My sister has two children, a girl and a boy. But to be honest, she had three. Zodiac was her third. Zodiac was a Field Spaniel. Well, to be more precise, that was his breed. Zodiac was her child, friend, confidante, and roommate. My sister is a photographer, and by extension, Zodiac was the most photographed furry friend ever.
Gentle didn’t begin to describe him. Like most dogs, he had one mission: to love you. As a Field Spaniel, he had the traditional long ears and feathering on his chest, ears, and the back of his legs. He was all black but had gained some whisps of white as he aged. Years ago, like many Field Spaniels, he had ocular issues and lost one eye. But if you asked him (and if he could tell you), he’d have said it never bothered him to lose it. He just kept moving forward – and loving. The hair on his head was long and wispy and could be combed in any direction. His combover was always a source of entertainment over the years! Oh, and he loved Twizzlers. I bought them for him whenever I could, and my sister always had some on hand. She kept them in an upper cabinet in her kitchen. She has a two-step, painted wooden stool beneath the cabinet. Say the word “Twizzler,” and Zodiac would run to the step stool and stand on the top, patiently awaiting his treat. He’d help guide you to the location of the hidden treasures by pointing his nose at the upper cabinet. The paint had worn away on that step from his many trips there.
They say only the good die young. Perhaps that’s the price of loving. And since dogs always love unconditionally, their lives are shorter than ours. We’ve all heard the saying that a dog year is seven human years. Another way of thinking is that maybe they love seven times as much as we do in any given year. Either way, the cost of their loving is paid in shorter lives. And we are left to carry the memories of their love with us through the remainder of our longer lives.
Zodiac crossed that mythical Rainbow Bridge tonight. And while I’m a skeptic, I’d like to believe in a place where our departed furry friends wait for us, their tails wagging out of control as we, at long last, approach. So, if you have a moment and are so inclined, have thought for my sister and her kids. If my theory’s correct, your compassion is a sign of sympathy, maybe empathy, and a form of love. It may cost you a moment of your life. And you may die a moment sooner because of it. But isn’t the love we give others, the love we give our furry friends, the love we have for nature, our garden, or our hobbies, isn’t that what makes our lives more than the total of our achievements, tasks, and obligations? If I must go sooner because I love, I will not fear the Reaper. And if I die at 99, I hope that means that without having loved, I would have died at 106. And when I go, please do me a favor, just in case. Stick a few Twizzlers in my pocket. Uncle Chris needs to be ready.
Everyone who ever knew you, Zodiac, is going to miss you. We’ll carry your memory.
When, in the course of human history, people coalesce around a cause, invariably, it is the fringe and fanatical that visit shame and derision on said cause.
Case in point:
Climate change is real. To assume otherwise is to ignore both established science and our own eyes. Further, and this is also beyond argument, climate change is linked to humans—the extent to which that link is made, whether larger or smaller, can be debated. The fact remains that human action has influenced our climate; our climate is changing, and barring any technological leap in space travel, we have but this one planet on which to live.
There are several sources to this statement (Indian and Greek, among others), but the sentiment is the same:
“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they will never sit.”
Whether it is the group Just Stop Oil or Riposte Alimentaire, I believe in their causes. However, I also know that while fossil fuels are limited in their amount worldwide and the cause of enormous amounts of pollution, I also know that neither Van Gough, Da Vinci, nor Monet will be painting anything ever again. Throwing paint or soup at these masterpieces does two things.
First, it brings attention to the cause. I would argue in the wrong way. Again, I believe in their cause. However, their cause, while not getting nearly enough meaningful action from politicians and nations, is not a generally unknown niche item. Everyone has heard about climate change. You don’t need to draw attention to it as if it’s been wallowing in a distant dark corner. You are turning millions of like-minded individuals from standing with you. They want to crawl into a hole to avoid being associated with you and your idiotic stunt.
Second, I believe the attention you ultimately sought with your stunt had less to do with your cause and more to do with you having your picture taken standing next to a disfigured masterpiece covered in paint or soup while you gloomily pose, maybe glued to the frame.
Grassroots activism takes organization and time. It takes determination and persistence. Ultimately, it takes moving the Overton Window so politicians feel they must be part of your movement. And that comes from the inside. It comes from boldly participating in legislative hearings. It comes from lobbying legislators at all levels repeatedly. It does not come from petitions or stunts.
We need change on many social issues, not the least of which are climate change for the planet and gun violence in America. Mothers Against Drunk Driving set the template for success. Moms Demand Action, Everytown, and other gun violence groups have adopted that template. Just Stop Oil and Riposte Alimentaire may have arms of their organizations that attempt the same measures as these more successful organizations. All I know is what I see on the news. And the photos I see on the news, especially as an art lover, make me cringe. The tiny conspiracy theorist in the back of my head wonders whether these stunts because they are so antithetical to the genuinely just cause, are backed by the petroleum industry to discredit all climate change activists. I hope I’m wrong.
