This item appeared in the Montana Craigslist under resumes, proving that youthful entrepreneurship is alive and well in the American west. I share it unedited:
RANCH EXTERMINATOR
"I only exterminate with shotguns and rifles so you might want to have some land. anything from gophers to coyotos. ill take care of it! i only can do this on weekends untill the week of june 7th, after that full time anytime.
-my charges is just a flat fee of 35.00$ NOTE: not a 100% chance of geting your request on that day, but free the untill i get the request.
-please know that i am only 14yrs. old but i have done this for almost 2yrs. now and preety knowledgable about tracking and exterminating the pests.
-also know i will not go past three folks or Livingston."
This youngster can’t drive himself, can’t work weekdays until school’s out, and is geographically confined (probably because Dad won’t spring for long-distance gas money). But he is learning a trade still valued on the plains and prairies. One can almost picture a young Wm. H. Bonney placing a similar ad in the Wichita, KS Gazette in the year 1863.
And yes, I note the inadequacies in spelling, punctuation, and grammar. But it’s clear he wrote this himself without parental assistance. I grow weary of Letters to the Editor written by nine-year olds that appear to have graduated from the Columbia School of Journalism. Out here kids are encouraged to go it on their own, blemishes and all.
##########
The London Daily Mail reports that last year some 43,576 British patients were kept waiting for longer than one hour in ambulances outside emergency rooms before being taken inside. It seems the British Government instituted a rule requiring that patients entering emergency rooms be seen within 4 hours, and in busy periods the bureaucratic dilemma is solved by leaving them outside so the 4-hour clock wouldn’t start running. Lest you smirk, such scenarios may soon become commonplace in a hospital near you. One would hope that Michael Moore doesn’t fall ill in the English capital.
##########
Billy Hamill (NY sportswriter Pete’s father) thought that the only unforgivable sin was self pity. I don’t know if it’s the only one, but it has definitely become fashionable to hoard one’s joy while sharing pain with all and sundry. I recall a time when the exact opposite was true. But now, grace of the ever-expanding psycho-drama we call modern living, we are told it is OK, we are encouraged, to share our misery, the way folks used to share fried chicken on long train rides across the plains. What good is pain if it can’t be used to elicit a little sympathy.
I was on a flight some time ago when my “seatmate” (there was a time when they were just passengers and not “mates”) volunteered that he was traveling to see his grown children to inform them that his wife, their mother, was having an extramarital affair. Just what the children need, I thought, and I’m sure he must now feel so much better that he has spread the grief around a bit.
And because modern life cannot exist without an equal and opposite reaction (society catching up with physics), I read recently of a man who died painfully of cancer, yet smiled to the end so as not to burden his family. But at the funeral he was roundly faulted for not sharing his last days with them “honestly and openly.” My Nana often said that she “couldn’t win for trying,” and I think she was right.
##########
I am awash in spam, typically the recipient of several hundred a day, offering breast enhancement, breast reduction, adjustment of other anatomical components, and so much more. But I also note that the flow diminishes dramatically on weekends. Even the idiots and scammers require a day of rest it seems.
##########
I mentioned that I now have a library card. I don’t recall hitherto having set foot inside one of these institutions since college, save several Saturday morning story sessions with my children when they were toddlers.
In college I believed the library existed for the purpose of securing Saturday night dates. I recall that on Mondays and Tuesdays the place was a ghost town. Volume picked up on Wednesday, and by Thursday it was beehive, every nook and straightback occupied (these were the days before Barkaloungers were installed at public expense to assist digestion of the written word).
Stacks were clogged with anticipation accompanied by furtive glances, shy smiles, and quiet whispers. This was, after all, the 1960s, when “hooking-up” meant a soda in the Student Union, not a liaison necessitating the purchase of latex products. Fridays radiated desperation, with wild-eyed singles plowing ground well thinned by previous traffic. Saturdays were almost too depressing to bare, as well I know, having spent all too many post-football late afternoons in those grey and desolate places, hope trumping reality.
##########
Spring snow again outside my window. Grey clouds 10 minutes ago, and now the ground is covered. What folks in Washington, DC would call a blizzard, sending thousands of bureaucrats scurrying for their cars to light out before the one inch mark and chaos. I like snow. I’ve often thought that snow in our nation’s capital is God’s way of slowing down the bureaucracy and keeping it from spinning out of control.
##########
Bloggers often end their posts with cute taglines. While I’m not into cute, I have stumbled across metaphors submitted by English teachers, taken from actual high school student essays. I will share one at the end of each forthcoming post. Remember, these are high school essays.
“He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.”
…..the adventure continues…..
