tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72986668770069431032024-03-14T17:24:35.628+03:00Ahead of My TimeBecause life isn't always a laughing matter.Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-78867124968802356232018-11-26T21:12:00.000+03:002018-11-30T11:32:49.401+03:00The Pole Star<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I never intended to become a pole dancer. My ambition had been simple. With a milestone birthday approaching, I needed something to challenge me as never before. Something that would prove I was still fit, still alive, still young. I would enlist in the Marines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For weeks, I watched the 12-part Marine Corps recruiting video every day. I attacked the gym as never before until my self-administered score on the Marines personal fitness test (PFT) reached a respectable level. There was only one problem. The age limit for enlistment in the Marines is 28. The milestone birthday I was approaching was number 60.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If I couldn’t enlist, then at least I would try to become the oldest person ever to attempt Marine Corps training. My first call to the Pentagon was not promising. I was directed to the Marines’ Public Affairs Office. The captain who took my call addressed me as “sir” so many times that I began to feel like a revered grandfather from the days of the Confederacy. I explained my interest in attempting recruit training, intimating that with my long list of writing credits I would have no problem selling a story to publications like <i>Esquire, GQ, Men’s Health, </i>and <i>Modern Maturity. </i>After all, men my age were sending sons and daughters (and grandsons and granddaughters) off to war; my article would convey to my generation just what their country was demanding of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Even as the captain politely promised to get back to me, I was certain that in fact I had been directed to the Pentagon office specializing in cranks and nut-jobs. I was not to be deterred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I eventually learned that a request such as mine had to go through TECOM, the Marines’ Training and Education Command. Soon I was in touch with Justin LeHew, TECOM’s Sergeant Major and a recipient of the Navy Cross. My request would first have to be approved by the Commanding Officer of TECOM and then the Commandant of the Marine Corps. It seemed like a stretch but no one had said it was impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few weeks later, I received a definitive email from Sgt. Major LeHew. With the Marines drawing down their numbers, it was essential that every space in training be allocated to someone who would go on to serve. Given that I had missed the cutoff date by 32 years that wouldn’t be possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After all the push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, and miles of running, this was hard for me to accept. I looked into recruit training for the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the Coast Guard. The watered-down standard of their programs did not represent the high bar I was seeking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Three months later, I was introduced to former Marine Corps General (and now Secretary of Defense) James Mattis while on a story assignment. We wound up in several meetings together and often crossed paths in the hall. If anyone could pull the strings necessary to see my dream realized, it would have to be an insider and an iconoclast like Jim “Mad Dog” Mattis. With “A Hare-Brained Idea from Robert Strauss” as the subject line, I emailed him the pitch I had sent to Sgt. Major LeHew. The General’s detailed response arrived exactly four hours and 37 minutes later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While admiring my “pluck,” Mattis explained that the Marines regularly get similar requests from “professional wrestlers, Olympic athletes, TV stars and others.” All are turned down. And while my PFT score was good for someone my age, the Marines use that score, General Mattis wrote, primarily to screen out “the physically decrepit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“The hand-to-hand combat would be quite an adventure for you as well since they are not adjusted for size of opponents,” Mattis added. “You could be matched with a strong 230-pound, high school or college wrestler or football player, whatever the random line-up of two platoons competing presented you with the luck of the draw…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am 5’7” and weigh 145 pounds the morning after Thanksgiving. When I last struck someone in anger I was in elementary school. Grudgingly, I began to see that my 60<sup>th </sup>birthday brainstorm could get ugly fast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As a well-intended <i>coup de grace</i>, General Mattis added that my PFT score would not command the respect of younger recruits. I would wind up holding them back in their training, reducing their own chances of success. He signed off by wishing me well for my “admirable initiative and wonderful spirit of adventure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">With Marine Corps’ recruit training seemingly out of the question, I began searching for something else to push the envelope as I headed into my seventh decade. About the same time, my wife decided to show friends an old photo that, in a particularly vain moment, I had had blown up to poster size. It was me, at 27, at the end of Kauai’s Kalaulau Trail, standing bronzed, buff, and buck-naked beneath a tropical waterfall that foamed white around my shoulders like an ermine stole. Six-packs were more modest in 1983 than they are now, but, adjusted for changing times, Channing Tatum of <i>Magic Mike </i>and <i>Magic Mike XXL </i>had nothing on my ripped abs. If the Marine Corps wouldn’t have me, perhaps, I thought, I could become the world’s oldest pole dancer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Conveniently, the Pole Dance Factory, located just around the corner from our house in Barcelona, was offering an intensive four-day class for 50 bucks. Unlike the Marines, the Pole Dance Factory had no age restrictions. It was kismet. I signed up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The following Monday, I boldly strode into the Factory. “Robert, you’re our superstar!” the woman at the reception desk exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I had no idea how she knew me. She’d never seen me before. I took a look around. It wasn’t hard to figure out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Eighteen lithe young women, maybe half of whom had been conceived in the same century as I, were casually stretching out on the wooden floor. Maria, the owner, explained that I was not just the oldest man ever to enroll, but the oldest person ever to do so. At the Pole Dance Factory, this made me an instant superstar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I stripped down to gym shorts and t-shirt and began stretching at the base of the pole in the farthest corner where I was paired up with Sarah, a slip of a young woman. She slapped her tush and explained that she was a swing dance instructor at a club called Spank the Baby. She thought pole dancing might get her into better shape. She had, perhaps, one percent body fat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After some preliminary chitchat, Lidia, our instructor, had us climb the poles. While some of the young women struggled to get off the floor, this I could do, arms only, with no trouble. (In elementary school, in the mid-1960s, I excelled at rope climbing—an Olympic sport until 1932.) Suitably warmed up, Lidia demonstrated the <i>bombero</i>, “the fireman,” our first move, which involved grasping the pole with the inside arm, taking a few loping steps, lifting the feet off the ground, and then gracefully twirling around the pole on the way to a soft landing on the floor. Having made the move, Sarah—with a sweep of her arm—ceded the pole to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">With the enthusiasm of the teenager I no longer was, I made an aggressive <i>jeté </i>of the kind that Tchaikovsky never imagined when composing <i>The Nutcracker. </i>It was then that I had my first pole dancing Wile E. Coyote moment, the moment when Wile E.—suspended over a bottomless abyss—realizes that “TNT + anvil” is never a good idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My flawed combination consisted of boxer shorts, an unforgiving steel pole, and male anatomy. In the suspended half second before I plummeted to the ground, like Wile E., I’m sure a look of “uh-oh” crossed my face. I didn’t feel my body hit the floor. I was too focused on the fact that, suddenly and unexpectedly, I had four tonsils instead of two. In a cloudy, pain-shrouded sort of way, I could hear young, female voices gasping all around me “Oh—My—God.” (Actually, in this case, <i>¡Dios mio! </i>or <i>¡Madre!</i>) As I lay on the floor, pondering the ceiling while trying to recover my breath and dignity, time stood still. I reflected on the hollow ache that was radiating from my groin to my forehead and that had me frozen, paralyzed on the floor, as if rendered completely immobile by the phaser-like weapon of some sneering, comic book super villain. That was when, incongruously, I thought of the lyrics of <i>Tonight</i>, the song from <i>West Side Story. </i>“Tonight, the minutes seem like hours, the hours go so slowly…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Some minutes later—after breath and life had returned—I rolled onto my side, stood up, and made as if nothing at all had happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Even as I understood that I would never be hired to work at the Bada Bing!, I soon mastered the <i>bombero</i>. What I could not master was my inner ear. I am someone who can read a book—without a hint of discomfort—while seated in the last row of a bus zigging and zagging over a mountain pass in the Andes. But swinging around the pole overwhelmed me with nausea. Having just recovered from my TNT + anvil incident, would I now have to run for the toilet with a hand clamped over my mouth? Just how humiliating was this going to get? Before the Marines turned me down, I had been worried about how I would survive the 11<sup>th </sup>week of training, which includes “The Crucible,” 54 hours of non-stop physical and mental challenges with little sleep or food. Thirty minutes into my special, promotional adventure at The Pole Dance Factory, I was wondering how I was going to survive day one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Despite a dose of Dramamine, day two started out little better. I would do one <i>bombero </i>clockwise and then another counter-clockwise, hoping this would spin the bile rising in my throat back down where it belonged. It didn’t work. If I couldn’t handle pole-dancing 101, how would I ever convince the Marines to reconsider their decision?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Feeling as though I just had downed an entire punch bowl of Purple Jesus, the class moved on to our next move. Instead of simply hooking our ankles around the pole, we would now do so with one knee cocked around the pole and the other leg straight out, foot pointed. This was the come-hither move featured on The Pole Dance Factory’s logo. Sarah and most of the other young women took to this enchanting, sensuous move like crocodiles to water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Attempting this, I realized another caveat the Pole Dance Factory had neglected to mention in its literature, which was that with each turn around the pole, the hairs on the inside of my thighs were slowly being stretched to the limits of their tensile strength and then, one by one, being yanked out by the root. This reminded me of the dental drilling scene so memorably acted by Lawrence Olivier and Dustin Hoffman in <i>Marathon </i><i>Man</i>, only now with Olivier having been a sadistic cosmetician instead of a Nazi dentist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As the self-inflicted, hair-by-hair torture continued, I slowly, agonizingly, became aware that humans, or at least male humans, have hair in the popliteal fossa, the area opposite the knee cap, also known as the knee pit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To sum up, by the end of 90-minute class #2, the backs of my knees and my inner thighs were as hairless as a newborn mole and as red as if I had decided—for some unimaginable reason—to shave them with a scallop shell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Waking up on day three, I had large, repulsive bruises in the most unnatural of places. The inside of my biceps. The inside of my thighs. The tops of my feet. My knee pits. I don’t know about you, but I have no muscle, no fat, and very little skin on the top of my feet. What is there to bruise? I have no idea but gangrenous splotches were spreading across them with grotesque colors from a bad Pollack painting. Had I turned up dead that morning, I’m sure the <i>CSI/Barcelona </i>team would have been stumped as to the cause of my death. Every inch of my body ached as if I had, indeed, gone hand-to-hand with a 230-pound high school wrestling star.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Still, I wasn’t about to give up. I shaved my legs inside and out. I doubled down on the Dramamine. Finally, the floor of the Pole Dance Factory, which had been raging like the Southern Ocean in winter, began to calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In class I learned how—by extending one leg straight out and cocking the other leg over the top of it—I could lay straight out in mid-air, hands free. Not even all the young women could do this. As I held the position, the three-alarm fire burning through the tender flesh of my inner thighs was, in part, quelled by young, feminine applause.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Heading to the Factory on day four I didn’t know what the future held. Had I found my calling? Should I enroll in the upcoming “Workshop with Pole Stars?” Would the Chippendales soon be calling?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My pole partner Sarah was absent on day four. Another young woman, one who had previously been training on her own pole, asked if she could share mine. Where was Sarah, “your girlfriend,” she wanted to know. Enchanted that she might even think that Sarah—at least 35 years my junior—was my girlfriend, I forgot, for a moment, about the Marines and the searing brush fire that had burned my body hair to the ground. Maybe, I thought, I’m not as old as I sometimes feel. Maybe, I thought, I’m not as decrepit as I sometimes imagine I look.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Tell them how old you are,” Maria said to me at the end of class. I didn’t want to. I am in those twilight years of early old age when <i>I </i>can’t believe how old I’ve gotten. “Tell them,” she insisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I’ll be 61 in three months,” I said. Several smiled. A few others put their hands to their mouths in disbelief. “See,” Maria said. “You <i>are </i>our superstar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I left that evening, I thought that maybe in a few years, as I approach 65, I’ll contact the Marines again and show Jim Mattis what’s what. But what I’m thinking now is that if I work really, really hard, if I enroll in Dancing with the Pole Stars, that maybe, just maybe, Channing Tatum will cast me in <i>Magic Mike III, </i>which maybe he’ll call <i>Magic Mike: The Senior Sessions. </i>Or <i>Magic Mike: Dancing the High-Fiber Diet. </i>In either case, Mr. Tatum, if you are reading this, I’ll be ready for my close-up.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-56115679744443974812018-08-22T13:58:00.000+03:002018-12-06T19:33:54.182+03:00Coulda, Shoulda... Didn'tA new, short essay of mine can now be read by clicking on <a href="http://www.mydigitalpublication.com/publication/?i=508165&article_id=3125400&view=articleBrowser&ver=html5#{"issue_id":508165,"view":"articleBrowser","article_id":"3125400"}" target="_blank">Coulda, Shoulda... Didn't</a>. Hope you enjoy it.Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-51885146902967546672018-05-24T16:25:00.002+03:002021-02-26T00:31:52.037+03:00Big, Hairy, and Audacious<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; text-align: right;">
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<i style="font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 10pt;">A truncated version of this story appeared on the cover of the January/February 2017 edition of <span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal;">Stanford </span>magazine. The information included below was current at that time.</span></i><span face="-webkit-standard" style="text-align: start;"></span></div>