Either way, stop gluing yourself to paintings, throwing paint on masterpieces, and throwing food at art. You look like an idiot and damage your supposed cause. These masterpieces have survived (so far) because art restoration professionals consider it an honor and duty to protect and preserve the art. The activists should adopt that level of care and dedication, again, in whose cause I believe, before a masterpiece is lost because of their stunts. Passion alone will not win the day. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. One cannot plant a tree tomorrow morning and expect to sit in its shade in the afternoon.
The ride home was uneventful. Clark steered his new vehicle cautiously through traffic, feeling as though every eye was on him, every other vehicle turning into his, and his insurance premium atop his mind.
He maneuvered deftly down his street and turned smoothly into his driveway, feeling the bounce between the street and driveway. With an emphatic bump of his fist, he sounded the horn and awaited his family’s arrival and, more importantly, their reaction.
His son bounded out of the house first, smiling as he saw the new vehicle.
“Cool!” he said, seemingly capturing all his son’s feelings in one syllable.
His daughter came out next, still holding her cell phone and seemingly bothered by the interruption.
“What do you think?” Clark asked, eager for some acknowledgment of his latest purchase.
She responded, “Cool,” although this version seemed to carry disdain and judgment rather than excitement.
His wife arrived next.
“Seriously, Clark?” she said, more in the vein of their daughter than their son.
As they all sat around the dinner table, passing the plate of DiGiorno pizza, corn, and macaroni & cheese, Clark began to explain the reasoning for his purchase.
“The evolution of self-propelled transportation, while still measured in “horse” power, began with the sedan. “Sedan” was named after litter. Can anyone tell me what a litter is?” Clark questioned.
The children bowed their heads as if their plates held mysteries of the universe previously undiscovered. They knew their father was about to go into one of his history lessons, and they wanted dinner to be history. Finally, with a mouth full of pizza, Clyde, the son, smiled and said, “It’s the place where the cat squeezes off a loaf!”
Karen, Clark’s wife, admonished Clyde while Clark attempted to stifle the smile the visual represented.
Caroline, their daughter, remained transfixed by her plate.
“A litter,” Clark continued, “is a box with extending poles a pharaoh or dignitary would sit in and then be transported by servants carrying the poles.”
“Like in Game of Thrones!” exclaimed Clyde.
“What are you doing watching Game of Thrones?” asked Karen.
“Oh, um, Kenny had it on at his house once, and I saw Joffrey being carried in one. A litter.”
Sensing the conversation getting away from him, Clark recentered the topic back to automobiles.
“Well, yes, that is a litter. That’s where the term sedan originated. It was a sedan chair. As time went on, the size of automobiles grew and shrank with market forces and gas prices. However, in the last decade of the last century, people moved from sedans to SUVs. Some liked the size advantage for safety reasons, some felt they needed to keep up with the growing size, and some liked the aggressiveness of the size, likening it to the HUMVEES from the military. For example, do you remember what we had before the Grand Cherokee?”
“The Camry,” replied Caroline in her typical, disengaged drone.
“Right!” said Clark, “I sold the Camry because I didn’t feel safe driving in the sea of SUV’s! I couldn’t see around them, and their windows were too high (and too blacked out, don’t get me started on window tinting) to see through when I was behind them. I loved that Camry, but it would have been crushed in an accident with the SUV beasts everyone bought!”
Suddenly interested, Clyde asked, “So why did we get rid of the Jeep?”
“Because, again, sizes kept growing. To gain an advantage over the SUVs, I bought a pickup truck. And when that was no longer enough, I put the huge tires on it,” explained Clark.
And that explains the new one?” asked his wife.
“Exactly!” replied Clark, pleased the conversation was over. He missed his Camry. “I wanted the camo package, but the waitlist on that version was six months.”
“Seriously, tell me what you think of the new vehicle?” asked Clark.
“Is it big enough?” smirked Karen.
“I think it’s cool!” said Clyde.
“Yes, we’ve established that,” said Clark.
Before Caroline could reply, they heard a sound from outside, and they all went out to see their neighbor Bill pulling into his driveway with his new vehicle.
“Thoughts?” asked Karen.
“Damn it!” replied Clark, “And he got the camo package!”
My late wife had a best friend whose friendship rivaled any as the benchmark of friendships. From elementary school through her death eight years ago, Naomi and Lisa were connected at the proverbial hip.
In the years since her death, Na continues to call me every few weeks to catch up. I’m pretty sure it’s the last act of friendship requested by Lisa and carried out by Na. She checks up on me, asks about the kids, and fills me in on her husband, son, parents, brother, and sister. I appreciate her calling. It’s as if she’s maintaining a thread through the universe and time whose story has expired, but no one told the cloth.