PS: Because I have elected not to foist these posts on anyone unannounced, and because they appear sporatically, I send a short notice "New Post on My Blog" to interested followers. To be added to or subtracted from these notices, send request to: solovoyager@gmail.com
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
MONTANA 001
The peripatetic scramble subsides for the moment, as I curl up at the foot of the Montana Bridger mountains. Although it should be known that I have received a tentative cat-sitting offer in Paris for mid-April, confirming my suspicion that if one hangs about long enough a suitable métier might just pop into view.
The most dispiriting news is that on return from France my cheese was confiscated, not by the ever-vigilant U. S. Agriculture police and their olfactorilly-advanced canines, but by French security. It seems in France fromage falls into the “liquids and gels” category, particularly, I suspect, if your larder is bare and you don’t want to be inconvenienced by a detour to the fromagerie on the way home from security detail.
Protestation was (predictably) to no avail, and a request to speak to a supervisor was met with a blunt and smirky “non.” I then offered my bagette to M. le Cheese Police, reasoning that he could hardly enjoy the dairy without the wheat. “Non, zees cheese goes wis ze garbage,” he replies, and I respond “yes, I know, that is why I wanted you to have the bread.”
His English was quite good, advanced enough in fact to catch the idiomatic slur, and I trundled off in haste lest La Belle France insist on extending my stay under circumstances far less attractive than the Marais from which I had just departed. But I fret over the dangerously slipshod application of French security measures, considering that I have passed unmolested with similar contraband at least a half dozen times in the past several years (I was assured that the “no cheese” policy had been in force “for many years”).
#####
I had occasion to pass several hours today in the local community hospital. I consider it an odd phenomenon that in our citadels of wellness and healing the majority of its practitioners and staff are overweight, some grossly, others morbidly. Not to mention those clothed in whites or scrubs huddled in freezing doorways puffing on Sir Walter Raleigh’s gift to England and all the civilized world. I am certain that this observation has offended one or more of you, and so I add my standard disclaimer “present company excepted.”
#####
I am attempting a noble but daunting experiment. My current digs are tubeless, devoid of the vast electronic wasteland. I know that Blitzer, Cooper, Matthews, O’Reilly, Olberman, et al will survive nicely in my absence. Less certain is how this former news junkie will fare. One day at a time…
I do have a new library card, an interesting experience for one (correctly) described as a “reluctant reader.” But my lack of literary knowledge has already gotten me into trouble. Thinking I was checking out “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” I somehow ended up with “Running with Scissors.” I am now faced with the task of inventing a new English-language word to describe the book. All suggestions appreciated.
#####
I attended (but did not participate in: I'm working at getting back into shape) a local 10-k race this past Saturday. It highlighted yet another difference between the civilized Coasts and the wild west. All the races I have attended (mostly in the east) were surrounded by masses of flags, cones, police cars re-directing traffic, ambulances at critical junctures, water stations, mile markers, communications vehicles ready to detail any possible disaster, and so much more.
This event was run partly on snowy, muddy trails, with not a single official vehicle or personage in sight. A teenage volunteer with a ratty handheld “Stop” sign attempted (mostly without success) to limit traffic near the finish, and small children ran into the path of exhausted runners to cheer on Mom or Dad in their final 50 paces.
Oh, and the race ended at a pub. Each runner got a free beer. I love this place.
…the adventure proceeds apace…
The most dispiriting news is that on return from France my cheese was confiscated, not by the ever-vigilant U. S. Agriculture police and their olfactorilly-advanced canines, but by French security. It seems in France fromage falls into the “liquids and gels” category, particularly, I suspect, if your larder is bare and you don’t want to be inconvenienced by a detour to the fromagerie on the way home from security detail.
Protestation was (predictably) to no avail, and a request to speak to a supervisor was met with a blunt and smirky “non.” I then offered my bagette to M. le Cheese Police, reasoning that he could hardly enjoy the dairy without the wheat. “Non, zees cheese goes wis ze garbage,” he replies, and I respond “yes, I know, that is why I wanted you to have the bread.”
His English was quite good, advanced enough in fact to catch the idiomatic slur, and I trundled off in haste lest La Belle France insist on extending my stay under circumstances far less attractive than the Marais from which I had just departed. But I fret over the dangerously slipshod application of French security measures, considering that I have passed unmolested with similar contraband at least a half dozen times in the past several years (I was assured that the “no cheese” policy had been in force “for many years”).