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he trip to Psaltry does not fill one with an overwhelming sense of optimism. First, you must escape from Lagos and its 20 or 25 million people. For miles, your car jerks forward in stop-and-go traffic and then screams down eight- and ten-lane freeways bordered by luxury malls, athletic stadiums, office buildings, slums, single-story shops, apartment buildings, gated communities, and every kind of parking lot and open market imaginable. In a game of suicidal Whack-A-Mole, hundreds of school children, market women, and people on their way to work dash, dodge, zig and zag directly in front of your car for want of crosswalks and pedestrian bridges. Every 200 yards or so you just miss hitting another municipal worker as she sweeps the highway shoulder clean with an indifference to the passing mayhem that would impress Dr. Seuss’s Sneelock. Then, suddenly, without warning, the highway narrows, the pavement ends, and your car bottoms out. Repeatedly. The freeway has become the Ho Chi Minh trail—only without the jungle canopy. Semis, taxis, tankers, private cars, tractors, police cars, motorcycles, busses, military vehicles, and jitneys flop wildly from side to side as they lurch forward through chassis-swallowing craters of hardened mud, never ceding a millimeter to anyone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This bumper-to-bumper, fender-to-fender conga line lets you examine a post-apocalyptic, Mad Max world. People and commerce are everywhere. Vehicles ooze past one another like blood cells fighting to get around a coronary clot that needs a quintuple by-pass. Except for the occasional private car, there’s nothing on four wheels—or eighteen—that doesn’t look like a Demolition Derby veteran just released from the Marquis de Sade Body Shop.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back on good road, you’re again moving too quickly to catch the small-print details of billboards like the one advertising “Shit Business is Serious Business.” You’ve already driven past several of Nigeria’s super-sized mega-churches—churches that can hold a quarter of a million, half a million, <i>a million congregants </i>on any given Sunday. Places that make Joel Osteen’s Lakewood Church in Houston look like an AM/PM. How does anyone survive here, you wonder. How does any government govern <i>this</i>?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now on a quiet, two-lane rural road you breathe calmly as you cruise through scrubland and low forest. Every ten miles or so—maybe every five—you are stopped by a soldier or a policeman and asked for papers. A bantering discussion hints at the need for a dash—a small bribe, or gratuity if you like—when a discrepancy is found between the number on your car’s engine and the one listed on the registration. You begin to think that corruption—after petroleum—might be Nigeria’s most important extractive industry. Eventually—with smiles and no money exchanged—you are waved through. The telephone lines have disappeared. The power lines are gone. There is no traffic. There appear to be no people. Now you are in pure bush.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Down the road a bit—at the speed of a California rolling stop—you slide through an immigration checkpoint that is improbably located 50 miles from the nearest international border. You will do so three more times today, mainly exchanging friendly waves with the men on duty. The fourth time through, however, you find yourself in hot pursuit by six of the same men, all of them brandishing AK-47s. “Who are you‽ Why didn’t you stop‽ Where’s your passport‽” they demand as if they’ve never seen you before. Although we are 750 miles from where the Boko Haram has been terrorizing northeastern Nigeria and 300 miles from where the Niger Delta Avengers have again been behaving badly—kidnapping oil workers, blowing up pipelines, killing Nigerian soldiers—the men explain, after seeing my passport, that these days they need to be extra vigilant. A Jamaican woman traveling in the car with me says she’s never been more scared in her life. That says something. The annual murder rate in the United States is 3.9 per 100,000 inhabitants. In Nigeria, it’s 10.3 citizens. In Jamaica it’s 36.1.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At last you reach the turn-off to Psaltry, which leads you from the middle of nowhere to the center of nowhere. The factory looms on the horizon, high above freshly turned fields. Halfway there, a Peugeot 404 pick-up—once the ubiquitous work horse of rural Africa—blocks the dirt track, its small engine propped on the front grill. Three men—their clothes, hands, and faces covered in grease—stand around waiting for a colleague to return with the part they need. They’ve been waiting for three days. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You—if you’ve been lucky and missed the worst of Lagos’ notorious traffic—have made the trip to Psaltry in just under four hours. You’ve gone 100 miles. It’s a trip that has done nothing to undermine the hackneyed, etched-in-stone, NGO-donation-solicitation-reinforced, thousand-times told “single story” about Africa—a story just told once again here—of a continent mired in war, poverty, civil strife and dysfunction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Who, you wonder, would ever have started a multi-million dollar business <i>out here</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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t’s “a nice round figure,” Bob King says of the $100 million he and his wife Dottie initially planned to give Stanford. As word got around campus about the Stanford Institute for Innovation in Developing Economies—which would be headquartered in the business school—other schools wanted in. To make that possible, the Kings upped their ante to $150 million. They consider it an investment, not a gift.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Devout Christians, the Kings are deeply troubled by the increasing worldwide disparity between the haves and have-nots. They also are also firm believers in the power of free markets and capitalism to transform society. “When I think about how incredibly fortunate we have been over our adult lives, business careers, whatever,” Bob King says, “We feel we are called to be a blessing to others." The return they expect on their investment in “Seed”—as the Institute is commonly known—is to “solve poverty by job creation.” Seed will do this by providing intensive training and support to established entrepreneurs, making it possible for them to up their game by orders of magnitude and vastly expand employment opportunities.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Among other activities, Seed also supports academic research which Faculty Director Jesper Sørensen expects to produce “fundamental breakthroughs that will transform the way we think” about problems in the developing world and how they relate to poverty. Another ambition is to make Stanford “the leading research university for thinking about the challenges of poverty in the developing world.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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These are big, hairy, audacious goals worthy of the Business School’s motto: “Change Lives, Change Organizations, Change the World.” In their philanthropy, the Kings say they are “intentional” and “results oriented.” They would like to see Seed lift half a billion people out of extreme poverty—generally considered to be those living on something less than $2 a day—by the 2030s. “It’ll be after we’re gone,” says Bob, who is 81, while sitting next to Dottie, who is 80, on a sofa in their living room in Menlo Park. “But that’s okay.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the history of the world, no institution and only one nation has ever raised up so many in such short order; China—where the Kings’ already considerable wealth was bolstered significantly by an early investment in Baidu, China’s homegrown version of Google. China—without the pesky distractions of democracy—managed this unprecedented achievement thanks to Deng Xiaoping’s Open Door and the country’s “one child” policy, which helped limit overall population growth since 1978 to about 30%. During the same period, the population of sub-Saharan Africa tripled from around 350 million to more than a billion. Estimates for 2100 range from two and half to four billion people, more than half of the world’s population today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If you look at the dimensions of the problem, no way can you get there with $150 million,” says former Seed Executive Director Tralance Addy. According to his calculations, the King’s goal is attainable—but it’s going to take more money. A lot more. Maybe a billion. Maybe more. Still, in the world of international development, lifting half a billion people out of extreme poverty for a billion dollars would constitute a bargain and an amazing success. Since 1960, Ghana and Nigeria—the two countries where Seed has been most active—have received the equivalent of more than $70 billion in foreign assistance, much of it to little enduring effect. Former Seed coach Hans Nilsson says the development money floods in and “evaporates.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Announced in 2012, Seed got off the ground a year later with the launching of the Stanford Transformation Program (“STP”) in Accra, Ghana at the Institute’s first overseas center. The timing was auspicious. Two recent cover stories in <i>The Economist </i>had featured “Africa Rising;” one was graced by a giraffe with a neck shaped like the rapidly-rising growth curve of a Silicon Valley unicorn and the other with a child pulling a high-flying, rainbow-colored kite cut in the shape of the continent. Experts from the World Bank and IMF noted that high rates of return on investments in Africa could soon have the continent following “in the footsteps of Asia.” Few of them, however, seem to have given up their income-tax free, high-paying, low-risk jobs in Washington to move to Africa and give it a go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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mmanuel Kitcher is a compact bundle of energy who radiates optimism with a warmth that rivals the way the Sun warms the Earth. Kitcher—who had a long, successful career in Ghanaian industry before becoming Seed’s first Regional Director—views Africa’s economic potential through glasses ground in the “Silver Linings” school of optometry. Once people’s needs are met and their material problems solved, opportunities for businesses to make out-sized returns become harder to find. By this way of thinking, opportunities in Africa abound because consumer demand is only just ramping up and so much of everything is still in short supply. Kitcher expects 80% of the companies participating in Seed to takeoff. “I like the challenge of ‘impossible,’” he says as a way of explaining why he signed on with Seed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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STP consists of intensive, MBA-style, executive education spread over six months when leaders from participating companies gather in Accra—and now in Nairobi at a center opened in May 2016—to attend seminars given predominantly by Stanford Graduate School of Business faculty and to network with peers from across the region. In Seed “1.0,” companies received up to a year’s worth of intensive, hands-on, “high-touch” coaching from seasoned business people like Nilsson who typically volunteer 12 to 18 months of their lives to advise, cajole, motivate and buoy the spirits of Seed companies across their regions. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You almost live with the companies,” says Geoffrey Otiendo, a Kenyan and former director of Nokia, of his experience as a coach. Despite the coaches being “incredibly motivated and incredibly passionate,” Sørensen says the challenge is that it's expensive to recruit them, support them, and—because of the intensive nature of the coach/company relationship—“they don’t scale,” which restricted the number of companies Seed could accept. It’s a bottleneck that Seed “2.0”—rolled out in September 2016—is expected to resolve. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, instead of the coaches, locally hired facilitators, supervised by Kweku Fleming, work with Seed companies in between weeks of STP training to bring staff members up to speed on the gist of what their bosses are going over in class. Many CEOs get “swallowed up” by the day-to-day at work and hardly have time to teach the STP curriculum to others. This is where many business development programs fall down, because although they teach “the talk,” they don’t help companies “walk the walk.” If—after STP—companies revert to form, “Then you haven’t achieved anything,” says Tralance Addy. Faculty Director Sørensen expects Seed’s use of facilitators to free up time for coaches and to “bridge the gap” between knowing and doing, between book knowledge and applied action and changed behaviors at STP companies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Not every businessperson is striving for the kind of success that will bring them champagne wishes and caviar dreams says Emmanuel Kitcher. “Many are already content.” When Seed approaches them and says, “<i>You </i>can be a regional leader. <i>You </i>can be a global leader. <i>You </i>can employ large numbers of people and help eradicate poverty. <i>You </i>just need to scale up, to <i>transform</i>” this does not make everyone “jump up.” Many wonder if Seed is seeing the same reality that they do. “We knew it was not going to be an easy mission, selling this dream.” But for those for whom the message does resonate, it seems to resonate powerfully on a life-changing frequency.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mrs. O. T. Aderinwale, CEO of Justrite, a Nigerian chain of big box discount stores, says that after an STP module on design thinking “My brain just opened… I became a changed person.” It had taken her 11 years to open her second store. In the last three years, she’s opened four more, and plans to open another 36 by 2021. Prior to participating in STP, Femi Oye, co-founder and CEO of SMEFunds, says he’d been working for months on a plan to open four new outlets. Subsequently, his company didn’t open four, but twelve, which, he says, previously would have taken four years. They did it in 12 months.<o:p></o:p></div>
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According to former coach Jerry Hudson, a problem with Seed 1.0 was that too many of the companies selected were too small, too young or insufficiently committed to benefit in a cost-effective way from what Seed had to offer. In Seed 2.0, “high touch” coaching is extended to STP companies based on leadership skills, on their potential for innovation, revenue growth, expanded employment and profitability, and on their application of the managerial techniques covered during STP. In another significant change, participation in STP now costs; $5,000 for the training and $5,000 for the coaching, considerable amounts for businesses at the smaller end of the range that qualifies them for participation in Seed—$150,000 to $15 million in annual revenues—but still heavily subsidized. Constantin Salameh extended his commitment to Seed for a second year and relocated from Accra to Nairobi. “Ultimately you need to charge. If (the companies) get it for free... they won’t value it the same.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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As of November 2016, 23 coaches, 23 Stanford faculty, eight regional lecturers, and 160 companies had participated in the STP; 134 in six West African cohorts and 26 in the first East African cohort. Seed expects to open its next center sometime in 2017, either in Southeast or South Asia. Longer-term plans include opening three or four more centers to expand the Institute’s reach and to facilitate “south-south” networking and the cross-pollination.<o:p></o:p></div>