Two days ago, Na called to tell me her dad had died. I did my best to ask the right questions, say the right things, and console Na. Inside, I broke down, and despite my best efforts, some of it snuck through. The last thing I wanted on that call was for Na to console me. I did okay. At least until I hung up. I knew I now had two more calls to make. One to each of my children. They have known Na and her family their entire lives, and Na checks up on them as Lisa’s emissary, too. Those calls hurt even more. I know I didn’t do okay.
Na’s dad liked to talk. And once he started, short of a natural disaster, there was no way of exhausting the discussion. One of my memories of him was that at every party I attended at Na’s house, I always talked to her dad for hours. Everyone else seemed to drift away, leaving me alone. They chuckled. I was the fresh meat. Except I never felt stuck. There was never one conversation I had with him that I regretted. And I know why.
As the newcomer in a relationship as long-lasting and deep as Lisa had with Na (and her family), I was obviously the outsider. To be taken in by Na’s dad felt like acceptance. As if he thought, “If Lisa thinks he’s okay, he must be okay.” I felt like I belonged. Now, he may have been just as comfortable talking to a lamppost for hours on end, but I don’t regret those times talking with him. I have no idea what he thought of me, but he was genuine enough that even my dimwitted perceptive skills probably would have gleaned insincerity in him.
He was a bull who owned his own machinist shop. If asked, to a person, I know one of the first traits people would mention about him was how he was the hardest working person they knew. He would also do what he thought was right. Some would argue that his demeanor may have hindered his medical treatment over the past year. More likely, his hardheadedness kept him going. Let me explain.
Have you ever seen a football game where the running back is handed the ball, gains a few yards, and is tied up but not tackled by a defender? Then another defender makes a hit, and they still can’t take down the running back together. Then, two more join in as the running back’s legs keep moving him forward. Finally, either the pile collapses or the whistle is blown, ending the play. For Na’s dad, the play only ended when circumstances and the universe conspired to overwhelm him with too many medical priorities. He was a force any running back would envy.
As a hardheaded bull (like Lisa and her enormous personality), I know it was hard watching this once-strong man wither and finally succumb. I saw every decrease in Lisa’s health through the end. I did not see his decline. However, I know how hard witnessing it is and what a toll it takes on caregivers. He is at peace now, like Lisa. If there’s a heaven, Lisa greeted him with a smile, a hug, and a cutting joke. I hear him laughing, a cigar in one hand and a popsicle in the other.
If you’re so inclined, have a thought for Na and her family today. They lost a giant.
Christmas 2023 is two days away. Two days before the mania between Thanksgiving and December 24 relinquishes control of our lives and gives way to Winter’s solemn grip taking hold until Spring Training begins, the snow melts, and our thoughts return to warmer days.
In this time of rising nationalism, vindictive and dictatorial ethos, racist overtones, war, threats of civil war, and in an era seemingly allergic to personal responsibility, community, and accountability, here are my wishes for this Christmas season and 2024.
Number One: A return to civility. I joke that I can trace the downfall of society to the first “Casual Friday” at work. What began as a fundraiser and a sticker identifying us as having donated and, therefore, allowed to wear jeans at work devolved into wearing pajamas at Walmart. Casual Friday is now every day. When can we begin “Dress Up Friday?”
Manners and respect go a long way. Simply cordiality can do two things. First, it engenders a sense of community. We would recognize the other individual as a person, a fellow human being beset with challenges both seen and unseen. This alone can blunt the raging self-centeredness of Americans. Second, even in a tense situation, cordial interaction allows for a defusion of emotions. Perhaps it could help reduce road rage and the gun violence pandemic in America.
Number Two: A return to a sense of community. The world where employees spend a lifetime at one company is no more. The end of the pandemic saw the “Great Resignation.” Companies blamed employees. Employees blamed capitalism. And the stock market blamed the government. The only loyalty still in existence is the loyalty Donald Trump expects of everyone on the planet (without reciprocity).
Business claims to value people, their employees, as their greatest resource. That should tell you all you need to know about the state of American capitalism. Employees are not resources. Iron ore is a resource. Paper clips are a resource. Employees are people. By relegating employees to the inanimate, companies feel justified and vindicated when conducting mass layoffs (resource inventory reductions), demand more of those “fortunate” to remain (without any corresponding wage increase), and have their equally productive remote positions reallocated to “hybrid” or permanently reclassified as in-office only. If the stock goes up, the decision is correct. The greatest resource be damned.
Leviticus 19:18 reads, “… you shall love thy neighbor as yourself.” Matthew 19:19 says, “… love your neighbor as yourself.” Given how America has a “you first after me” mentality, this wish alone could alter humankind. By changing this aspect of society, selfishness would abate, civility would return, and manners would be insisted upon.