#####
I had occasion to pass several hours today in the local community hospital. I consider it an odd phenomenon that in our citadels of wellness and healing the majority of its practitioners and staff are overweight, some grossly, others morbidly. Not to mention those clothed in whites or scrubs huddled in freezing doorways puffing on Sir Walter Raleigh’s gift to England and all the civilized world. I am certain that this observation has offended one or more of you, and so I add my standard disclaimer “present company excepted.”
#####
I am attempting a noble but daunting experiment. My current digs are tubeless, devoid of the vast electronic wasteland. I know that Blitzer, Cooper, Matthews, O’Reilly, Olberman, et al will survive nicely in my absence. Less certain is how this former news junkie will fare. One day at a time…
I do have a new library card, an interesting experience for one (correctly) described as a “reluctant reader.” But my lack of literary knowledge has already gotten me into trouble. Thinking I was checking out “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” I somehow ended up with “Running with Scissors.” I am now faced with the task of inventing a new English-language word to describe the book. All suggestions appreciated.
#####
I attended (but did not participate in: I'm working at getting back into shape) a local 10-k race this past Saturday. It highlighted yet another difference between the civilized Coasts and the wild west. All the races I have attended (mostly in the east) were surrounded by masses of flags, cones, police cars re-directing traffic, ambulances at critical junctures, water stations, mile markers, communications vehicles ready to detail any possible disaster, and so much more.
This event was run partly on snowy, muddy trails, with not a single official vehicle or personage in sight. A teenage volunteer with a ratty handheld “Stop” sign attempted (mostly without success) to limit traffic near the finish, and small children ran into the path of exhausted runners to cheer on Mom or Dad in their final 50 paces.
Oh, and the race ended at a pub. Each runner got a free beer. I love this place.
…the adventure proceeds apace…
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
French Letters 004
Back from the USA as I continue my ping-pong volley across the Atlantic. Montana to Virginia to Paris in 1½ giant steps, trying not to give the appearance of a bon vivant, but neither a mechant vivant.
Back to the Marais I left less than a month ago, to take advantage of a friend’s generosity before her apartment is rented for the coming year. Back, it seems, to where I left off weather-wise, a steady drizzle and bone-numbing cold. The kind of day that makes you wish you were in London! The kind of day where even reprobates like myself carry, and use, an umbrella. The kind of day that gives you an excuse to have a glass of wine at 10am, returning from the marche bedraggled, besodden (not yet besotted), yet fortified with brie, bleu d’Auvergne, several odd-shaped chevres, a lettuce for one Euro, twice the size of the one at the Leesburg Farmer’s Market that cost $5.50, assorted olives, farm butter cut from a 20 lb. block, walnuts for the salad, and a tradition noix, a bagette festooned with nuts.
For several decades and more the friend mentioned above has with exceptional generosity made various digs around the city available for visits of varying length. I first signed on as a cat-sitter, but when Petit Gris and Chat Botte departed for their grande somme in that great sandbox in the sky, I became just a sitter.
This friend has asked nothing in return save the occasional request to transport small items unavailable in France. In earlier days when our homeland didn’t require securing, this was a chore of no moment, but now with miscellaneous agents rummaging through tightly packed valises, how does one explain 5 changes of underwear and 15 packages of Butter Lover’s popcorn? Bounce (the stuff women put in dryer’s to make freshly laundered clothing…bounce?...) caused a raised eyebrow or two in voyages past. Yet miraculously this trip the 3 pounds of bacon and two loaves of raison bread did not set off bells at either end of the trip. I had visions of replacing the infamous Richard Reid – the shoe bomber -- as the diabolical chemist who discovered the volatile connection between pig and raison, and terrorized the civilized world therewith.
I was treated to one mild day where the sun considered making an appearance then demurred. Then we were back to damp and dank. Stayed on the 96 bus past St. Germain des Pres when drizzle turned to serious rain. Near Montparnasse a group of 8 Spanish teenage lasses (i.e. teenage lasses speaking Spanish) ascended, surrounding me with intermittent giggles and comments on my hat (which Europeans appear to associate with gangsterism).
As I was clearly the center of attention, I felt the need to do something, and so began humming, semi soto voce the Beatles “Yellow Submarine,” quite uncharacteristic for one who eschews public displays of anything. Soon they were all in the act (much louder than I), including an enthusiastic 6-year old several rows away, whose mortified grandma tried unsuccessfully to shush him into silence. It sounded something like “dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine, dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine"...reprise.
As the bus approached its terminus at Montparnasse and I descended, the happy chorus followed, like nubile serpents trailing St. Patrick out of Dublin. For a moment I wondered whether I had acquired this appendage for some extended period, but the sound dwindled, and as I turned they were waving good-bye. Not only in Paris, but not too often elsewhere.