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emisi Iranloye had heard it over and over again. “It’s not going to work. It’s going to fail.” After all, how could a city girl and 40-something mother of two who had never lived in a village—“Not for one day!”—build a food-grade starch factory in the back of the Nigerian beyond? There was no water at the site. The nearest electricity was 10 miles away. She’d need technicians and young professionals willing to work far from any bright lights other than the stars at night. Plus, she’d have to convince hundreds of semi- and non-literate farmers to change age-old practices for them to be able to supply her with sufficient quantities of raw material, cassava. And she’d have to give up a steady job as the COO of a major Nigerian agricultural processing company. Even her parents didn’t believe it would work. None of the naysaying got to her. In 2012, she built a small house atop a huge granite dome from where she would be able to overlook—and oversee—the company’s and farmers’ fields, demonstration plots, farm settlements, and her factory. Because Iranloye thought the word—found in the Old Testament and almost nowhere else—sounded sweet, she named her company Psaltry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Four years later, Psaltry’s factory—where capacity has already been doubled—is profitable and produces between 20 and 30 tons of cassava starch a day for buyers like Nestle, Heineken and Nigerian Breweries. The company has 200 employees and 10,000 job applications in its database. Hundreds of farmers supply the factory and are paid through a mobile phone banking app. Twenty thousand others have requested training. International food companies want Iranloye to replicate her model in other African countries. She’d like to do so first in other parts of Nigeria. What she wishes is that her own government had supported her the way it did in a program to resettle highly-experienced white farmers, who had been run off their land in Zimbabwe by Robert Mugabe. Once in Nigeria those farmers got roads, power, loans, tax holidays and more—“<i>Ev-er-y-ting </i>what they would not give their own farmers”—and still nearly all of them failed. With similar backing, Iranloye says Psaltry would be ten times ahead of where it is now. “Where is the level playing field?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Despite her success—and that of many Seed CEOs—every day Iranloye and her STP colleagues must lean in at angles that would have highly regarded, serial entrepreneurs in Silicon Valley looking up from the pavement wondering what had hit them. Iranloye spent half a million dollars to bring electricity from the national grid to the plant site. It works so sporadically that it’s now a backup for her back-up generators, which she must run days on end at a time. In 2016, when Nigeria—despite being Africa’s largest oil producer (and the 13<sup>th </sup>largest in the world)—was running out of refined fuel, Iranloye faced the prospect of no grid power <i>and </i>no diesel for the generators. “It was hell,” she says.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or take the case of GHS, an affordable housing company operating in and around Accra. When they decided to open GHS, husband and wife Baffour and Benedicta Osei had never heard of William Levitt, the white, Jewish builder whose eponymously named suburbs in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania transformed the American way of life after World War II. They hoped to do the same thing for Ghanaian expatriates and middle-class families in the predominantly agricultural suburbs of Accra. Trying to do so from London, they lost over $100,000 on land deals gone bad and nearly lost their home as well. Baffour gave up a promising and secure job with Bechtel working on the London subway system and relocated to Ghana.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By 2013 GHS was on a roll. The Osei’s plan to build 2,500 homes on rezoned agricultural land 40 minutes out of Accra might just fly. Then, in February 2014, with no warning, the Bank of Ghana closed its foreign currency window. Bank loans, if you could get one, rose to 3%—<i>a month.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Nearly all of GHS’s buyers received their salaries in Ghanaian cedis. Yet GHS homes had been priced in dollars. Overnight, the nominal cost of GHS’s homes quadrupled. Clients’ salaries, which hadn’t changed, no longer were sufficient for mortgages they had arranged. The result was devastating. In 2013, Baffour and Benedicta had sold 128 houses. In 2014, they sold three.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then there’s the case of DrugStoc, a Nigerian drug distribution company, where co-founders Adham Eyhia and Chibuzo Opara, MD, have been planning the “health care revolution” of the poorly regulated medical and pharmaceutical industries since they met in 2009. Now their start-up must overcome deeply entrenched credibility issues in a country where as many as 70% of all drugs on the market are either substandard or out-and-out fakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And there’s the incredible situation that confronted Justrite CEO Aderinwale in 2016, when the Nigerian naira began to plummet against the dollar. In an instant she started hearing from her suppliers almost continuously. Why? Because many of them were adjusting their prices upward—<i>three and four times a week</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Doing business where such events are the rule and not the exception is “not for the faint-hearted,” says Victor Oduguwa. After 20 years of industrial and corporate experience in the U.K. and Nigeria, Victor Oduguwa was at the top of his game but bored. As a black man in England, he knew “there’s always going to be a ceiling and the ceiling was there.” But what troubled him more was the never-ending discussions about what was wrong with his homeland. “One thing you will get amongst people of color—intellectual people of color—we are very good at articulating our problems, but we are a little bit short on finding solutions to these problems. Or the guts to do it. That's a problem.” In 2004, he returned to Nigeria. It was two years before his wife decided to follow him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At MTN/Nigeria Oduguwa was responsible for putting up thousands of cell phone towers all across Nigeria. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to prove a point, that even with all the enormous challenges it faces, Nigeria—and perhaps all of Africa—can become the powerhouse that has been predicted for decades. So in 2012 he gave up his high-powered, high-paying job with MTN (a South African multinational) to go into what he says Nigerians call a “laughable profession,” something to do when you are retired; chicken farming. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In fact, Oduguwa isn’t just in the egg and poultry business. He’s also in the compost/fertilizer business as he works out the best option for the nine tons of manure his birds produce every day. Everyone said he was crazy—including Abiola his wife and now business partner who has degrees in microbiology, bio-informatics, and drug discovery and artificial intelligence from the U.K. At MTN, Oduguwa was at the top of his game. “I was comfortable. I was safe.” But his life was mapped out for him until the end of time. “I didn’t want that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a sweep of his arm, Oduguwa, who completed the Global Management Program at Harvard and has an MBA and a PhD in engineering from the UK, says, “This,” NationFeeders—the business the Oduguwas started in 2012 on family farmland an hour outside of Lagos—“is a real case study.” Like Yemisi Iranloye, the Oduguwas started without water, without roads, without power. Oduguwa likens running a business where so many of the structures that are taken for granted elsewhere are missing or don’t work to “trying to stand on water.” For most entrepreneurs in the so-called “third-world,” failure simply isn’t an option.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s a badge of honor to fail in Silicon Valley,” says former Seed coach Clinton Etheridge, who first went to Africa in 1970 as a Peace Corps volunteer. “If you go out of business in Africa, it’s your extended family (that) is going to suffer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Emmanuel Kitcher says that Donald Trump, long before he ever got close to the situation the Osei’s found themselves, would have declared Chapter 11. In West Africa, Kitcher says, “There is no book. There is no chapter.” You simply have to do whatever is necessary to survive. The Osei’s credit former coach Andrew Meade with helping them pull through. In his own career, Meade had experienced the wild swings of the construction and real estate industries and could share with them the lessons he had learned not just on a white board but also in the hard, cold, unforgiving reality of concrete. “It isn’t like we are such geniuses,” Hans Nilsson says of the coaches’ ability to bring real world lessons into play. “It’s just 30 years of learning stupid things that we stumbled on to... If you’re 34, you just don’t know.” Former coach Noelene Hosking says that had she been faced with so many things that are beyond any individual company’s control at a similar stage in her 30-year career she might well have given up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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emisi Iranloye sometimes notices visitors poking their heads around Psaltry’s offices and factory as though looking for something they expect to find but cannot; the white or Asian expatriate who is running the place. Even Nigerians are surprised when they learn that Psaltry is owned and operated solely by locals. “We have refused to believe in ourselves,” Iranloye says even as she herself exudes the confidence of someone who would not be daunted if commanded to part the Red Sea and lead her people—peasant farmers—to the Promised Land.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her comment about the lack of self-confidence among her compatriots is one I heard over and over again when I sat in on week three of the STP in Accra and met with 15 Seed CEOs over the course of sixteen days last July in Ghana and Nigeria. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Samuel Agyapong Appenteng and a brother started their own business after their father—a serial entrepreneur—passed away. Divvying up the three companies their father left behind for his 22 children was just the kind of situation—albeit with more complicated arithmetic—that is a common source of demise for family firms everywhere. Now Appenteng is the managing director of Joissam, a well-drilling and water service company based in Accra. He remembers being told and taught as a child that everything African was inferior. He shakes his head recounting how many Ghanaians still believe that the only solution for their country is to be recolonized. Decades of handouts and ineffective government have created an atmosphere of hopelessness and disempowerment for millions of ordinary citizens who have been “developed” into dependency. In their collective 118 years of independence, Ghana and Nigeria have had 27 governments between them, 11 of which were brought about by coups, assassinations, or both. Leslye Obiora served as Minister for Mines and Steel Development under Nigeria President Olusegun. She says that by the time one government gets settled in, the plans of previous ones “have grown legs and run away.” The combined effect is made clear by one of the most oft-repeated statistics in development economics; that in 1960 Ghana’s per capita gross domestic product was higher than South Korea’s. Now it’s about one-twentieth of Korea’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Though the physical, financial, and structural challenges facing Africa may appear to be daunting, it may be entrenched cultural and psychological practices that present the highest, though intangible, hurdles. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“We've outsourced our ability to think for ourselves,” says Alex Adjei Bram, who, in 2005, co-founded SMSGH—a rapidly growing, apps developer—with his best friend from high school. They’ve since surpassed $10 million a year in revenues and their 80-plus employees will soon outgrow the office building they put up in downtown Accra.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bram says that what he sees happening in Ghana and elsewhere in Africa reminds him of what a school teacher told him and his classmates long ago: “You’ve grown, but you’ve not developed. You haven’t learned anything about yourself.” This lack of a national and continental vision is one that Obiora, now a law professor at the University of Arizona, underscored at the 2016 Stanford Africa Business Forum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“We've not really built that national identity, let alone had a conversation about who really are we, where are we going, and who do we want to become,” she said. If Nigeria and other African nations continue racing head-long down the western, consumer-based model of development, they risk losing “the cultural heterogeneity and uniqueness of our people” which will be a “tragedy.” “We're going to be this hodgepodge of wannabes.” When, over lunch, Afua Tetteh, a Ghanaian researcher at the medical school, hears that Obiora is a Stanford graduate, she congratulates her effusively.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Please,” the former minister says dismissively. “I graduated from the University of Nigeria, which was more of an achievement.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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lex Adjei Bram was indifferent when he first heard about Seed. A graduate in chemistry from the Kwame Nkrumah Institute of Science and Technology in Kumasi, Ghana, he was already a serial entrepreneur, albeit at a small scale. He didn’t get how CEOs were supposed to take significant chunks of time off to do “<i>this</i>”—strategy, organizational design, finance, accounting, value chain, ethics, governance, leadership, marketing, value proposition, HR, design thinking, <i>and </i>come up with a transformation plan that would, well, transform their companies. Skeptical, he dropped in on day one of the STP. If there were anything useful, maybe he’d stay. If not, he had plenty to do at the office. By Wednesday, he says that if, “They had asked me to jump,” he would have answered, “How high?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nicole Amarteifio’s expectations were equally modest. The Ghanaian graduate of Brandeis and Georgetown had finding an accountant and going from “a to b” as her big goals for STP. She was just too busy working on <i>An African City</i>—her taboo-breaking, intentionally explicit, made-for-the-web, <i>Sex in the City </i>knock-off television show—to think about anything else. Now, she says it feels like she’s gone from “A to Z.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Amarteifio, like many others in STP, is a repatriate, or “re-pat,” someone who spent years overseas then decided to come home for good. She did so with two objectives in mind; to help make “Gollywood” a thriving, global, film, and television location that gets mentioned with Hollywood, Bollywood (India) and Nollywood (Nigeria), and to disrupt the single story of Africa. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Starting with a season of ten 13-minute episodes, Amarteifio built a television series around five young, rich, privileged Ghanaian women trying to find romance and success back on native soil. For doing so, she was repeatedly asked—by Ghanaians and foreigners—why didn’t she create a show about “Sodom and Gomorrah,” the colloquial name for one of Accra’s roughest neighborhoods. To her that would have been just another “single story” show. She wanted to highlight a segment of African society that many people—off the continent and on—don’t know exists.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the MacArthur award-winning Nigerian author of <i>Half of a Yellow Sun </i>and <i>Amerikanah</i>, spoke to the debilitating consequences of the single story in a 2009 TED Talk. Upon arriving in the U.S. for the first time in the mid-90s, she was surprised and stunned that her college roommate, who knew nothing about Adichie, already felt sorry for her—just because was African. The roommate’s “default position” was “a kind of patronizing, well-meaning pity.” It’s an attitude that—among NGOs, international development agencies, faith-based relief organizations, and others—is as persistent and malignant as cancer, at once infantilizing, co-opting, and demeaning. When a show comes out in the U.S. about people living large, no one questions it even though it does not represent how the majority lives. Why does doing so in an African setting brings up questions and criticism, Amarteifio wants to know. To her, it indicates just how deeply entrenched the single story is in the world’s limited image of an entire continent. Says Clinton Etheridge, “Stereotypes about Africa die hard.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>An African City </i>is already changing some of those images. It’s been picked up by Ebony Live TV and Canal Afrique, and featured in dozens of venues including <i>Forbes, The New Yorker</i>, <i>Ebony, </i>and the BBC. With its bare-bones budget, tiny cast and crew, it’s unlikely that <i>An African City </i>will make much of a direct contribution toward the Kings’ goal of lifting half a billion people out of poverty. But it might put Ghanaian <i>haute couture </i>on the map. Amarteifio’s five heroines switch outfits—each one more fabulous than the last—more often than Kate and Pippa Middleton put together. <o:p></o:p></div>
