” occurring over a given temporal interval, e.g., 90% probability every 15 seconds (assuming, of course, constant rate of speech production). Levels of infection could then be diagnosed on a completely objective scale and treatment proportioned to the severity of the individual case. Other models, e.g., “thick” description, will commend themselves to non-quantitatively oriented investigators.

[2] As an illustration of the “beep” option—here used for the enlightenment of others rather than as a curative strategy--I offer the example of a You Tube clip of Carolyn Kennedy (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAgI4AS1NVg), who suffers from a very similar linguistic disability to the one under discussion here. Fairly obviously, the danger of infection by multiple speech impediments also lurks on the horizon. A hypothesis worth investigation is the suggestion that susceptibility to one virus increases the probability of contracting another, due to the general weakening of the linguistic immune system.

High on Meat

                                                  High on Meat[1]

   Today’s New York is a conglomeration of neighborhoods, almost all of them “revitalized” and “gentrified” avatars of their former selves. A prime example is Soho, 30 years ago a grungy district of factories and warehouses that was almost magically transformed first into an art colony and then into a chic center of yuppie chain stores and hip restaurants. But the same thing has happened in: Harlem, Washington Heights, the East Village, Tribeca, Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea and the Flatiron District. The paradigm: a formerly ugly, industrial, blighted, crime ridden slum has overnight morphed into an urban resort for the super-rich, who not only can afford to park there but have erected architecturally breathtaking living spaces out of former lofts and sweatshops. New York is fast becoming a city without a middle class: an uneven battleground between the desperately poor (most of whom has been displaced to Queens or New Jersey) and the ultra-rich.

    A fine example of the current trend is the so-called “Meat-Packing District” on the lower West Side, known as the Gansevoort Market historical district. Imagine a huge cast iron and brick warehouse, with a large loading dock covered by a metal awning. Trucks pull up alongside and proceed to disgorge countless carcasses of half the specimens on Noah’s Ark. The aroma is what one would expect. But then walk half a block and you encounter the most chicy-chicy boutique, windows filled with mannequins sporting the latest outrage for only $1000. Go a bit further, and you find yourself in front of the hippest (and most outrageously expensive) restaurant featured in Zigat. The smell of cooked filet mignon mixes somewhat tentatively with the smell of recently slaughtered filet mignon.

   During the years when I formerly lived in New York, this area was blighted jungle, largely frequented by junkies, prostitutes, and a throng of non-traditional sexual pleasure seekers. The stench of rotting piers mingled with that of the huge abattoirs.

   The “High Line.” During the 19th century, the slaughterhouses and markets were served by an elevated railroad line, at times running through the buildings themselves. After trucks replaced railroads as the major means of hauling food, the rail lines fell into decay, and we almost removed. By a great stroke of luck, a number of concerned residents started a move to preserve the stretches of elevated track that remained, by this time mostly overgrown with various lush weeds and flowers. The successful result was “the high Line,” which will eventually stretch north from Gansevoort Street to 30th. People will be able to ascend staircases and find themselves in an elevated park, with spectacular views of the Hudson River waterfront. The “boardwalk” winds along beside the old train rails, through buildings, and beside luxury condos. This was a great coup of urban planning, a classic piece of preservation that will provide years of pleasure a diverse number of grateful citizens. http://www.thehighline.org/

[1] I’ve recently been stimulated into thinking a bit about urban planning and related topics by Michael Sorkin’s Twenty Minutes in Manhattan (London: Reaktion Books, 2009). Sorkin is a Professor of Architecture, who lives in the West Village and bases his insightful discussion on his walks through the neighborhood.

Out and About--New York

    Our usual running route along the Hudson takes us by the World Financial Center, comprised of three huge skyscrapers and the Winter Garden. In front (“North Cove”) there’s a dock, where we noticed several sleek racing boats had been tied up. A little investigation revealed that there would be an attempt to set a sailing world record from New York to Barcelona and that the boats were in fact Spanish. Patriotic loyalty demanded that we present ourselves and offer our good wishes. We learned that they’d be leaving in several days, but that the exact time depended on the weather. During the next few days we passed by several more times. Finally, on our pass on Thursday morning, we saw a crowd and a television camera and determined that the boats would be off within the half hour. While we waited, we made friends with several Spaniards and the TV cameraman, who shot us cheering and assured us that we’d be on national news in Spain that evening. (It didn’t happen.) When the final whistle started the Estrella Damm and W Hotels were off toward open water, we jogged along the river toward the Battery, keeping the red sail of the Estrella in sight as they disappeared under the Verrazano Bridge. Follow the race at: http://forums.sailingworld.com/showthread.php?p=10120 http://www.sail-world.com/USA/New-York---Barcelona-Sailing-Record---Day-3-and-still-at-maximum-power/68387