Today snow is predicted, but the sun is out casting brilliance and warmth across the Marais. But wait, I see a cloud...it's now snowing, I swear...a full 10 minutes from sunshine to neige.
…the adventure continues…
Back to the Marais I left less than a month ago, to take advantage of a friend’s generosity before her apartment is rented for the coming year. Back, it seems, to where I left off weather-wise, a steady drizzle and bone-numbing cold. The kind of day that makes you wish you were in London! The kind of day where even reprobates like myself carry, and use, an umbrella. The kind of day that gives you an excuse to have a glass of wine at 10am, returning from the marche bedraggled, besodden (not yet besotted), yet fortified with brie, bleu d’Auvergne, several odd-shaped chevres, a lettuce for one Euro, twice the size of the one at the Leesburg Farmer’s Market that cost $5.50, assorted olives, farm butter cut from a 20 lb. block, walnuts for the salad, and a tradition noix, a bagette festooned with nuts.
For several decades and more the friend mentioned above has with exceptional generosity made various digs around the city available for visits of varying length. I first signed on as a cat-sitter, but when Petit Gris and Chat Botte departed for their grande somme in that great sandbox in the sky, I became just a sitter.
This friend has asked nothing in return save the occasional request to transport small items unavailable in France. In earlier days when our homeland didn’t require securing, this was a chore of no moment, but now with miscellaneous agents rummaging through tightly packed valises, how does one explain 5 changes of underwear and 15 packages of Butter Lover’s popcorn? Bounce (the stuff women put in dryer’s to make freshly laundered clothing…bounce?...) caused a raised eyebrow or two in voyages past. Yet miraculously this trip the 3 pounds of bacon and two loaves of raison bread did not set off bells at either end of the trip. I had visions of replacing the infamous Richard Reid – the shoe bomber -- as the diabolical chemist who discovered the volatile connection between pig and raison, and terrorized the civilized world therewith.
I was treated to one mild day where the sun considered making an appearance then demurred. Then we were back to damp and dank. Stayed on the 96 bus past St. Germain des Pres when drizzle turned to serious rain. Near Montparnasse a group of 8 Spanish teenage lasses (i.e. teenage lasses speaking Spanish) ascended, surrounding me with intermittent giggles and comments on my hat (which Europeans appear to associate with gangsterism).
As I was clearly the center of attention, I felt the need to do something, and so began humming, semi soto voce the Beatles “Yellow Submarine,” quite uncharacteristic for one who eschews public displays of anything. Soon they were all in the act (much louder than I), including an enthusiastic 6-year old several rows away, whose mortified grandma tried unsuccessfully to shush him into silence. It sounded something like “dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine, dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine"...reprise.
As the bus approached its terminus at Montparnasse and I descended, the happy chorus followed, like nubile serpents trailing St. Patrick out of Dublin. For a moment I wondered whether I had acquired this appendage for some extended period, but the sound dwindled, and as I turned they were waving good-bye. Not only in Paris, but not too often elsewhere.
Today snow is predicted, but the sun is out casting brilliance and warmth across the Marais. But wait, I see a cloud...it's now snowing, I swear...a full 10 minutes from sunshine to neige.
…the adventure continues…
Sunday, February 24, 2008
On the road 002
If the spirit of the west is disappearing, it has not vanished. A chili cook-off led us to the Bozeman, Montana Fairgrounds, which included the additional offerings of a livestock sale, craft fair, and local adult ice hockey.
All very different from more civilized events in the sophisticated corners of our great land. Out here everyone gets to play. Four dollars a head buys it all: everyone gets to taste some 40 pots of chili and vote (in California, judges decide for us); you don’t need a bidding paddle to enter the livestock sale (one of our group pointed toward the auctioneer and almost bought a stud horse); and several hundred people sit respectfully as a dozen “youngins” nervously clutch their prize chickens and answer serious questions on the care and feeding of same. Several were hardly bigger than the animals they so proudly displayed. I wonder if they even know of Brittney and Paris; when there are stalls to muck there is less time for TV.
Many of the men wear hats similar to mine, all brim, no bill, the kind that people in the east smirk at and mock. Even the jalapeno pepper eating contest was fun to watch. No gorging on hot dogs or cramming lemon meringue down the pie-hole, just a dozen college kids trying to win dinners for their girlfriends. Good fun, clean fun. In the same way that comedians like Dick Van Dyke made us laugh without being rude, crude, disgusting, or vicious, so have these folk found ways to enjoy life without resorting to excess. They’re not boisterous, they don’t laugh much, but they are content.