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ike any start-up, Seed is not without its tensions, conflicts, once-promising dead-ends, and existential and operational contradictions. No one should be surprised that—by putting together an Institute with stakeholders that include research-oriented academics, pragmatic business executives, philanthropists, hard-pressed and hard-pressing CEOs—it was pretty much a certainty that differences of opinion about what Seed should be doing—and when and where—would flourish. Despite vast financial and academic resources, Seed has not always germinated according to plan. Two of its early prime movers, Tralance Addy and former GSB Dean Garth Saloner, are no longer in their posts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Addy, a Ghanaian by birth and a long-time senior executive at Johnson & Johnson, remains an enthusiastic advocate for Seed even though he’d rather not discuss the circumstance under which he left the Institute’s leadership except to say he had done as much as he could “under the circumstances”—circumstances that included differences of opinion about the balance between academic research and hands-on support to businesses in the field, and a frenzy of unfavorable media attention concerning Saloner’s leadership.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sørensen says Seed is a “very complex project never tried by a university before” and that “It’s unrealistic to think that there’s a perfect vision and no growing pains.” Will it work? Who knows. “Five years down the road, we might be in a better position to answer that question,” says Constantin Salameh.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One touchy question yet to be resolved is whether Seed will find the billion dollars Tralance Addy calculated it needs. With the Kings $150 million investment, standard endowment mathematics indicate that Seed’s budget is around $7.5 million a year. (Seed administration declined to comment, citing GSB policy.) If finances currently are the governor on Seed’s ability to grow, why then are faculty members compensated, and “compensated well” according to one professor, to teach when Seed coaches, like doctors on medical missions, volunteer months or years of their time for nothing but expenses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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According to Sørensen and others, when Seed was started, executive education-like compensation, which runs to many thousands of dollars per session, was thought necessary to encourage faculty members to take up the call to “Change Lives.” Now that Seed is well underway, why, one might ask, is that still necessary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Research is another area where some believe Seed’s approach may need a serious re-think. To date it has spent more than $9.5 million on around 100 research projects with no fundamental breakthroughs of the kind Sørensen hopes for. Although the titles of most of the projects indicate some connection with the challenges presented by entrenched poverty, none of them has yet proposed some type of unified theory to bring it all together. And many seem to cover ground that has been tilled by researchers for decades. While noting that it’s still early in the game, one GSB professor characterized the work done so far as “pathetic.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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One piece of promising Seed-supported research is “Does Management Matter? Evidence from India,” co-authored by professors Nicholas Bloom, John Roberts, and three others. Their work showed that Seed-like coaching led to a 17% increase in productivity in a segment of the Indian textile industry in the first year and the opening of more plants within three years. Aside from anecdotal evidence, this type of cause and effect data has not yet been collected and studied by Seed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the absence of data, some suggest using proxies to assess Seed’s impact so far; for example, in the case of coaches, how many STP companies have offered to pay former coaches to continue advising them or to join their boards of directors after their formal commitment has ended. Constantin Salameh now serves on seven boards and Hans Nilsson on three. Several other “retired” coaches continue to consult with their STP companies, some formally, others informally, and/or sit on boards of advisors and boards of directors. Maybe coaches are “scalable” but in a way that Seed didn’t originally imagine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Trying to conquer something as complicated as poverty is frighteningly complicated. While Bloom and Roberts’ research is promising, improved productivity, and even opening new plants, does not necessarily translate to greater employment. High-growth, high-tech companies like SMSGH are unlikely to hire the poorest of the poor. They need engineers and university graduates. Agricultural endeavors like Psaltry may very well elevate the economic status of indigent farmers. Others in the same sector, like NationFeeders, may not. Even as the Oduguwas plan to increase the number of their layers by 150% from 100,000 to a quarter of a million, their expanded use of automated equipment means that employment levels grow only slightly, if at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Managing academics famously makes herding cats look like an easy career choice. But if Seed is to solve a “BHAG” (big, hairy, audacious goal) as complex as extreme poverty it is likely to require the coordinated focus of a Manhattan Project. After all, the World Bank, UN, IMF, and countless NGOs, think tanks, and others have been at it for decades. While a few grand slams have been hit—the green revolution in agriculture, the eradication of smallpox, for example—no silver bullet has been found, not in Africa, not in Asia, not in Appalachia, not in East Palo Alto. Research that is focused laser-like on extreme poverty may need to take priority over academics’ own particular areas of interest. Highlighting the differences between stakeholders, one coach told me that, "The interest of Stanford Business School is for them to do the research and to do the teaching. Whether companies end up creating value, destroying value, helping create value is maybe less important.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Surprisingly, since the world’s first business school opened in Paris nearly 200 years ago, very little research has been done anywhere that proves that business education actually makes a demonstrable difference in company performance. Rather than the teaching, some have suggested that the selection of participants—whether in Seed, at the GSB, in undergraduate admissions or in Executive Education—is the key predictor of future success. Seed’s portfolio of CEOs abounds with highly-credentialed scientists, lawyers, IT professionals, doctors, accountants, MBAs, engineers, and other professionals with years of experience and degrees from Harvard, Stanford, Dartmouth, Oxford, MIT and elite African universities. These are people who have already succeeded in and out of Africa. And a degree from abroad is not a necessary condition for success. When Yemisi Iranloye refers to her alma mater—the “great U.I.”—she’s not referring to the homes of Herky the Hawk of the University of Iowa or the Illini of Illinois. She’s talking about where she got her second degree in biochemistry; the University of Ibadan, Nigeria’s oldest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One thing many STP executives are excited about is the nascent and growing network of Seed graduates. Because of traditions in which the elder’s word is law—and much of Africa’s turbulent history in which nails that stood out tended to get pounded down, often very hard and relentlessly—across the continent, there remains a strong hesitation to share, whether in a touch-feely way, or about business ideas and performance, the kind of conversations that are now commonplace in many parts of the word. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In September 2016, 92 past participants from Nigeria, Ghana, Senegal, and Ivory Coast gathered in Lagos for the first meeting of the Seed Transformation Network. The hope is that when the number of companies that have been through STP reaches a certain scale—250 or 500 companies are figures that have been mentioned—a critical mass will start and a Silicon Valley-like reaction will take place with ideas generating more ideas and companies spawning start-ups at an accelerating rate. However, unlike Silicon Valley, which began with Terman, Hewlett and Packard in the 1930s and has remained intensely focused, both geographically and in terms of industries, Seed’s valley will span the globe and include companies from high-tech to low-tech. Whether critical mass can be achieved in such an expansive, distributed network is another question for Seed. The answer may already be forming or not known for years. </div>
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he Kings and many others have been encouraged by Seed’s results so far. Numerous companies have grown quickly, doubling sales two and three times and more. The Nigerian cosmetics and beauty business, House of Tara, has seen its employment numbers increase many fold. Kweku Fleming, who started coaching with the first STP cohort in 2013, has worked directly with more Seed companies than anyone else. To him, Seed is a “world changing institution” that will help bring African companies into positions of global leadership. He believes that—in the near future—a few high profile deals involving Seed companies will “change the game for entrepreneurs in Africa.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Others are less sanguine. Few people have pedigrees as deep and impressive in international development as Bill Grant. Grandson of public health pioneers in China, Peace Corps volunteer in the Central African Empire—arriving when notorious Jean-Bedél Bokassa was emperor and staying on in the Central African Republic after the emperor was deposed—Grant has been at DAI—a global powerhouse in economic development—since 1986 where he is now in charge of DAI’s Market Systems Development practice. Grant literally grew up in international development. His father, the late Jim Grant, was a deputy administrator for the U.S. Agency for International Development in the 1960s and later the Executive Director of UNICEF for 15 years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If you want a platinum-plated experience,” Grant says, “then Seed is the place to go.” Were he to assess Seed using the “Value for Money” approach promoted by the U.K.’s Department for International Development, he’d have to give it “a failing mark.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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For others, Seed’s ultimate success or failure doesn’t diminish rewards already felt. Many STP graduates rave about the classes they took. Joissam’s Samuel Agyapong Appenteng can recite content from the curriculum as easily as he does from the Bible. Joissam’s transformation plan—nearly as thick as an old Manhattan telephone directory—is never far from his reach. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The learning, however, is not a stream that flows only one-way from academics to practitioners. Jesper Sørensen says that faculty members encounter objections from STP participants who say “No, no, no, that’s not how it works.” It drives the faculty “crazy to think their theory of the world” may not be applicable everywhere. Bob King chuckles as he recalls professors who came back to campus thinking ‘Maybe I don’t know everything.’ He hopes they’ll bring back ideas applicable in the U.S. The early, anecdotal accolades continue.<span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Professor Jonathan Levav says that Seed represents “the most rewarding teaching assignment that I've ever had,” a sentiment common among other faculty. Coach Constantin Salameh says that—after a 30-year career in the private sector—he’s finally discovered his true passion, which is to do this—coach—“for the rest of my life.” At his 60<sup>th </sup>birthday party in September, 2016 he had to pause many times to hold back the tears as he tried to express how thankful he has been to have Seed in his life. Yemisi Iranloye has her own idea of what success for Seed would mean—when some of her once-impoverished farmers children can attend Stanford. “Why not?” she says. “Who knows.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 56pt;">T<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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he day after my arrival in Lagos in July 2016—six weeks before Nigeria’s economy was officially declared to be in recession—the <i>New York Times </i>ran yet another lengthy “single story” story; “Nigeria Finds a National Crisis in Every Direction It Turns.” The next morning, I sat down with CEO Yetunde Oghomienor and her senior staff at Aframero, a woodworking products and services business in Lagos. In the corner of a low, dimly lit room, a single fan—powered by Aframero’s back-up generator—turned languidly. Once again, there was no local power. What, I asked, in light of the <i>New York Times </i>article, would the Aframero staff like to say to the people who would read this article?<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a certainty about the future and the rhythm, intonation, and depth of conviction that the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. could not have improved upon, operations manager Blessing Okurafor spoke out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"<i>TRUE, </i>we have Boko Harem issues here,” she said. “<i>TRUE, </i>we have Niger Delta Avengers disturbing us. I will tell <i>this </i>to the <i>New York Times </i>writers—in America—what is happening in Nigeria, if it happened in America, they would all go down <i>immediately</i>. But that's not happening in Nigeria. We wake up with hope <i>ev-er-y</i>-<i>day </i>that tomorrow is going to be better than yesterday.” (“<i>YES!</i>” her colleagues call out as one.) “That is one thing we have in Nigeria and nobody can take it away from us.”</div>
Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-55553329301984615552016-03-03T22:14:00.002+03:002016-03-03T22:17:43.454+03:00New Story on former Secretary of State George Shultz.My profile of former Secretary of State George Shultz can be found by clicking on <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=84559" target="_blank">Steadfast</a>.Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-53715993351771454372015-11-06T16:29:00.004+03:002015-11-06T16:29:47.204+03:00New Stories on former US Marine Corps Captain Jake Harriman can be found <a href="https://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=82381" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
And on former Marine Corps Major Alex Martin <a href="https://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=82614" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
<br />
Both were recently published in <i>Stanford</i> magazine.Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-7953740096029738032014-11-08T11:47:00.001+03:002014-11-08T11:47:37.133+03:00Return to Germany<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A new story of mine, published in <i>Stanford</i> magazine, can be found at the following link: <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=74798" target="_blank">No Simple Apology</a>.</span>Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-83491863728195414742014-07-07T15:24:00.000+03:002017-10-29T15:45:08.124+03:00Honeymoon in Vietnam and other stories<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In 1994, my wife and I traveled extensively in Vietnam while on our honeymoon. Some months later, Nina discovered <i>Destination: Vietnam,</i> a new magazine, and suggested I contact the owners. Lisa Spivey and Albert Wen subsequently published some of my first stories and even sent Nina and me back to Vietnam to do some additional writing in 1995. Those stories can be found by clicking on the links below.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/changing-fortunes" target="_blank">Changing Fortunes</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/escape-cat-ba-island" target="_blank">Escape to Cat Ba Island</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/golfing-vietnam" target="_blank">Golfing in Vietnam</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/honeymooning-vietnam" target="_blank">Honeymooning in Vietnam</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/motorcycling-vietnam" target="_blank">Motorcycling in Vietnam</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/tam-dao-hill-station" target="_blank">Tam Dao Hill Station</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/360-days-year" target="_blank">360 Days a Year</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u><a href="http://thingsasian.com/story/twenty-four-hours-kill-bangkok" target="_blank">24 Hours to Kill in Bangkok</a></u></span><br />
<br />Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-52144622462972885852014-06-24T12:48:00.000+03:002016-08-24T12:43:17.872+03:00The Casier Judiciaire<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don’t know why I thought of it. It was Sunday night, just before 11. After days of packing, weighing, repacking
and reweighing, Nina and I were finalizing the 19 suitcases we would take with
us. In the morning we would empty the
house itself. Everything had been sold;
the beds, the desks, the car, the motorcycle, the bicycles, most of our
clothes, our daughter’s horse Jolie, the art on the walls, everything in the
kitchen except the fridge, toys Allegra had outgrown, rusted garden tools, the
fans off the ceiling, half-melted candles and half-poured bottles of liquor. Everything.
Monday morning at nine the people who had come to our house sale weeks earlier
would come to take away the goods they’d bought and paid for. We would spend Monday night in a hotel. Late Tuesday, we would get the plane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After ten years in Africa, first five in Cameroon and then
five in Madagascar, we were leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