   Once at the Battery, we zig-zagged through the streets of the Financial District. We did another walk around Ground Zero, which remains what’s it’s been since the fateful day: a huge hole filled with ant-like workers excavating endless piles of dirt and rubble. There’s a bridge over the site, which takes you into the World Financial Center. There are impressive views of Ground Zero as you cross from one building to another. We emerged near where we’d seen the boats depart and headed back uptown.

   Bedford Sty Aida’s Café de Java (“Brooklyn’s Own Coffee House”) on Van Nostrand Avenue.

   Crown Heights The Crown Heights neighborhood, which borders Bed-Sty is predominantly black and Hassidic. The latter are centered at the corner of Eastern Parkway and Kingman Blvd., where the Center of the Labavitch sect has its temple. Walking through the neighborhood is to enter a time warp: close your eyes and then reappear in 18th century Poland. We stopped in to a bagel deli right in the heart of the action. We were the only goyim in sight. See what’s it’s really like on this great video: http://video.about.com/brooklyn/Crown-Heights-Broooklyn-Tour.htm

   Astoria. Our previous visit to Queens didn’t include the northern neighbor, Astoria. It’s another extremely heterogeneous place, with a large representation of Greeks, Asians, and Hispanics. We took the subway to the end of the line. A few blocks to the west takes you to the a large park right under the Triborough Bridge (now known officially as the RFK Bridge). The views of Hells Gate Bridge and the Upper East Side of Manhattan are spectacular. We strolled back under the “El” and ate falafel at an Egyptian restaurant. We crossed on foot over the 59th Street Bridge, and then up along the Upper East Side into Yorkville. Blanca loved Carl Shurtz Park and Gracie Mansion, especially with the flowers in full bloom. I also took her past my old digs on East 88th Street as well as the site of my former hangout (“Eric”), now long gone, opposite Elaine’s.

   Back home, we opted for a delicious Spanish meal at El Paso.

   New Jersey What better way to spend a Sunday than to make a pilgrimage to New Jersey? We got on the PATH train at Christopher, and emerged, after passing Jersey City and Hoboken, in the extremely depressing industrial wasteland near Newark. We walked around Newark a bit and then over the bridge into Harrison and then back to the PATH train to Manhattan.

   Trump Hotel As we happened along Spring St, and Varick, we passed the huge Trump Hotel, which dominates the skyline of Soho and Tribeca and is the most obvious point of reference from our balcony. It had just opened, after a history of much controversy. Two dapperly uniformed young men stood guard outside and responded with unexpected warmth to my questions. They insisted on inviting us in and giving us a tour of the place.

   Antonio Munoz Molina is one of our favorite contemporary Spanish writers. He’s a member of the Real Academia de La Lengua, the board that watches over the purity of the language and makes sure that no rabble corrupts it. He is also the author of Ventanas de Manhattan, a wonderful, loving meditation on the city that clearly had captured his heart. The first chapter describes his anxiety-wrought wait for an unnamed woman with whom he’s set up a tryst. Last night, I read his wife’s (Elvira Lindo) piece on New York, which describes the meeting with Munoz Molina from her point of view. (It turns out that she was the woman coming to meet MM in New York.

    We’d seen Kenny Werner at the Blue Note when he’d accompanied Toots Thielmann’s. Now he was heading up a quintet with some stellar pals, and we couldn’t resist.

   The Crash. On every life a little rain must fall. We woke up to the realization that Blanca’s hard dribe had crashed, which was confirmed by the “Geek Squad” at Best Buy. After a considerable “Alphonse and Gaston” act, I came to the realization of what I would have to do.

   Malcolm Forbes The headquarters of Forbes Magazine is at 5th Avenue and 12th St., and it houses the personal collection of Malcolm Forbes. There are thousands of tin soldiers (from every army and war one could imagine); model boats; Monopoly sets from the inception of the game, in various languages. The highlight for me was an exposition of paintings on “Women Reading.” http://www.forbesgalleries.com/picturegallery.html

   “El Faro” Martin Talapia is a young Argentinean who’s here on an internship from his bankin Buenos Aires. He’s rented John’s studio apartment above us. We took him to dinner at El Faro, on Horatio Street, where we’ve made friend with the gregarious owner Jose. We gorged ourselves on the “mariscada” and “paella valenciana,” and it was a wonder that Martin was able to get up from the table and rush off to Queens for a soccer game.