The day ended in a geothermal hot spring high in the mountains off a road half-way to Yellowstone. In return for promising not to pee in the pool, you are allowed to relax waist-deep in steaming water, sip adult beverages and gaze at crystal clear sky and stunningly bright stars as evening falls. The kind of day that leaves a smile on your face as you slip into contented slumber.
Sunday morning was reserved for walking down main street Bozeman in bright sunlight and 20 degree temperatures. Families, teens, collegegeans, all out for a stroll and possibly a light brunch. Simple, unadorned, and glorious.
Sitting recently in a doctor’s office, I became aware of a previously unheralded benefit of the chronic tardiness of the medical profession. Perusing 3 to 6 month old news magazines, I was told how McCain was dead, the Clinton juggernaut was about to make mincemeat of Obama, and a plethora of startling predictions that turned out so incorrect as to be snickerfodder. But the most telling observation was how forcefully the pundits put forth their prognostications. Few maybes and hardly a perhaps. And, today, of course, these same geniuses, with nary a guilty glance rearward, are bloviating a new batch of prophesy with the ring of absolute certitude. That we rush to consume their drivel says perhaps more about us than them.
Walking across the sprawling Montana State U. campus today, I was struck by how many of the students had cell phones glued to their ears. In a totally unscientific poll I observed the next 20 that passed me by, and 9 were in conversation.
I remember clearly my grandparent’s phone, unique such that neighbors asked to make use of it for a variety of (mostly) imagined life and death communications. Black, heavy, no dial. You lift the receiver, stare into it for a second or two, depress the button several times, and wait. “Good evening, Hilda, this is Harry,” announced my grandfather in an exaggerated tone of seriousness. “No, Harry from 3rd Street. Can you connect me with George?” “No, George from Walnut St.” “Thank you Hilde. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Long distance calls could take hours as mysterious “circuits” were untied. You place the call then sit and stare at the receiver, only to jump when the loud ring announced a connection.
Bill Gates has lamented that the pace of technology proceeds agonizingly slow. Well, it is clipping along quite fast enough for me, thank you very much.
Departing Montana, and next time I will be somewhere else.
the adventure continues…
All very different from more civilized events in the sophisticated corners of our great land. Out here everyone gets to play. Four dollars a head buys it all: everyone gets to taste some 40 pots of chili and vote (in California, judges decide for us); you don’t need a bidding paddle to enter the livestock sale (one of our group pointed toward the auctioneer and almost bought a stud horse); and several hundred people sit respectfully as a dozen “youngins” nervously clutch their prize chickens and answer serious questions on the care and feeding of same. Several were hardly bigger than the animals they so proudly displayed. I wonder if they even know of Brittney and Paris; when there are stalls to muck there is less time for TV.
Many of the men wear hats similar to mine, all brim, no bill, the kind that people in the east smirk at and mock. Even the jalapeno pepper eating contest was fun to watch. No gorging on hot dogs or cramming lemon meringue down the pie-hole, just a dozen college kids trying to win dinners for their girlfriends. Good fun, clean fun. In the same way that comedians like Dick Van Dyke made us laugh without being rude, crude, disgusting, or vicious, so have these folk found ways to enjoy life without resorting to excess. They’re not boisterous, they don’t laugh much, but they are content.
The day ended in a geothermal hot spring high in the mountains off a road half-way to Yellowstone. In return for promising not to pee in the pool, you are allowed to relax waist-deep in steaming water, sip adult beverages and gaze at crystal clear sky and stunningly bright stars as evening falls. The kind of day that leaves a smile on your face as you slip into contented slumber.
Sunday morning was reserved for walking down main street Bozeman in bright sunlight and 20 degree temperatures. Families, teens, collegegeans, all out for a stroll and possibly a light brunch. Simple, unadorned, and glorious.
Sitting recently in a doctor’s office, I became aware of a previously unheralded benefit of the chronic tardiness of the medical profession. Perusing 3 to 6 month old news magazines, I was told how McCain was dead, the Clinton juggernaut was about to make mincemeat of Obama, and a plethora of startling predictions that turned out so incorrect as to be snickerfodder. But the most telling observation was how forcefully the pundits put forth their prognostications. Few maybes and hardly a perhaps. And, today, of course, these same geniuses, with nary a guilty glance rearward, are bloviating a new batch of prophesy with the ring of absolute certitude. That we rush to consume their drivel says perhaps more about us than them.
Walking across the sprawling Montana State U. campus today, I was struck by how many of the students had cell phones glued to their ears. In a totally unscientific poll I observed the next 20 that passed me by, and 9 were in conversation.