would start from scratch, each of us taking just a couple bags of clothes and
personal items.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other 13 suitcases
were filled with the collages and journals Nina had created over the last
decade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would leave Madagascar with
no work, no home and only the promise of a completely new start awaiting us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Spain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In Barcelona.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Allegra, dead from an allergy pill and the emotional drain
of having said a final good-bye to her friends, had gone to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside, the winter sky was clear, the Milky
Way a swatch of cotton batting stretched across a star-filled sky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This above the anemic lights of Antananarivo, the
capital of Madagascar and a city of two million.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe four million.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Above the bright lights of Barcelona we knew
we would see little other than the moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On a cheap bathroom scale with a dial that tended to stick
before finding its balance, we weighed our bags once again; six of 32 kilos and
13 of 23.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Excess baggage would cost us
at least $2,500, an insane amount but just a few hundred more than airfreight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any case, that was just part of what we
had already spent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was the $3,000 it
had cost to fly to Capetown where, at the Spanish consulate, we had applied for
our residency visas five months earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was the $1,000 that applying had actually cost us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus the deposit at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lycée Français de Barcelone</i> where Allegra would start the
equivalent of tenth grade in just six weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the one-way tickets out of Madagascar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was also the $3,000 we had wired to
secure a sight unseen flat for our first couple of months in Barcelona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there was the looming cost of
replacing everything we had sold for pennies on the dollar in Madagascar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We had, however, done a remarkable job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reducing pretty much everything we owned to
19 suitcases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After days of
reconfiguring, all the bags weighed in just two or three hundred grams below
their limit; additional excess baggage charges were not in our budget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At “T”-minus forty-eight hours, it was time to
prep the carry-on bags.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Where’s the Barcelona folder?” I asked Nina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nina is a ruthless organizer, to the point of
occasionally throwing out what to her appears as clutter but is really a key
spare part, a critical document or a piece of nostalgia that means nothing to
her but will be deeply missed forever by someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the Barcelona folder, Nina had gathered
our plane tickets, print outs of emails with our soon-to-be landlady, maps highlighting
the way from the Barcelona airport to the apartment, documents necessary for Allegra’s
enrollment at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lycée</i>, lots of
emails documenting Air France’s excess baggage policies, plus the originals of
our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casier judiciaire</i>, the all
important document required by the Spanish immigration authorities that
attested to our not having committed any crimes in Madagascar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In my own Barcelona folder, I had copies of everything
related to our application for Spanish residency; letters documenting our good
health, our financial wherewithal, our reasons for wanting to live in Spain,
the legitimacy of Allegra’s birth and of our marriage, and our possession of world-wide
health insurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus all the certified
translations from French and English into Spanish that were required by the
Spanish Foreign Ministry and that had cost us another $500 to obtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There was no particular reason for me to think of Nina’s
Barcelona folder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It simply popped into
my head after another long day of cleaning and packing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I was thinking of Jorge, the very nice
man at the Spanish consulate in Capetown who had spent three hours checking
every page of our inch-thick dossier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
he finally indicated that all was correct and ready to be sent to Madrid, he
reminded us several times that safeguarding the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casier judiciaire</i> was vitally important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Assuming that Madrid granted our visas, it
was the one document that the authorities in Spain would absolutely, positively
want to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without the originals, there
was no possibility of completing the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When we returned to Madagascar from South Africa, I gave the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casier judiciaire</i> to Nina for
safe-keeping. I thought no more about them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Until now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“It’s on my desk,” Nina said about her Barcelona folder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were the airline tickets, the receipts
for the ten extra bags I had already paid for, and Allegra’s school records
from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lycée</i> in Antananarivo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But there was no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casier
judiciaire</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Where’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casier
judiciaire</i>?” I asked Nina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Did you look?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
right there,” she said with a hint of annoyance that I might suggest her
organizational skills were lacking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“No, it’s not.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Let me see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Several months earlier, we actually had gotten three <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>, one for each of us,
each one a half sheet of letter size paper, each one barely legible having been
printed on a barely functioning dot matrix printer and each one stamped <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NEANT</i> with red ink, meaning that none of
us, including Allegra, had a criminal record in Madagascar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition to the NEANT stamp, there were several
other stamps marked in bright red plus a couple of signatures in blue, all
attesting to the documents most certainly conforming to an archaic French
bureaucratic process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Nina went through her Barcelona folder again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This after I had been through it three times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers
judiciaires</i> were not there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both
agreed that I had indeed given them to Nina for safekeeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no place else they could be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jorge had told us, repeatedly, that for us to
live in Spain, we would absolutely have to have them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our plane was scheduled to take off in 48
hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt faint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started to pant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the floor opened up beneath me I sat on a
stool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my head in my hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Calm down,” Nina said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not a catastrophe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What do you mean it’s not a catastrophe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is catastrophe,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s a complete catastrophe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve got to find them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Over the next five minutes we confirmed and reconfirmed that
I had given Nina the three small half sheets of paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remembered it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She remembered it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nina began rummaging through the first of our
19 bags. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began pacing the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My breath grew faster and shallower still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Stop it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re
going to pass out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wasn’t about to have a heart attack or pass out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was about to have a nervous breakdown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Oh God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are we
going to do? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are we going to
do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve got to find them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> going to
find them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if I don’t, do you think
we’re the first people to lose a piece of paper?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Jorge said it was the one thing they absolutely had to have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely, he said, absolutely.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Adding to my spiraling panic was Nina’s cold detachment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could she be taking this so lightly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything was riding on those goddamn <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>, the ones that
attested to our not being criminals. We had no Plan B whatsoever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most everything we owned had been sold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Madagascar visas would expire in a matter
of weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had given notice on our
house and the landlady was coming for the keys in 15 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had made a decision that would take
Allegra away from her best friends forever and that had compelled her to sell
her beloved horse, all to go to a place where she had no friends, where
horse-riding would be an occasional luxury instead of a devotion made several
times a week, where we knew next to nobody, where we would trade a house
surrounded with a vast garden for a cramped inner-city apartment, where school
would start in just six weeks and where there was no possibility to do anything
other than get on the plane in less than 48 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had done all this in part because we
thought it was time for Allegra to get used to the faster pace of life of the
so-called developed world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we had
mainly done it because after a decade in Africa I needed a break, a long break,
from the dirt, the crime, the poverty and the overwhelming sense of being so
far away from anywhere where anything of any importance was happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now it was clear to me that it had been pointless, because if
we didn’t find the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>
it was game over, it would all fall apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We would become stateless, unable to settle in Spain and unable to stay
in Madagascar where we had nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
ten thousand, twenty thousand we’d already spent on the move – poof – gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The previous week had been one of constant snafus and last
minutes fixes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nina’s phone had been
stolen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The telephone company had cut
off my service one week ahead of schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d locked Nina out of the house while very far away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The money for the sale of Allegra’s horse
hadn’t come through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people who had
promised to purchase nearly all of our stuff hadn’t paid us and weren’t
answering their phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I found,
while several miles away from home, that the fuel line in the car that I had
already sold and been paid for – but was still driving – had split and was
spewing gas all over a very hot engine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wish I could say that I relaxed when I got home, with the
car unburned and me alive, but I can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each
of these events had added another straw to the pile of stress that had been
accumulating since, a year earlier, we decided that remaining in Madagascar was
no longer tenable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All along my anxiety
had been mounting in inverse relationship to the time that remained before takeoff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Still, more trials were to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That very morning, as Allegra and I prepared to go out, she
for a last ride with Jolie and me for a last round of golf, we heard what we
took to be fireworks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the
unpredictability of Malagasy celebrations, 7:30 on a Sunday morning still
seemed like an odd time for Roman candles and M-80s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Months earlier, we had heard something similar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the March 2009 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coup d’etat</i> in Madagascar, rumors had been circulating about the
imminence of the next overthrow of the government. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought for sure that the pops, booms, and
rat-a-tats I heard coming from the direction of the airport had to be the
starting signals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(In Africa, if the
president can’t be assassinated outright, then seizing the airport – plus the
television and radio networks – is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de
rigueur</i> in any takeover attempt.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A good citizen, I called the US embassy to tell the security
officer that I was hearing large, small, medium and every other kind of weapons
being fired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something was going on at
the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thanked me and said he’d
look into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Two minutes later a friend called to tell me about the
fireworks going off at a nearby Chinese hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He knew we, like everyone else, would be thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coup d’etat</i>; he didn’t want us to worry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This time, with fireworks going off again from the direction
of the airport, I decided not to call the Embassy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was, after all, early on a Sunday
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would be gone from
Madagascar in just a couple of days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let
them figure it all out, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The phone rang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was my golf partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d be a little
late coming round to pick me up, he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was a lot of shooting going on at the airport, which was right
between his place and ours. Goddamn it, I thought, thinking only of myself. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coup d’etat</i> was the last thing I needed