And Number Three: A return of respect. Do not expect or wait for me to apologize for your bad behavior. Seemingly gone are the days of respect for our neighbors, community, family, friends, strangers, co-workers, and countries. We would solve many of the world’s problems if only respect lived. We have chipped away at respect to the point where we do not even respect ourselves. Personal accountability no longer exists. We do our children a disservice when we tell them to respect others, be kind, and work hard, and success will follow. There is no longer any downside to bad behavior. Instead, it seems those who exhibit deviant behavior excel in life at the expense of every other person. This slide away from civility and toward self-centered American society began long ago, probably in the 1960s, when the youth dared question the government and demands for equality were met with violence.
Mafia movies and TV shows would have us believe that respect made for an orderly business and kept everyone in line. Fear may have been a better term. And that was until everyone flipped and became an informant to the FBI. The cause? See wishes Number One and Two above. Specifically, being self-centered. Self-interest is superseding the community. Sensing a theme? We were taught, “Respect is earned.” However, the default position upon meeting someone should not be disdain or an immediate dismissal. Perhaps we should alter the phrase. Instead of “respect is earned,” maybe it could be “respect is offered, maintained if reciprocated.”
That’s my list. Three items.
The King James Version (KJV) reads, “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”
The English Standard Version (ESV) (and most other versions I researched) is less global and more subservient, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” Peace, but only for some. Got it.
I want civility, community, and respect. This does not make me a “Make America Great Again” acolyte devoid of compassion and a wish for a time that never was. In many ways, I would argue that what I wish for is the opposite of what the MAGA crowd expects. Mine is a wish to return to what was once respectful, but this time applied equally to all. Peace on earth, goodwill to all humankind. All humankind. Happy holidays, everyone.
This will be a different piece today. I won’t pontificate on any subject, denigrate any group, or judge any policy. Of course, it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t hit someone, so here’s a joke from Bob Newhart:
I don’t like country music, but I don’t mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means’ put down’.
Sorry.
Today, I want to write about the state of baseball, specifically professional Major League Baseball. As much as I love the game (and always will), it is a shadow of the game it used to be. To back this up, I’ll use charts and graphs from 1967 and 1970 to the present.
Initially, I wanted to title this “Where Have All the Workhorses Gone.” Specifically, I was thinking about complete games. I checked, and in 1970, there were 852 complete games thrown by pitchers, and (as shown in the chart below) that was the lowest number of the 1970’s. Although it was the lowest number of complete games in the decade, it still accounted for 43.83% of all games played.
Contrast that with 2023, where there were only 35 complete games thrown. As a percent, 2023 matched 2022 as the lowest percent of complete games pitched at 1.48% of all games played. Here’s a chart showing complete games thrown from 1970 through 2023:
You might argue that the rise of free agency and sabermetrics, relief pitchers, and specialists has mitigated the pressure on starting pitchers, allowing teams always to have fresh arms. If that were true, you would expect the number of strikeouts to have increased over the years. And you’re right, although, as I’ll explain, that results from other factors. In fact, the number of strikeouts per game (and innings pitched) has increased since 1970.
As fans will tell you, if there are 27 outs in a game (24 if the winning team is playing at home) and 17 of them are strikeouts, that’s a boring game. And Major League Baseball listens.
Put that aside for a moment, and now consider the batter. In 1970, 27 players hit over .300. That number was steady, with an average of almost 25 players batting over .300 between 1970 and 1993. Note: 1981 was a strike-shortened season.
What happened in 1994? 1994 is considered the beginning of the “steroid” era. In 1994, 50 players hit over .300, which remained high throughout the steroid era of 1994 -2004, with an average of about 45 players batting over .300! Note: 1994 was a strike-shortened season.
After that, the wheels fell off. Between 2005 and 2023, the number of .300 hitters has steadily declined. The season that just ended only saw nine batters hit over .300. Nine.
The number is downright anemic if you look at the period from 2018 through 2023. The “high point” in that period was 2020, a season shortened not by a strike but by COVID-19 when teams were fielding players who did not opt to sit out for health reasons and when MLB was a welcome distraction from the pandemic but a shadow of its normal strength.
Okay, so if players aren’t hitting for average, they must be doing something else. Hitting for power! And the statistics bear that out.
The average number of home runs per game has increased every decade since the 1970s. The average number of home runs per game now (2.39 this decade) is higher than the average during the steroid era (2.16).
Decade
Average Number of HRs per Game
1970’s
1.49
1980’s
1.61
1990’s
1.91
2000’s
2.15
2010’s
2.14
2020’s
2.39
Of course, the offset to swinging for the fences is a proportional increase in strikeouts. This brings us back to the beginning of this piece. However, instead of looking at strikeouts from the pitcher’s perspective, let us look at them from the batters. Lacing singles and hits to the gaps requires a relatively level swing. Like everything else in baseball, “launch angle” is now tracked. To hit home runs out of the stadium, your swing must be at more of an angle. Simple physics tells me that having the ball on one plane and a bat on the same plane has a better chance of contact than crossing the ball’s plane only at one point due to the increased uppercut swing. This alone should account for the drop in .300 hitters. But it has also resulted in an astronomic increase in seasonal strikeouts. Last year, there were 41,843 strikeouts during the season.