   Grant’s Tomb. Seeking to verify who was in fact buried in Grant’s tomb, we went there. Yep, it was Grant all right. We even had a private tour by a Park Ranger. (The mausoleum is now a National Park site.) I raised the question of Grant’s drinking, and the Smokey assured me that revisionist Civil War scholarship had cast doubt on the claim that Grant was a “real alcoholic,” as opposed to a casual binge drinker. I let on that his having been a genuine connoisseur would not have necessarily  been disappointing for me.

   Bells. We wandered across the street to the cavernous Riverside Church. Blanca had told me that she wanted to see the stained glass and hear the famous carillon. When we entered, we discovered that shortly there would be a three-pronged presentation: the carillon, an organ recital, and the Festival of English Bells. I could tell that she very much wanted to stay, so I encouraged it, although I was about as enthusiastic as I might have been at the prospect of a Christmas Carol Service with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Boy was I wrong. The bell concert was an incredible treat. There were five separated bell choirs, about 60 people in all. Imagine the first few riffs of a Ravi Shankar morning raga: someone gently pouring out thousands of golden coins onto a metal surface. The melodious tinkling was magical.

   Ana Moura. Fado nearly wrecked Blanca and me. On our first trip together, many years ago now, we drove to Lisbon. Once ensconced in Estoril, we set out after dinner in search of an advertised fado joint. After a few minutes of walking on unpaved, unlighted paths, she in ultra high heels, and puffing as might be expected from her two pack a day cigarette habit, she started to kvetch. Whine, whine, whine. I thought to myself, “this ain’t gonna work.” But somehow, I forget the details, it did work. She quit smoking, traded her spike heels for running shoes, and, on the next trip to Tenerife, climed Mt. Teide, the highest point in Spain. Anyway, she hadn’t yet seen fado, so we  headed to see Ana Moura after a gargantuan meal at a diner on Broadway and 95th St. Some things don’t mix. (E.g., Haydn and hiphop.) Ana’s reditiioon of “Brown Sugar” was just unacceptable. (De gustibus dispuntandum est!)

   Museum of Jewish Heritage. This beautiful museum is located at the Battery, and there are many fantastic views of lower Manhattan bay. There are well put together exhibits detailing various aspects of Jewish life, especially as lived in Eastern Europe’s ghettos and sthels.

   Brooklyn Botanical Garden. This is a true gem, especially when the cherry blossoms are in full swing, as they were when we visited.

   Museum of the Chinese in America This is a nice small museum in the heart of Chinatown. It focuses on early Chinese migration and later on the treatment of the Chinese during the two world wars, the McCarthy era and into the present.

   Sorolla Hispanic Society I was able to wangle two invitations to the gala VIP opening of the refurbished Sorolla Wing at the Hispanic Society. The event was incredibly richly done, with several huge open bars and a small army of waiters circulating with delicious canapés. There was a carver slicing a huge Serrano ham. The new home for Sorolla’s “Vision of Spain,” is simply gorgeous. The paintings had been gone for a year, traveling to various cities in Spain, where they were a great hit. Sorolla is “the” Valencian painter, and Blanca fought back tears as she entered the new salon. The invitees were, on the whole, “gente guapa”; among them was Blanca, Sorolla’s granddaughter. Blanca introduced herself and explained that her grandfather had known hers. She was extremely warm and friendly and was obviously enjoying herself to the hilt.

Triangle Fire

                       Triangle/Bronx (3/25, 2010)

                   The Triangle Shirtwaist fire.

     On March 25, 1911, there occurred one of the most horrible industrial tragedies in American history: the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. One hundred and forty six workers, mostly young immigrant—primarily Jewish and Italian—women and girls were either cremated or jumped to their deaths when a fire broke out on the 9th and 10th floors of the Asch building, located on the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place, right off Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. The causalities occurred, despite the fact that the building was relatively fireproof, because the exit doors had been blocked by the factory’s owners. Some claim that this was to prevent workers from taking unauthorized breaks or smoking in the stairwells; today one speaker asserted that it was to prevent union organizers from entering the sweatshop. Whatever the reason for the illegal shut-in, the owners were never found guilty of any crime. The fire apparently started when a cigarette butt was tossed into a pile of remnants and spread rapidly. The terrified workers encountered the entrances blocked and some were crushed in the panic. The flames and heat forced many to jump out the windows; their broken bodies fell in heaps on the sidewalk below. In the aftermath of this horrifying catastrophe, there was an outcry for the implementation of reforms, especially in the garment industry. The unions were able to begin a process of ameliorating, at least to some extent, the appalling conditions under which thousands of primarily immigrant workers were forced to labor. Each year, there is a commemorative celebration of the event.