and this was still hours before we discovered that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i> had gone missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why do they have to wait until now to have a
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coup d’etat</i>?” I said to myself, realizing
that if the airport closed, Madagascar’s few daily flights would back up and we
might not get out as planned at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I thought for a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Less than a mile from our house, someone was shooting automatic weapons
at someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called a few friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one seemed to know who was shooting or why.
Should I wake Nina and tell her? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should
I stay home and protect kin and kith from potential marauders?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or should I take Allegra for a last ride on
Jolie and play golf?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I played golf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The golf course in Tana sits directly below final approach
for the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All through the front
nine, there was no air traffic, confirming that the airport was, indeed, closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we started the back nine, a Kenya Airways
plane, with its green, red and black livery, passed overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This I took as a sure sign that whatever nonsense
was going on at the airport had been wrapped up one way or another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Apparently not because when Allegra and I got home around
two, the gunfire and concussions of exploding tear gas canisters were still
going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was around the time my
friend Ricardo was supposed to come in on the flight from Johannesburg, stop by
the house and pick up my beloved 1964 Renault Caravelle, the car he paid for a
month earlier and let me keep driving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
morning he had called from the Jo’burg airport to confirm our plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had hinted to him that given the gunfire I
was hearing I didn’t think he’d be taking off anytime soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He, however, had already checked in and was
scheduled for an on-time arrival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">His flight never left Jo’burg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So now, in addition to all that remained to do on Monday, I
would have to find time to deliver the car, a 48-year old, capricious
convertible Ricardo had bought without once ever driving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, Ricardo’s house was absolutely as
far away as possible from ours while still being in Tana itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The to and fro would take me at least three
hours, three hours I didn’t have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Throughout Sunday afternoon and into the evening, the
shooting continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just before dusk, unable
to resist temptation, I got on the motorcycle – the one that I had sold, been
paid for and was to deliver the following day except that I had improperly
filled out the transfer forms and would now have to resubmit them – and rode
toward the airport, toward the gunfire, to see what was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My neighbor Henri had told me there were roadblocks and not
to leave the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the last real
skirmish at the airport, back in November 2010, some dispirited soldiers had
set fire to the road right at the end of our driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although this was an isolated event, images
of Antananarivo “on fire” wound up on front pages around the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With just a couple of days to go before we
were to leave, I needed to know what was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, I was not excited about
involuntarily reenacting any stunts best performed by Evel Kneivel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About 300 yards before the airport itself, five small stone
blocks had been placed in the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
flames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No armored troop carriers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No nothing except hundreds of Malagasies who had
gathered to listen to the exchange of fire, a very affordable but not too smart
form of public entertainment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What’s going on?” I asked one fellow who was standing
around looking a bit disappointed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“The military is shooting,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“At who?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“At the military,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I turned around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hours later and after an hour of searching, Nina had still not
found the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What could I have done with them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where could I have put them? You know how organized
I am,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I didn’t say you weren’t organized,” I said while trying to
avoid any suggestion of blame even as I was blaming her over and over again in
my mind for casting us afloat on a raft with not even a deserted island in
sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I just said that I gave them to
you and told you not to lose them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I didn’t lose them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re
here,” she said while sitting on the living room floor in the middle of a
circle of heavy bags, every one filled completely to the limit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In fact, two thirds of the bags were filled with folders of
articles, recipes and materials cut out for collaging that Nina had been
accumulating for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were
probably a hundred such folders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among them, she was looking for
three pieces of paper no larger than the daily Sudoku.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You scanned them, didn’t you?” Nina asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yes, but Jorge said we have to have the originals.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“So you go tomorrow and get new ones,” Nina said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Even if I hadn’t been stressed to the point of shattering,
even if I wasn’t already so physically and mentally exhausted that sleep was an
impossibility, even if the already overcharged day awaiting me hadn’t suddenly
had several new time-burning chores added to it, this is the kind of comment
Nina will occasionally make that makes me wonder if she and I live on the same
planet or know anything about each other after having been together for 20
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my mouth open, with tears
just barely not falling, I shook my head slowly back and forth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Are you serious?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go
get new ones?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People are coming to pick up their stuff at
nine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to go to the Mayor’s office
to get the stuff redone for the motorcycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have to get the car to Ricardo’s place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patricia is coming for the keys at four.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hotel van is coming for us at 4:30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You heard there maybe was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coup d’etat</i> today. You think people are
going to work tomorrow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no time,
Nina, there’s no time to get new papers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh God, I’m going to pass out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t breathe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Relax already,” Nina said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“What does your book say?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Recently, I had been reading David Burn’s classic cognitive
behavior therapy book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feeling Good</i>
and was now working my way through his three-inch thick <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feeling Good Workbook</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You’re catastrophising,” Nina said, helping herself to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feeling Good’s</i> lingo without ever having
opened the book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My past life did not pass before my eyes at this moment, but
my future life did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would arrive,
with our 19 bags, in Barcelona only to be told that we could not stay in the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With days to go before tenth
grade was to begin for Allegra, we would have no place to go and no place to
return to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had ripped our sweet 15-year
old daughter from everything she loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
since Bull Meecham of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Great Santini</i>
had the world seen a worse father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Again, I sat on a stool, put my head in my hands and wanted
nothing more than to dissolve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I couldn’t even sob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Calm down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Calm
down,” Nina said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t have you
having a heart attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’ll be fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Nina,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How
can you say it’s going to be fine? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
won’t be fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It won’t be fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disasters are not fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one says disasters are fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Just go to bed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One thing about Nina; aside from true disasters, like
tsunamis and large volcanic eruptions, our family disasters are mere
inconveniences to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like cold sores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s always sure that, with time, they will
go away, if, of course, I do all the work needed to make them go away while she
reads the latest issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The New Yorker.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I looked at Nina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
looked at the stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She still had 14 or
15 bags to rifle through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to our
bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lay down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to convince myself that it would all
work out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At one in the morning, I called our neighbor Henri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zanatany</i>,
a foreigner – in his case French – born and raised in Madagascar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He speaks Malagasy fluently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the one who gave me the number of
Madame Emma at the Ministry of Justice the first time I needed to bribe her to
get me the original, now missing-in-action <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers
judiciaires </i>on a moment’s notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Henri
would know what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I explained to him that I needed new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>, immediately, or all that we had done would be
for naught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would be homeless, adrift
with no possessions – except 19 suitcases – with no place to live and no place
for Allegra to go to school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Henri said he was terribly sick and didn’t know if he could
get up in the morning. A few days earlier he had decided to sleep in the
unventilated shipping container he stores diesel fuel in because he had been
worried that the new roof he had put on his house might collapse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he asked me what I thought about this, I
told him I thought sleeping in a container filled with diesel fuel was not a
good plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did it anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now he couldn’t breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he would try to come by first thing in
the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not feeling much better, I hung up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called my very close friend Louie, a
Chinese neighbor who has been in Madagascar twice as long as we had been and who
had already hung on through the minor civil war of 2001 that followed a
disputed presidential election and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coup
d’etat</i> of 2009.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even at 1 AM, I knew
Louie, a CNN junkie, would be up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What you worrying about man?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You worry too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll have my guy come by in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Go to sleep,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You worry
too much.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At 1:30 in the morning, I went to the computer and printed
out copies of the scans of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers
judiciaires</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I felt Nina’s elbow in my side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can see it,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“The folder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s
a second folder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has ‘Spain’ written on it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was three A.M.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had been asleep, maybe, for 50 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Nina explained that she had opened all the bags, cut open
all the heavily taped boxes that we had put inside the bags and gone through
all her folders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hadn’t found the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>, but she now could
see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Good,” I told her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s
a relief.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Why I said this was a relief, I don’t know because unless
our immigration caseworker in Barcelona was Jeanne Dixon, Nina’s seeing the
folders wouldn’t get us very far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I woke up at five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
bags under my eyes were the color of dark shoe polish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Henri came by at six.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He took copies of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers
judiciaires</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me not to worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would send his man right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him about my having called Louie and Louie
saying his man would take care of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let
him go too, Henri said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better to attack
these things from multiple directions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At eight, Mamy, Louie’s man, came by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me not to worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave him Madame Emma’s number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She said it would cost 50,000 ariary, around $25.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave him $100 – a hundred bucks being