I remember clearly my grandparent’s phone, unique such that neighbors asked to make use of it for a variety of (mostly) imagined life and death communications. Black, heavy, no dial. You lift the receiver, stare into it for a second or two, depress the button several times, and wait. “Good evening, Hilda, this is Harry,” announced my grandfather in an exaggerated tone of seriousness. “No, Harry from 3rd Street. Can you connect me with George?” “No, George from Walnut St.” “Thank you Hilde. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Long distance calls could take hours as mysterious “circuits” were untied. You place the call then sit and stare at the receiver, only to jump when the loud ring announced a connection.
Bill Gates has lamented that the pace of technology proceeds agonizingly slow. Well, it is clipping along quite fast enough for me, thank you very much.
Departing Montana, and next time I will be somewhere else.
the adventure continues…
Friday, February 15, 2008
On the Road 001
An intermittent vegetative state has descended, resulting in a dearth of fecundity in the blog department. Several restful but uneventful days in Virginia morphed into a hectic departure in advance of impending weather. A marathon 16-hour drive ended in Topeka, KS, where I had the serendipitous fortune to dine in a sports bar at the exact moment the Kansas State Jayhawk basketball team (main campus in Topeka) was shellacking the University of Kansas for the first time since John Quincy Adams ascended to the presidency.
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
French Letters 003
Here I sit in the departure lounge of Roissy Charles deGaulle airport Terminal One. It’s a bit surreal to recall that when I first traveled to Paris circa 1969, both Dulles airport and Roissy were sparkling new facilities, the pride of 2 nations. Now both are in the midst of massive upgrades and refurbishment, although Dulles is simply expanding, while Roissy, in perhaps an attempt to separate the elite from the savages, has build new terminals for Air France and it’s airborne buddies.
Last summer the city of Paris purchased and installed some 20,000 bicycles, each locked into racks and extricable with a credit card. It was originally speculated to be part of the Mayor’s plan to thin the population, but so far there has been only one reported death, and the official Velib website notes only that “the number of bicycles used in Paris is growing constantly while the number of bicycle accidents is remaining stable.” But I see several heart-stopping near-misses each day, and notice that the hair of many city bus drivers has gone completely white. I also observe that racks at the high points of the city are often empty while those in the low areas are overflowing. Could our fitness-focused friends be coasting downhill and riding the Metro back up?
The worldwide press is often breathless in its haste to skewer big business, and French journalists enthusiastically hop the bandwagon. My TV screen just shrieked “(has Capitalism gone crazy?) and of course there is a rush to blame the U. S. (that Bush guy again) for the current crise economique. But remember that the first casualties of the sub-prime debacle were 2 hedge funds run by BNP Parisbas, so there’s enough blame to go around. And now a commentator has ascribed the 6 billion Euro fraude at Societe General as “the greed of capitalism.” Interesting that the idiot (genius??) who masterminded this stood not to personally gain a sou. It appears more to have been a game of outsmarting the bureaucracy, which he certainly did for a long time.
Just to show I had no hard feelings, I returned to the Taverne on St. Germain des Pres where I got food poisoning 2 years ago. It was the occasion of a delightful long lunch sitting inside a glass-enclosed porch, watching the city on parade. Two of us ate totally different meals, not even tasting the other’s selection, and both came down with serious gastric distress. I spent most of the next 3 days in the smallest room of the apartment where we stayed. On this visit I had a beer. It tasted a bit flat.
When I first came to France so many years ago I was horrified to find that it would take 6 to 18 months to get a phone installed. Friends at the Embassy were aghast and envious that the apartment I finally rented came with a working phone. No matter that I had no one to call, the phone was prestige, like driving a Mercedes.
Today everyone has a “mobile,” old ladies on the bus who jump and fumble when it rings, and speak loudly “j’ecoute, j’ecoute” (I hear you, I’m listening), and teenage girls trading secrets and giggling, so consumed with their conversations that they bump into fellow pedestrians. Last evening in a small restaurant I saw a young couple dreamily gazing into each others eyes, she massaging his arm sensually with one hand while holding her mobile in the other, carrying on a muted conversation with her cinq a sept perhaps?? (old fashioned slang for the amorous carryings-on of (usually men) in the period after work (cinq or 5pm, and sept, 7pm), after which they return to their wives and children.
Several days ago I gave directions to a Frenchman. It felt so good, and perhaps marked a watershed in my 4 decade struggle with the language. Of course the poor fellow may still be walking in circles, but I think I did him right. Yesterday I watched a young Japanese girl with a suitcase twice her size staring at a large bus and Metro map. She seemed frozen, transfixed, and although it is not my style to become involved in the affairs of strangers, I approached with a tentative “ou allez vous?” (where do you want to go). As my Japanese is limited to ordering beer (beer-u) she pointed to a far-out Metro stop. Luckily the #11 line was only 2 blocks away. I escorted her to much bowing and what I took to be enormous thanks and immense relief. It occurred to me that in the years I visited and lived in Paris as a single man, not a single attractive young female required my assistance.