     We arrived on the scene just as the proceedings were getting underway. There were several NYFD trucks parked outside the building on Washington Place, and a temporary platform had been erected on Greene Street, where various dignitaries were already seated on the dais. A band sang songs recounting the tragedy, and there were a number of people circulating among the crowd holding sticks to which were affixed antique women’s blouses (“shirtwaists”) with the names of the victims. Some carried pictures.

     The event was sponsored by a federation of unions, and the main speakers were union officials. The Fire Commissioner and the City Comptroller also spoke. Relatives of the victims—there are no living survivors—were recognized, as were various school groups who were sporting red, plastic firefighter’s helmets. The Union rhetoric and the pleas for continued vigilance were moving. (Speakers also alluded to a recent garment factory fire in Bangladesh—which makes clothing for a local chain of stores—which killed twenty people. ) The images of women who had become living torches jumping to their deaths as helpless firemen looked on—their ladders could not reach the upper floors of the ten story building—were hard to suppress, even after we’d left and headed toward more pleasant activities. Bronx: “Little Italy.”

The Bronx.

   We hopped on the uptown Lexington avenue train and landed in the upper Bronx. We walked east on Fordam Rd., past Fordam University, to Arthur Avenue, which is the center of the main Italian neighborhood in the Bronx. Those in the know claim that it is the “real deal,” as opposed to the desiccated and touristy “Little Italy” on Mulberry and Mott Streets in lower Manhattan. I think this is correct. (At least the people we encountered walking around were speaking Italian!) We had a delicious lunch at Mario’s (claimed by some to have been where scenes from “The Godfather” were shot). The place was quite uncrowded, and the service, including the chef preparing Blanca’s flaming ricotta and brandy pasta at the table, was exceptional. (I had chocolate cheesecake for dessert.) Me and Julio down by the schoolyard. Once out of the restaurant, we walked west to the Grand Concourse, the huge boulevard that runs north-south through miles of the Bronx. Both sides of the avenue are lined with an endless string of bodegas, beauty parlors, restaurants, and churches. We passed a store front where a young Dominican was hand rolling redolent cigars. There are frequent signs announcing the imminent coming of Jesus. Outside one church, called “El Rey Ya Viene” (“The King is Coming Soon”), a spanking new white Humvee was conspicuously parked. On its window was attached a flamboyant sticker proclaiming the message. Sounds of meringue and charanga waft through the air, and we walked miles without hearing a word of English. Close your eyes and you’re in Santo Domingo!
   Back in our hood, we stopped at Bigelow’s pharmacy, where I stocked up on shaving supplies.       
  Sixth Avenue was a bustle with people just getting out of work. In sum, another fine day in the Big Apple.

Canaan Baptish Church

                      Canaan Baptist Church (Feb.28, 2010)

     Still reverberating from last Sunday’s spiritual extravaganza at the Shiloh Baptist Church in Harlem, we decided to give Jesus another go. I selected the Canaan Baptist Church at 116th and Lenox (Malcolm X).

     We arrived early, and I immediately made friends with a nattily dressed man guarding the entrance; he said he liked my tie and addressed me as “cousin.” That got us ushered in immediately—as his “special guests”--so that we could partake of the “Bible Study” before the main service at 11:00. The teacher stood in front of the congregation and read verses from scripture and then ventured explicacion du texte, often helped out by the participants. Let’s say that her exegetical principles would have put a big smile on Derrida’s face; she could also probably snag a tenured chair in Literary Theory at Yale.

     One woman ventured that she found it difficult to understand how Jesus and God were “the same.” I sympathized and was sorry that she backed down so easily in the face of the advice to read more scripture and meditate. As the Bible lesson draws to a close, people continue to file in for the main service.