nearly double the minimum monthly wage in Madagascar – and told him to spend
whatever he needed to spend; I had to have the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i> by Tuesday evening latest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So what if the price was now double what I slipped Madame Emma in
January for expedited service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our lives
were at stake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At nine people started coming to pick up their stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some in big vans, some with small convoys of
pick-up trucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d never seen Malagasies
work so fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 90 minutes the house
was empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for our 19 suitcases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to the Mayor’s office to get the motorcycle
stuff done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The office was open, but the
man with signing authority was out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
would he be back?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try again at 2:30. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Thankfully, Ricardo, still in Johannesburg, sent Patrick, his
stepson for the car, my adorable, Ferrari-red convertible, probably, certainly,
the most identifiable car in all of Madagascar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d spent four years driving it, restoring it, cajoling it, enjoying it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it rolled away, Patrick behind the wheel,
I realized at last that, for better or worse, we were leaving Madagascar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Mamy called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said
that the new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casier judiciaire</i> wouldn’t
cost 50,000 ariary per copy as he understood but 50,000 for all three, actually
less than what I had paid Madame Emma the first time. (This I attribute to his
being able to pay the local bribe price whereas I had had to pay the foreign
bribe price.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mamy said he’d have the
papers by 11.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Henri called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said
his man would have the new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers
judiciaires</i> at 2:30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At 11:30 Mamy, and the limping 40-year old Citroen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deux Chevaux</i> taxi he had hired, arrived
at the house with the new forms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wanted to kiss him – and the taxi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking
the forms, my entire body seemed to exhale and expand at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though standing, I felt as though I were
falling through a cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Henri came by with his set of papers in the afternoon, just
as Ricardo, who had finally arrived from Jo’burg, stopped by the house to say
good-bye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we had two sets of new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the people at the Malagasy Ministry of
Justice thought about two different people urgently approaching them on the
same day for the same thing for the same people, I have no idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been to the Ministry of Justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normally, before the doors open in the
morning, there are hundreds of people waiting in line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes they wait a day, sometimes a
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes they never get seen and
give up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly in the history of
Madagascar nobody ever got served twice in the same morning for the same thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say what you like about incompetent bureaucracy
and rampant corruption in Africa, but just as often as corruption is corrupt it
also shows how efficient people can be when properly motivated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind that no one at the Ministry ever
checked to see if Nina, Allegra or I were criminals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that a database attesting to our penal
past actually exists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that if it did that
anyone could access it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the forms
and that was all that mattered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“See, I told you it would be okay,” Nina said, despite the
originals remaining as undiscovered as the Ark of the Covenant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yes, but how did you know it would be okay?” I asked her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Nina didn’t answer, but I know what her answer would have
been if she had; that I worry myself sick and then through connections, panic, frantic
insistence or just plain luck a once insurmountable problem simply evaporates,
melts away – confirming, once again, that in Africa, though nothing works, it
all works out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Documents in hand, bags weighed, reweighed and locked, we
spent a calm Monday night at a friend’s rustic hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tuesday evening he gave us and our 19 bags a
lift to the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It took the agent 90 minutes to check us in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In Barcelona, Rosa, the Filipina landlady we met over the Internet,
met us at the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But only 16 of
our bags did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That turned out to be a
good thing because the 16 bags completely filled the van Rosa had rented for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The following morning, Rosa came to the “four bedroom” apartment
she had rented us that was really a one-bedroom apartment with a living room
and two walk-in closets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Two steps remained for us to finalize our legitimacy as
Spanish residents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Rosa we had to
go to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ayuntamiento</i>, the neighborhood
city hall, where Rosa would get an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">empadromento</i>,
a document stating that we were indeed living in her apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that in hand, with temporary visas
already stamped in our passports and with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires,</i> we could go to the office of the national
police that deals with foreign residents and request the all important NIE – the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“nee-yea” </i>– the national identification
number for foreigners that we needed to be legal residents and for Allegra to
complete her enrollment at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lycée</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rosa got on her folding bicycle and rode off
to an appointment at the beauty salon she owns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But not before also trying to sell us some Mary Kay products – plus
health, life and renter’s insurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
got on the Metro.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The national police office for foreigners fills a block
tucked in behind some of Barcelona’s chicest streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It, however, is not chic and shares the
characteristics of television show police stations; sloughing plaster, unevenly
taped up posters warning about this or that potential violation, and dozens of people
hurriedly marching off in all directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An officer in a smartly pressed uniform told us to follow the dusty red
line painted on the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At the waiting room, we took a ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Number 248.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were serving number 161.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among
a crowd that looked mainly like it had just arrived on a humanitarian flight
from Kabul, we took our seats and waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I came back from having called Air France to check on our three missing
bags, Nina waved a new ticket at me. Number 216. Some good Samaritan had
slipped it to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The numbers on the electronic display ticked along quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether in Capetown, via the Internet, at the
airport, at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ayuntamiento</i> and now
at the police, we had seen none of Spain’s notoriously phlegmatic bureaucracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took bets on which window we would be
directed to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laminated instructions on
the wall in Spanish, Catalan and English told us to have our documents ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had them all; passports, photos, a fax with
instructions from the Foreign Ministry in Madrid, copies of our application
forms, and, of course, the all-important <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers
judiciaires</i>, the ones Henri’s man had gotten, the ones Louie’s man had gotten
and scanned copies of the ones I had gotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our number came up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In front of a middle-aged woman, we sat like dutiful school
children. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She, at first, could not have
seemed more bored or less interested in us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She didn’t speak much English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
leafed through our passports.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You travel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mucho</i>,”
she said seeing our many many visa stamps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“How is Kenya? For <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">animales</i>?”
she wanted to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Better South
Africa?” she asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peligroso</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One by one, she reviewed our passports, glued passport-size
photos onto forms, fingerprinted us and took our signatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her computer printed out three slips with our
NIEs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one month we were to report to
another government office where our residency cards would be ready for pick-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gave us moisturized tissues to clean our inky
fingertips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 20 minutes everything was
done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were, at last, out of Africa
and legit in Spain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wished us a
pleasant stay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oh, and the all important <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casiers judiciaires</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She never asked for them.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-26150083946548053262014-03-27T13:59:00.006+03:002022-01-05T20:29:08.341+03:00Profiles<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Here are links to various profiles I've written over the years.</span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br />
On underwater photographer Norbert Wu - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=39359" target="_blank">Photos to (Almost) Die For</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br />
On boutique hotelier Chip Conley - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=39095" target="_blank">The Karmic Capitalism of Chip Conley</a></span><div><br /></div><div>On former Mayfield Fellow Josh MacFarlane - <a href=" https://stanfordmag.org/contents/ready-for-takeoff" target="_blank">Ready for Take Off</a><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">On improv professor Patricia Ryan - <a href="https://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=37894" target="_blank">Making It Up as They Go Along</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br />
On international water and sewage expert Jenna Davis - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=30865" target="_blank">646 Very Personal Questions</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br />
On psychiatrist David D. Burns - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=64350" target="_blank">Mind Over Misery</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /> and also on Burns - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=64401" target="_blank">Try, Try Again</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br />
On archaeologist Ian Hodder - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=68851" target="_blank">What Happened Here?</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /> and also on Hodder - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=69006" target="_blank">Why Dig?</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /> and - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=69008" target="_blank">Archaeology's Bottom Line</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div>On former Marine Corps Captain Jake Harriman - <a href="https://stanfordmag.org/contents/seeds-of-promise">Seeds of Promise</a><br />
<br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">On former U. S. Ambassador to Russia, Michael McFaul - <a href="http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=70142" target="_blank">A Chill in the Air</a></span></div><div><br /></div>Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-65096275450309460312012-01-03T13:01:00.003+03:002012-01-03T13:05:09.851+03:00My E*Book Didn't Click<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Times; panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;} p {mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:Times; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-fareast-language:JA;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} --> </style> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I never intended to write a bestseller. During my wife's pregnancy, I kept a journal in which I recorded our fears, hopes and concerns -- all written to our unborn child. Several years later, I realized the thousands of words I had scribbled might make a fine gift. I would edit them down, bind them and present a book to Nina in time for our fifth anniversary. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that other readers, particularly first-time expectant parents, might find the account as compelling as I did. Anne Lamott's <i>Operating Instructions</i> and the <i>What to Expect</i> series sold millions. Maybe my book could, too.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nina was considerably less enthusiastic. She didn't want strangers reading about how she had been rolled off to the operating room for an abortion after we had been told our embryo was "nonviable" -- only to learn, moments before the procedure, that a critical lab test had been misinterpreted. But when I hinted that, if the book sold well, I might feel comfortable springing for the marquis-cut diamond engagement ring she's always wanted, she relented. I wrapped up copies of the manuscript and committed their fate to the postal service. Thus began my journey from cellulose and traditional publishing to the silicon frontier.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Within a few weeks, the rejection letters started to trickle in. One agent wrote, "You take the story beyond the merely personal," while another commented, "Its contents felt a bit too personal." And yet another said it was difficult to sell books by fathers. (No doubt what Bill Cosby was told.) About this time <i>Salon,</i> the online magazine, published an excerpt from the book. A few days later, I called my editor at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Salon</i> to find out how many people had "clicked through."</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Forty thousand, I was told to my complete astonishment. My mental calculator began churning -- if 1 percent of those people were to buy my book, then tell 50 of their friends, and 1 percent of those friends bought it -- and pretty soon I was spending my afternoons chatting it up with Oprah.