The number of players who struck out 100 times or more has increased substantially since 1970. Remember, 2020 was the pandemic-shortened year, and still, one player struck out more than 100 times!
And a new phenomenon has emerged. There are now everyday players who strike out more than 200 times a year!
There are other factors at play here. I can hear my pitcher brother talking about how the ball has changed over time, how the rules have changed, how umpires have changed. And I agree. I am identifying concerns as a lifelong fan of the game and how it has changed.
In 1967, the minimum salary in MLB was $6,000. The real median personal income in America was $4,527. Baseball players earned a multiple of 1.33 times more than the average American. The average MLB salary was $19,000, a multiple of 4.20 the average American. In 2020, the minimum MLB salary was $563,000, and the average MLB salary was $4,430,000. The median personal income in America was $62,797. The multiples for minimum and average to the average American are now 8.97 and 70.54, respectively. Put another way, the Real median personal income in America has gone up 1,287% from 1967 to 2020 ($4,527 to $62,797), whereas the minimum MLB salary has gone up 9,292% from 1967 to 2020 ($6,000 to $563,000). The average MLB salary has gone up 23,216% in the same period ($19,000 to $4,430,000).
I like home runs; I don’t like strikeouts. I love baseball, and I always will.
These are my notes. Maybe you love the modern game. I welcome any comments you may have.
As we continued our path toward Paris, the names of the places we passed leaped from the road signs. I envisioned high school history books opened to the Great War. Verdun, Ardennes, the Maginot Line. How incredible it was to me that this magnificent countryside might once have been the sight of endless mud, cold rain, trench warfare, mustard gas, blood, and death. How many farms, I wondered as we passed their crops, had once been watered with blood. How far below the surface must one dig to uncover a shell casing, helmet, rifle, bayonet, or bone? History was outside my car window. Consequential, sequential, and still current.
Coming from the United States, it is hard to contemplate the size of Europe. We drove from Germany (slightly smaller than Montana) to France (slightly smaller than Texas), stayed in Luxembourg (slightly smaller than Rhode Island), stayed in Switzerland (slightly less than twice the size of New Jersey), just missed passing through Lichtenstein (slightly smaller than Washington, D.C.), and kissed Austria (roughly the size of South Carolina) on the train from Zurich to Munich. When viewed from the perspective of America (despite our regional and cultural differences), Europe seems quaint. World wars seem more like well-armed neighborhood skirmishes. The fact that an area so small can have countless languages, always a barrier to community cordiality, could only have exacerbated prejudices and fostered nationalistic passions. And America is by no means exempt from history’s gaze.
When visiting San Antonio while living in Houston, we did the obligatory tour of the Alamo. In addition to the diminutive size of the fort, what struck me was the tour itself. “Here is a rock that represents where a wall once stood,” said the audio guide. So much of what remained was reduced to reverence, folklore, and a gift shop. When touring many of the castles, palaces, residences, and “old towns” in Europe, English-speaking audio guides told of how this section of (fill in the blank) represents what originally stood here because the original was blown away during World War II. I do not write this as an accusation or judgment. It was not iconoclasm but brutal warfare that destroyed these architectural gems. And yet, I could not help but yearn for the lost treasures destroyed by the ruthless passions of men.
America has two main deadly exports, both found in European history, modern politics, and among the people. The first is war; perpetual and ever more efficient. Eisenhower’s military-industrial complex continues to thrive, indeed feeding on itself for oxygen. Ramstein Air Force Base exists because of it. We arm both sides of modern conflicts, raking in dollars and ready to respond with lethal interdiction. The second is tobacco. Everywhere we visited locals smoked. Ashtrays are ever-present, and smoke fills every street corner as we wait for the pedestrian light to turn green. Two deadly exports, alive and well across Europe.
And while we Americans wave the flag and chant Make America Great Again, thumbing our nose at our bumper-sticker understanding of socialism, Europeans today live in relative harmony with one another. I found Europeans courteous, patient, law-abiding, and friendly. Drivers routinely defer to others, follow posted speed limits, obey warnings, and arrive safely. American drivers (and Parisian cabbies) ignore all posted speed limits and ignore all rules of the road. And when slighted we Americans, too often respond in road rage and gunfire. Socialism is the appropriate doctrine for specific issues, just as capitalism is the appropriate mechanism for other issues. America’s lack of nuance and knee-jerk aversion to “socialism,” coupled with a worldview ignorance and almost allergic reaction to responsibility makes us look juvenile and unsophisticated when compared to the Europeans.