The next time we meet I will be somewhere else…the adventure continues…
Last summer the city of Paris purchased and installed some 20,000 bicycles, each locked into racks and extricable with a credit card. It was originally speculated to be part of the Mayor’s plan to thin the population, but so far there has been only one reported death, and the official Velib website notes only that “the number of bicycles used in Paris is growing constantly while the number of bicycle accidents is remaining stable.” But I see several heart-stopping near-misses each day, and notice that the hair of many city bus drivers has gone completely white. I also observe that racks at the high points of the city are often empty while those in the low areas are overflowing. Could our fitness-focused friends be coasting downhill and riding the Metro back up?
The worldwide press is often breathless in its haste to skewer big business, and French journalists enthusiastically hop the bandwagon. My TV screen just shrieked “(has Capitalism gone crazy?) and of course there is a rush to blame the U. S. (that Bush guy again) for the current crise economique. But remember that the first casualties of the sub-prime debacle were 2 hedge funds run by BNP Parisbas, so there’s enough blame to go around. And now a commentator has ascribed the 6 billion Euro fraude at Societe General as “the greed of capitalism.” Interesting that the idiot (genius??) who masterminded this stood not to personally gain a sou. It appears more to have been a game of outsmarting the bureaucracy, which he certainly did for a long time.
Just to show I had no hard feelings, I returned to the Taverne on St. Germain des Pres where I got food poisoning 2 years ago. It was the occasion of a delightful long lunch sitting inside a glass-enclosed porch, watching the city on parade. Two of us ate totally different meals, not even tasting the other’s selection, and both came down with serious gastric distress. I spent most of the next 3 days in the smallest room of the apartment where we stayed. On this visit I had a beer. It tasted a bit flat.
When I first came to France so many years ago I was horrified to find that it would take 6 to 18 months to get a phone installed. Friends at the Embassy were aghast and envious that the apartment I finally rented came with a working phone. No matter that I had no one to call, the phone was prestige, like driving a Mercedes.
Today everyone has a “mobile,” old ladies on the bus who jump and fumble when it rings, and speak loudly “j’ecoute, j’ecoute” (I hear you, I’m listening), and teenage girls trading secrets and giggling, so consumed with their conversations that they bump into fellow pedestrians. Last evening in a small restaurant I saw a young couple dreamily gazing into each others eyes, she massaging his arm sensually with one hand while holding her mobile in the other, carrying on a muted conversation with her cinq a sept perhaps?? (old fashioned slang for the amorous carryings-on of (usually men) in the period after work (cinq or 5pm, and sept, 7pm), after which they return to their wives and children.
Several days ago I gave directions to a Frenchman. It felt so good, and perhaps marked a watershed in my 4 decade struggle with the language. Of course the poor fellow may still be walking in circles, but I think I did him right. Yesterday I watched a young Japanese girl with a suitcase twice her size staring at a large bus and Metro map. She seemed frozen, transfixed, and although it is not my style to become involved in the affairs of strangers, I approached with a tentative “ou allez vous?” (where do you want to go). As my Japanese is limited to ordering beer (beer-u) she pointed to a far-out Metro stop. Luckily the #11 line was only 2 blocks away. I escorted her to much bowing and what I took to be enormous thanks and immense relief. It occurred to me that in the years I visited and lived in Paris as a single man, not a single attractive young female required my assistance.
The next time we meet I will be somewhere else…the adventure continues…
Thursday, January 24, 2008
FRENCH LETTERS 002
I am beyond desole. Not even the stock market in freefall can match my dismay at finding one of my favorite boites in Paris apparently gone forever. Nearly 4 decades ago when I first ventured to the City of Light, not a word of French in my kit bag, one of my first gastronomic experiences was at La Friterie, little more than a window opening onto rue Galande where it meets rue St. Julian le Pauvre at Place Maubert, smack in the middle of the left bank student quarter.
For one franc (25 cents in those pre-inflation days) you got a brimming portion of pommes frites (French fries) wrapped in a paper cone, luscious, thin cut, heavily salted and well done in the type of oil New York mayor Bloomberg has banned in Manhattan. They were served by a tall thin middle-aged matron, blonde hair piled high, with glasses I can only describe as similar to those worn by the “kiss my grits” waitress on the critically acclaimed “Mel’s Diner” TV series of the 1970s, or perhaps by the “ladies” in Tuna Christmas.