     The assembled congregation provides an incredibly variegated visual spectacle. The sisters generally wear vibrantly colored dresses or robes, and almost all of them sport magnificent headgear (fur, feathers, turbans, etc.) The majority are on the large side, thus providing an extensive canvas for their display of scarlets, magentas, pinks, violets, and pistachios. I felt as if I’d been transported into the midst of a flock of exotic toucans, parrots, and peacocks. A number wore full length mink coats. Middle aged matrons mingled with wizened matriarchs, while scrubbed children in starched white shirts and pressed pants or skirts carried out their duties with precision and enthusiasm. Across the aisle from us there was a woman of absolutely classic beauty: tall, svelte, statuesque, perhaps 25. She was dressed in a bright green flowing African costume, complete with traditional headdress. On her narrow fingers gleamed long, thin rings made of precious stones. Her skin was café au lait. She emitted a warm sensuality that made it hard for both me and Blanca to take our eyes off her. Some of the men wore traditional western suits, others African robes and dashikis.

     There were several choirs, one of older people and also a “youth” group. In one of the letter’s numbers, a young woman with an operatic voice did a number—“I Am God”-- that was pure “soul.” One sees immediately how the church has been a laboratory for the production of generations of secular black singers and musicians.

     The Pastor is Rev. Dr. Thomas D. Johnson, Sr. He is wearing a vibrant yellow embroidered African ensemble, complete with matching fez type beanie. He alternates the direction of the proceedings with a number of others, who speak about Black History Month, read announcements, recite Scripture, and perform various ceremonial offices. Several members receive recognition for community service. The program contains a list of sick and shut in parishioners as well as families in mourning.

     The sermon is entitled “under the shadow of God’s wing.” The main conceit here is God as a mother hen, spreading her wings to protect her “chicklets” (“or whatever you want to call them”). Somehow, in a kind of rhetorical free fall, the theme of wings gets Pastor Johnson onto a jet plane, struggling to take off and then beset by turbulence. But not to worry; Jesus is the pilot. The flow of the words coheres solely via images; there is no attempt at providing logical connections. Whatever conviction is produced comes from the transfer of pure emotion rather than by the giving of reasons. The content remains bewilderingly indeterminate. (I found myself admiring the signing translators standing dutifully beside the preacher. They reminded me of the poor young woman who was assigned to my logic class for several weeks. I will never forget her attempting to render, with great animation and lightning speed, my exposition of the Ontological Argument into deft movements of arms and fingers. I seriously doubt whether she succeeded, and I will never know, since the student she was helping dropped the class soon afterward.)

     Johnson is a masterly speaker. He modulates from almost a whisper to a stentorian shout, his rhythm often approximating that of a song or chant. His voice is his instrument, played confidently with all the virtuosity of Miles Davis’ trumpet, Coltrane’s sax, or Art Tatum’s piano. He knows he holds his audience completely in thrall, a fact attested by the frequent cries of “amen,” “yes,” and “hallelujah.” The Pastor reminded me of a guy I used to go and see in Washington Square Park when I lived on 20th Street many years ago. He showed up every Sunday, and he usually gave a harangue, standing up on the top of a bench, that would last at least an hour. I never had the slightest idea what he said; I have no clue what his “position” was. (The only theme that seemed to be constant from week to week was an impassioned denunciation of “rubber titties.” But his delivery was mesmerizing; I felt as if I could listen to him for ever.

     I was glad to discover that the congregation included others beside the “poor in spirit.” The agenda was interrupted: “will the owner of a white Mercedes, license XXX, please move the vehicle.”

     Late in the service, the visitors were recognized. Perhaps 10 pasty faced tourists were asked to stand (as if we didn’t already stand out enough!), and several congregants came over and warmly shook our hands. Their welcome was totally sincere. One of the “greeters” was an older man who sat right behind us and continually shouted fortissimo: “Hallelujah, glory, Jesus I love you.” After the sermon came the benediction: “Keep the faith, baby!” As things wound down, the “deacons” and other persons of note formed a procession that circled the auditorium, accompanied by a rousing chorus and clapping hands.

     As we left, people greeted us and smiled. After the two hour service, we were hungry and, after being discouraged by crowds at Amy Ruth’s and Sylvia’s, we walked to 125th street and found Manna’s Soul Food Restaurant, where we had delicious southern style buffet.

     We arrived home in a daze, our senses having had a long and exhausting workout. But it had been one of the most amazing spectacles I’ve ever been privileged to witness, and I know that we’ll go back again. Hallelujah! Yes!