I can hear you! Stop shouting! “If Europe is so wonderful, why do so many want to move to the United States? After all, we are the greatest country in the world!” First, we are not the greatest in many meaningful categories and they don’t all want to move to America. Every country has a certain percentage of their population who wishes they lived somewhere else. Sit down for this next sentence. So, too, does the United States. There are thriving expat communities the world over, populated by Americans. Second, might not a certain percentage of Europeans want to indulge their juvenile penchants and selfish streak and see America as the place where one can do and say anything they want, essentially without accountability? Or maybe, third, they may see America’s openness through the prism of a European upbringing and see opportunities beyond those available in their small town. You can criticize me for America bashing all you want; these are my travel notes. However, I would rather you consider broadening your horizon to include implementing courtesy, patience, socialism (when appropriate (military costs, public roads)), accountability, and responsibility within the American community.
Mark Twain (an American) said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of man and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
Another more recent American, the late Anthony Bourdain, said, “If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food, it’s a plus for everybody. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.”
Travel and return home. You will never return home the same person who left.
“What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.” – Carl Sagan, Cosmos
It may seem strange to begin an article about traveling with a quote about a book but hear me out. Books let us travel the world, even through time and to fantastic places, without leaving our homes. I am not alone in thinking this. John Lubbock wrote, “We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth.”
Books are to travel as dreams are to experience. “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page,” wrote St. Augustine. And for the past two weeks, I have experienced a world beyond my dreams. My wife, sister-in-law, and I traveled to Germany to visit my niece at Ramstein Air Force Base. What was originally a two-week visit to spend time with my sister-in-law’s daughter blossomed into a whirlwind jaunt across several European countries. We landed in Frankfurt, Germany, and traveled to my niece’s apartment in Heiligenmoschel, about thirty minutes from Ramstein. From there we drove to Paris for two days, then we drove to Luxembourg, and back to Heiligenmoschel. From there we took the train from Ramstein to Zurich, Switzerland, went into the Alps to Jungfraujoch, then a train to Munich, a bus to Neuschwanstein Castle, back to Munich, then back to Heiligenmoschel. Then, we drove from Heiligenmoschel to Strasbourg, France before returning to Heiligenmoschel and then Frankfurt for the flight home. Home to our little corner of the world, same as before but we were different.
My initial thoughts, driving through Germany and western France were of the stunning beauty of the landscape. We drove in late fall; however, the summer was longer than usual (climate change?) and the trees still exhibited their autumnal magnificence. Colors orange, red, green, and yellow danced on the trees as we whisked by them, bidding us stop to appreciate their performance. The rolling hills and bright green winter crops made me think I had jumped into my Windows start-up screen.
Paris is Paris. It’s a big city with big city swagger. History drips from every street corner. It is big, loud, frenetic, always moving, almost breathing, and teeming with people. Locals mix with tourists and every restaurant seems full. Cabbies are nuts and motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles swarm around cars like fruit flies around overripe bananas. And yet, somehow, it works for them. I love big cities and Paris is wonderful. The Louvre is closed on Tuesdays, so we did not get to see the world’s greatest museum. However, I checked off the Pantheon on my bucket list on this trip, revisited the Eifel Tower, Sainte-Chapelle, ate at a charming local restaurant so small we felt part of the conversation at the loud table next to us, and had dinner on a boat cruising the Seine. To see the transformation of a church (Sainte-Geneviève) into a revolutionary monument was incredible. Visiting evidence of the earth spinning while watching Foucault’s pendulum took my breath away. So, too, did visiting the mausoleum and visiting the graves of Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Rousseau, Marie Curie, Alexandre Dumas, Josephine Baker, Emile Zola, and other luminaries. Paris has so much to offer, one visit is not enough. This was my second visit; still, there is so much to see. I could go on and on about Paris, however, others have written about it better than I could ever attempt.
Sainte-Chapelle, there are no words to capture its beauty
From Paris, we drove to Luxembourg. Like New York, there is a Luxembourg City. We stayed in a magnificent Airbnb apartment just outside the city in Strassen. We took the free bus into the city and walked around most of the day, eyes turned upward as each corner revealed yet another postcard view. Luxembourg City is essentially built on and around a steep hill. Houses seem carved into the scenery. The Grund is the lowest point and the view up from there to the cathedral and bridges is awe-inspiring. When viewed from the top, the view down is equally spectacular.
The Grund, Lux City
Where Paris is potentially overwhelming, Lux City is approachable and digestible. The architecture alone is worth a visit. Appreciating the history there for your taking if you take the time to look and listen is everywhere in front of you. We also drove to Vienden Castle and were overwhelmed by the magnificence of the castle. Home to two families over about 33 million years (or so it seemed), the castle was the first of many we toured. Like many castles, it sits above the town, commanding an inspiring view. Here again, the photos I’ve seen that we took do not do what we saw justice.