Over the years little has changed, especially not Mme. She appeared the same last summer as she did in 1969, same hairdo, same glasses, meme visage. And in my many, many visits to Paris in the intervening generation, there was always a stop at La Friterie.
Until this evening, when approaching on rue St. Severin from Blvd. St. Michele across rue St. Jacques, I found the windows boarded and a sign saying that if I just had a bit of patience, a new Wok City would soon be open to serve my every need. Right!
I got some frites at a nearby falafel stand. Cheaper, but not thin cut, not nearly well enough cooked, and apparently made with Bloomberg-approved oil. I fed them to the pigeons sitting on the bulwarks along the Seine. One pecked a stick, cocked his head at me, and walked away. I hear you, mon vielle, the world is changing and not all for the better.
The sun came out in Paris yesterday. For some 12.3 minutes. Citizens rushed into the streets and fell on their knees. When locals describe their “City of Light,” they refer to electricity and not Mr. Sun. At least not in winter months.
A friend sent me packing the other day to Bazar Hotel de Ville (BHV), a massive department store with a basement that would make Filene blush, although this sous sol is packed with hardware rather than discount clothing. I was armed with samples of the little trucs I was to bring home.
Many employees about, most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day. I show one an item and get the response, “Yes, we have them, but they are much bigger than this.” OK, but where do I find them? The response, “la-bas” sent me back 30+ years to a time I was working for a freight forwarder handling trade shows in Paris. I would be given a ticket with a case or pallet number, gather my trusty trans-pallet (a type of manual hauling device given to those not trusted to drive a forklift), and head off into the massive warehouse.
I would show the paper to one of the workers (most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day) and ask in my pigeon French where to find the material. The response was invariably “la- bas.” If in a good mood they might point in a general direction.
I asked a friend what “la bas” meant. She said “it just means “over there.”” But I came to believe the idiomatic translation to be “Just far enough away so you don’t pester me with your questions,” or “Ask someone else, can’t you see I’m busy.”
…the adventure continues…
For one franc (25 cents in those pre-inflation days) you got a brimming portion of pommes frites (French fries) wrapped in a paper cone, luscious, thin cut, heavily salted and well done in the type of oil New York mayor Bloomberg has banned in Manhattan. They were served by a tall thin middle-aged matron, blonde hair piled high, with glasses I can only describe as similar to those worn by the “kiss my grits” waitress on the critically acclaimed “Mel’s Diner” TV series of the 1970s, or perhaps by the “ladies” in Tuna Christmas.
Over the years little has changed, especially not Mme. She appeared the same last summer as she did in 1969, same hairdo, same glasses, meme visage. And in my many, many visits to Paris in the intervening generation, there was always a stop at La Friterie.
Until this evening, when approaching on rue St. Severin from Blvd. St. Michele across rue St. Jacques, I found the windows boarded and a sign saying that if I just had a bit of patience, a new Wok City would soon be open to serve my every need. Right!
I got some frites at a nearby falafel stand. Cheaper, but not thin cut, not nearly well enough cooked, and apparently made with Bloomberg-approved oil. I fed them to the pigeons sitting on the bulwarks along the Seine. One pecked a stick, cocked his head at me, and walked away. I hear you, mon vielle, the world is changing and not all for the better.
The sun came out in Paris yesterday. For some 12.3 minutes. Citizens rushed into the streets and fell on their knees. When locals describe their “City of Light,” they refer to electricity and not Mr. Sun. At least not in winter months.
A friend sent me packing the other day to Bazar Hotel de Ville (BHV), a massive department store with a basement that would make Filene blush, although this sous sol is packed with hardware rather than discount clothing. I was armed with samples of the little trucs I was to bring home.
Many employees about, most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day. I show one an item and get the response, “Yes, we have them, but they are much bigger than this.” OK, but where do I find them? The response, “la-bas” sent me back 30+ years to a time I was working for a freight forwarder handling trade shows in Paris. I would be given a ticket with a case or pallet number, gather my trusty trans-pallet (a type of manual hauling device given to those not trusted to drive a forklift), and head off into the massive warehouse.
I would show the paper to one of the workers (most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day) and ask in my pigeon French where to find the material. The response was invariably “la- bas.” If in a good mood they might point in a general direction.
I asked a friend what “la bas” meant. She said “it just means “over there.”” But I came to believe the idiomatic translation to be “Just far enough away so you don’t pester me with your questions,” or “Ask someone else, can’t you see I’m busy.”
…the adventure continues…
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