Vienden Castle
Zurich, Switzerland was our next stop. Ostensibly just a spot we had to visit to catch the tour to the Alps, Zurich, too, found its way into our hearts with its architecture, friendliness, shopping, and food. Again, local friendliness helped transport us from tourists to travelers and we took advantage of it to eat the local cuisine. It is somehow off-putting to see a KFC, a McDonald’s, or a Starbucks when so many local eateries offer travelers a way to visit their city via senses other than visual.
Zurich, Switzerland
My wife, Stacey, and I visited Colorado a few years ago. The elevation almost wrecked me when we took a day trip to Vail. Outside tourist t-shirt shops were displays offering tiny oxygen tanks. They sold shirts with slogans such as “Oxygen is Overrated” and “Sea Level is for Wimps.” Against that backdrop, we took a bus from Zurich to Interlaken and Grindelwald on this trip before taking the Eiger Express gondola to Jungfraujoch. I read the Eiger Sanction in my late teens! Trevanian was one of my favorite authors (The Eiger Sanction, The Loo Sanction, Shibumi, The Summer of Katya), and here I was looking at the North Face, sheer, snow-covered, intimidating, and beautiful. Marketed as the Top of Europe, Jungfraujoch sits between two higher peaks and requires a cog train from the gondola to reach it. My chest tightened with the lack of oxygen at 11,300 feet and as dehydrated as I was, my head hurt so much it flipped my stomach. Matched with my broken foot, and I looked quite the mess. Still, it did not stop me (or any of us); we have the photographs and memories to prove it.
View from the Eiger Express gondola
Eiger, North Face
View from Jungfraujoch
Munich, like Zurich, was meant simply as a weigh station to catch buses to other locations. And like Zurich, Munich melted our hearts with its charm, beauty, architecture, and food. Yes, I ate my way across Europe and always the local cuisine. On the day we were to catch the tour bus, it was my wife who didn’t feel well, and early in the morning, I found myself racing against a deadline to get her meds. I limped from hotel to hotel looking for gift shops, finding none, and then limping to a pharmacy and waiting outside until it opened. Limping quickly across Munich, I felt a little like Jason Bourne in The Bourne Supremacy. However, I knew who I was, knew my limitations, and knew I couldn’t drop a dachshund never mind elite assassins. Armed with her remedy, I limped back to the hotel to find my traveling partners waiting at the corner to proceed to our tour bus.
New Town Hall, Munich
Our destination that morning was Neuschwanstein Castle. You may know it as the basis for Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Castle in California and Cinderella Castle in Florida. Before Neuschwanstein Castle, our tour took us to Linderhof Castle. Both were built for King Ludwig II. He’s an interesting character whose life and untimely, early death at 40 are wrapped in mystery. If you get a chance, read up a bit on him. You will be as charmed and confused by him as me, I promise. Linderhof is a “small” castle where Ludwig II lived for eight years. It is in the high, European Rococo style, ornately decorated with organic swirls and gold leaf everywhere. It is overdone by today’s sensibilities and garish in its opulence.
Linderhof Castle
Neuschwanstein Castle is very different. It is a monument to Ludwig’s admiration of the operas of Richard Wagner, his increasing isolation, and his identification with medieval royalty. While beautiful and much larger than Linderhof, the tour allowed access to little of the castle. Armed with my Disney fandom, wrapped in memories of having breakfast with my small children and the Disney princesses inside Cinderella Castle, I left Neuschwanstein a little dejected. I couldn’t help but think the castle might have been the first version of Michal Jackson’s Neverland, itself built by someone removed from society with access to seemingly endless vision and money.
Neuschwanstein Castle
The last city we visited was Strasbourg, France. A national rail strike in Germany prevented us from taking the train, forcing us to drive from Ramstein’s train station. Strasbourg mesmerized us again with its charm, architecture, accessibility, and food. As mentioned above, there were several times when every turn seemed to reveal another postcard view of cities. Nowhere was that more evident than in Strasbourg. Literally, I would stop, photograph a wonderful view, and while still breathing in the sight before me, turn and see another, equally amazing sight. This was even though we only saw the sun on our two-week trip during our drive to Paris the first day and part of the next day. Every other day was raw and cold coupled with either overcast, drizzle, or outright pouring rain.
Charming La Petite France, Strasbourg
It was the trip of a lifetime. Paulo Coelho said, “One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now.” I always think of the picture I once saw of the elderly couple asleep on the gondola in Venice. They say, “Carpe Diem!” Seize the day. I would adjust that to seize the day while you can still enjoy it (“carpe diem dum potes adhuc frui est,” if Google Translate is to be trusted.) My wife and I have worked hard and now enjoy a bit of disposable income. Better it be used on travel, expanding our understanding of the tiny planet we inhabit, than on other less expansive vices.
I thank my niece for her hospitality, my sister-in-law for her willingness to share her time with her daughter, and my wife for giving me the life I now enjoy.
I found many other wonderful book/travel quotes in researching this piece. I share my other favorites below:
“The traveler sees what he sees. The tourist sees what he has come to see.”
– G.K. Chesterton
“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
“If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion, and avoid the people, you might better stay home.”
– James A. Michener
“Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant than ever.”
– Joe Abercrombie
“I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it.”
– Charles Bukowski
“In the meantime, there is not an hour to lose. I am about to visit the public library.”
– Jules Verne
“Travel improves the mind wonderfully and does away with all one’s prejudices.”
– Oscar Wilde
“To travel hopefully is better than to have arrived.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
“Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote, and I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life.”
– Michael Palin
“Borders? I have never seen one. But I have heard they exist in the minds of some people.”
– Thor Heyerdahl
“It’s temples and palaces did seem like fabrics of enchantment pil’d to heaven.”
– Percy Bysshe Shelley
“Nothing can. Be compared to the new life that the discovery of another country provides for a thoughtful person. Although I am still the same I believe to have been changed to the bones.”
– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“Every Englishman abroad, until it is proven to the contrary, likes to consider himself a traveler and not a tourist.”
Beatrice took the initial leap into online dating six months after her divorce was finalized. “Irreconcilable differences” is the catch-all chasm into which most marriages fall. The details of her failed marriage were still fresh in her mind. The words they had used against each other still burned like a branding iron. The house she had built with timbers and dreams now sits empty while her world falls apart. The courage it took to make that first monumental leap into online dating filled her with equal measures of dread and courage. Fear at the vulnerability required to look for love again and courage because she had taken that tenuous first step.
The first few days were an amusing buffet of swiping, laughing, and swiping. Silently, it also played tricks on her fragile self-esteem. On one hand, it made her wonder if any man was out there with the characteristics she thought she valued. On the other hand, it bolstered her confidence as she realized how much better she deserved (and had always deserved).
And then Drew crossed her screen. On “paper,” he was everything any woman could ask for. He was successful, lived in Hawaii, owned his company, and had grown children. He said he was religious and read the Bible. Daily interactions followed their first tentative texts. He said all the right things and made her feel like the center of the world. He said he traveled often and had a friend who lived near Beatrice. Oddly, though, he could never visit his friend and meet with Beatrice. Something always came up. Always.
Then, with the help of her intrepid sister (who had snooping skills the NSA would find envious), she learned that much of what he had claimed could not be verified. His company website was filled with stock photos. The leadership team photos were lifted from other sites or modeling agencies. Two individuals were the same person, dressed differently! As she reread his texts, she realized they sounded canned, almost a cut-and-paste plug-in, as if he worked at a telemarketing company. “If they say this, you say this.” It was personalized just enough to be believable but cookie-cutter in every other respect. Beatrice then watched Tinder Swindler, the HBO documentary about grifters preying on vulnerable women to enchant them and then con them out of their money through an ever-tightening series of faked “catastrophic” events. The documentary might have been called Is This You, Drew?”
Beatrice was skeptical and confronted Drew. He denied everything as a coincidence and had a pat answer for everything. She broke it off, blocked him, and started swiping again.
Between the waves of single-minded men who, if you’ll pardon the pun, “exposed” their intentions quickly, Rick contacted Beatrice. Rick was shy, he said. The most recent book he had read was the Bible. His favorite movie was The Notebook. He was originally from Ukraine. Their conversations were cordial; he was kind, and he was fake.
Let’s break down some of the keywords and character traits in both Drew and Rick. They both considered themselves religious and read the Bible. Are spiritual women part of their target demographic? The Notebook might have been another trigger. How many men claim that as their favorite movie? Drew’s company was in Hawaii. Could he want prospective targets to project themselves in a relationship with him and envision being together in Hawaii? Rick claimed to be of Ukrainian descent. Is it possible he wanted to engender sympathy for his homeland from prospective targets?
It is hard enough to put yourself out there, online or in person. One must open oneself to potential heartbreak and ridicule. They must be willingly vulnerable and open themselves to possible pain. They should be celebrated for their courage (if they are online for the right reasons). To have someone target you as a victim of their financial ruse is unconscionable.
Dante Alighieri began writing his 14,233-line narrative poem in 1308. The first book, Inferno, has nine circles of hell. The eighth is reserved for the greedy. The eighth circle is called Malebolge or “evil ditches” in Italian. There are ten of these ditches or “Bolgia.” The first of these concentric trenches, arranged in a sloping grade or Bolgia I, is filled with seducers and panderers. They walk in two lines facing each other around the trench while being whipped by demons for eternity. Honestly, the damage to Beatrice’s self-esteem each time requires a much harsher penalty for me.
Beatrice deserves better. She deserves a real person. Somewhere, a man is looking for a partner, a real man looking for a real woman. His name is Virgil.
Thoughts at Large 