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was while these sugarplums danced in my head that I first heard of eMatter.com and experienced a literary harmonic convergence. With eMatter, I could list my book on the web and buyers could download it electronically. I could set my own price, $6.95, and eMatter would pay me a handsome 50 percent royalty. I formatted my manuscript as instructed and uploaded it to eMatter.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Two weeks later, my book had sold exactly one copy.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Undeterred, I sent out an e-mail announcement to several hundred friends and former colleagues, plus several dozen people I hardly knew, and waited for word to reach Oprah.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She didn't get in touch, but lots of other people did. They had tried to buy my book but couldn't find it. Or found it but couldn't download it. Or downloaded it but couldn't open it. Some hadn't read the fine print that said eMatter's software did not yet work with Apple or UNIX systems. Soon I was in much closer touch with the technical staff at eMatter than with my nascent readership.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">With new glitches turning up almost daily, I was completely surprised when I found <i>How to Have a Baby</i> at No. 8 on eMatter's bestseller list. I called a friend to tell him the good news.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"How do they calculate bestsellers?" he asked. "Hourly, daily, weekly?" I e-mailed eMatter. "Daily," the answer came back. In other words, my No. 8 bestseller was No. 8 for a day. That day.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Two months later, eMatter selected <i>How to Have a Baby</i> as its "editor's pick." My book then captured the top spot on eMatter's recommended list. Still, sales stagnated. A mention of eMatter in the <i>New York Times</i> didn't blip my book at all. Two five-star reviews did nothing. It dropped to No. 11.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Still, I had great hopes for the following month. EMatter, now called MightyWords, was running large ads in national newspapers and publications like the <i>New Yorker.</i> My book was featured on MightyWords' parenting page along with "an exclusive interview with author Robert L. Strauss." Also three feature stories of mine were to run in quick succession in the <i>San Francisco Examiner Magazine,</i> each with a blurb for the book. I expected to sell several hundred copies. Then Stephen King stole my thunder.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When King released <i>Riding the Bullet</i> over the web, he cause parts of the Internet to freeze as hundreds of thousands attempted to download his book. The same month, my book had been mentioned three times in one of the country's most widely read newspapers. </span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I sold one copy.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">More than ever, I was determined to get <i>How to Have a Baby</i> to No. 1. I not only wanted to unseat <i>Solo Explorations in Male Masturbation</i> by Will Stark; I wanted to surpass <i>Nine Things to Know About Permission Marketing on the Net</i> by Seth Godin, the marketing guru and a graduate school classmate. Seth was a born go-getter who'd already sold his company to Yahoo! for $60 million. His wife, no doubt, already had her ring.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Frenzied by this rediscovered sense of competition, I sent a new e-mail to everyone whose address had ever slipped into my computer. All those endlessly forwarded Internet jokes? I'd been hoarding the recipients' e-mail addresses for weeks, including those of Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers, the venture capital firm.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The responses came fast and furious. More than a few went something like, "I don't know who you are, but you're a jerk for invading my privacy and wasting my time." This is how I discovered an Internet rule of thumb. For every profane, irate message I received, I sold a book. The ratio was exactly one to one.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Still, seven days later, Seth's book was No. 3 and mine was No. 23. Soon, it sank beneath the horizon, never to reappear.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A year to the day after I gave Nina the original copy of <i>How to Have a Baby,</i> I received my first royalty check.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"How much is it for?" she asked.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"One hundred four dollars and 25 cents," I told her.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Oh, that'll get me a ring," she said. "From a vending machine."</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">According to the anniversary list we use, our 75th will be "diamond." I have asked her to be patient.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The very next day I received an e-mail from my brother-in-law. Did I know about Xlibris.com? he asked. They publish real books, on paper, one at a time, on demand. They list their titles with Amazon. All I had to do was upload my manuscript. Within days I received galleys for proofing. Xlibris had prepared the layout and a very attractive four-color cover, and gotten me an ISBN number. For free. Incredible.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The timing couldn't have been better. I had another feature coming out in the <i>Examiner Magazine.</i> My editor again agreed to blurb my book. Certainly if people could buy <i>How to Have a Baby</i> in paperback, that would make all the difference. Sure. Maybe. Someday.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Until then, I'll have to live with what I've learned from my plunge into the world of digital self-publishing. That readers are not yet confusing me with Stephen King. That while people might love to read things on the net for free, they rarely "click through" when asked to pay. I've come to understand that maybe writing should be left to writers and publishing to publishers. And why publicists go to self-humiliating lengths to get a client on Oprah or Charlie Rose.</span></p> <p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I originally called the book <i>To My Child Unborn.</i> When readers told me that was too serious, I changed titles. Now, having sold all of 43 copies, I think maybe that first title was right. As I said, I never intended to write a bestseller.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">A version of this story first appeared in the September/October 2000 edition of </i>Stanford<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> magazine.</i></span></p>Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-19091292896408697832011-08-26T00:34:00.002+03:002011-08-26T00:38:00.370+03:00Mis à jour<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:0 2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">It was another one of those endless meetings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That it was in French only made it more insufferable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As my francophone colleagues blathered on, I made sure to make empathetic eye contact and nod my head appreciatively—even though at least half the conversation was as indecipherable to me as if it had been in a language spoken only by an undiscovered Amazonian tribe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nevertheless, I was sure that my practiced bobble-heading would convince everyone that I was not only fully absorbed in the discussion but worth whatever outlandish consulting fee I was charging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That was until someone mentioned <i>mis à jour.</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"><i>Mis à jour, mis à jour</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> what the hell does <span style="font-style: italic;">mis à jour</span> mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i>Soup du jour</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> throws me for no loops, but about <i>mis à jour</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">—suddenly the main item on the menu of discussion—I had no idea.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">"Don't you agree, <i>RO-bear,</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> that the <span style="font-style: italic;">mis à jour</span> should be our top priority?" the boss asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"><i>"Oui, oui. Bien sûr,"</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> I said, while casually trying to look up <i>mis à jour</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> on my mobile phone French-English dictionary, which appeared to have been last updated shortly before Robespierre was led to the guillotine.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">When I think of the attributes that have led to whatever success I may have had, pretending to know what I'm talking about figures very high on the list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The times I have only just escaped must number in the hundreds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I'm still astounded that no one has ever looked me dead in the eye and said, "You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Faking it was also a key ingredient in my premarital social life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Arriving at Stanford nearly 30 years ago, I quickly scoped out my grad school classmates and invited one of the cutest over for a home-cooked dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not only was she just adorable, but she was witty and smart, having studied math before going to work on Wall Street where—she told me—she used to make models.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Despite having an undergraduate degree in economics, I had no idea why models were needed on Wall Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As a child, I had been a complete flop at them, forever gumming up my fingers and the little plastic pieces of whatever tank or aircraft carrier I was trying to assemble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As for applying the cellophane-like decals—there I was completely hopeless.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">She, however, had been building models to Wall Street's satisfaction and, though we had only just met, already I could see her assembling complicated plastic replicas of multi-engine World War II bombers with our enthralled son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or, rather, our twin sons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was love.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Months later, in an introductory finance class, I realized to my great disappointment that the models she knew how to build had as their ingredients dry facts and figures gleaned from SEC filings and not from the boxes of the Revell company.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Still, it was while at Stanford that I set my personal record—21 months—for pretending I knew what people were talking about when I had absolutely no idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Much like <i>mis à jour,</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> the term that I didn't understand seemed to be fundamental to modern business practices and well established in everyone else's vocabulary.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">It's been said there's nothing stupid about a question except not asking it. Experience has taught me otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Indeed, asking about this particular <i>mot inconnu</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> seemed to me akin to asking where the sun rose—and would certainly have had the admissions office reassessing my status. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Whenever a professor or classmate mentioned it, my hand did not bolt up to ask what they were talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In those days before the Internet, my research led nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maps were as clueless as I was. Asking a librarian for help would have presented me with the same acute embarrassment I had felt as a teenager asking a pharmacist for condoms.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Of course, just as I eventually learned what <i>mis à jour</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"> means, I now know where to find Silicon Valley. After all, it's right there on Google Earth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt; margin-left:.5in"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"><i>A version of this story first appeared in the July/August 2011 edition of </i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">Stanford<i> magazine</i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;">.</span></p> Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-81925069826211516422011-08-08T20:55:00.006+03:002011-08-08T21:00:42.577+03:00City Slickers<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:0 2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Life in the city wasn't working for us. The dream apartment we had searched months to find turned out to be next door to a group of heavy metal grunge rockers we soon got to know as the Subterraneans. All night the walls of our bedroom throbbed, not with the rhythms of our young marriage, but with the penetrating drone of electric bass. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Outside, the city was no more welcoming. The despair and impotence we felt over graffiti marred buildings and busses was compounded by gray winter rains and streets filled with the homeless. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When our car was broken into and ransacked for the third time, no one seemed to sympathize with our distress. It was the price of city living, we were told, one we could expect to pay regularly.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don't want to live like this,” Nina said as we waited for the smashed car window to be replaced. It was a sentiment I had heard from many friends who felt trapped in white collar jobs they didn't enjoy and upwardly mobile life styles they found unfulfilling.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well, what do you want?” I asked her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">She looked at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I don't know,” she said. Frustrated and angry, she swirled her arms around to indicate everything that surrounded us. The noise, the crime, the congestion and the grime. “I just know I don't want to live like this.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">That night the Subterraneans were particularly loud. Neither of us could fall asleep. We had pounded on the wall, rang their bell, left notes on their doorstep but all to no effect. “I can't stand this,” Nina said throwing back the covers. She stalked out of the room. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I heard the <i>plink</i> of the television going on followed by the rapid fire surfing of channels.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“C'mere,” she called. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What is it?” I asked. She didn't answer but as I walked down the hallway I recognized the unmistakable Hungarian-Hollywood accent of one of the Gabor sisters. On television, Eva was modeling some new fashion for Eddie Arnold. “Oliver dahlink. Vhat do you zink?” she asked. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nina pointed her finger at the television. “Green Acres!” she said. “That's where I want to be.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What are you talking about?” I asked, half asleep. We were newlyweds, still able to perplex each other several times a day. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nina shook her palms at me, frustrated that I didn't catch on right away. “Are you satisfied with how we're living?” she asked, her hands trembling. “Are you happy?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was too late to try to begin such an unsettling discussion. We had talked many times about leaving California, at least urban California, but we didn't know where to go. Or what work we would do. Both of us are city kids. Nina is a native San Franciscan. Trips to the country were strictly matters of passing through rural areas to get to a city on the other side. Yet the longer we were “home,” the more despondent we were about being here.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We knew others had abandoned the city for quiet towns in the Sierra foothills or in Oregon or Washington State. Our problem was that every place we considered seemed less appealing than the Bay Area. If we were unhappy here, we felt we'd only be miserable someplace else.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">City life wasn't all bad. There were beautiful days when we visited museums and parks, went to concerts, or watched obscure movies and plays found only in the great cities. But more of our time was spent locking doors, stuck in traffic, walking defensively, battling neighbors for parking, avoiding eye contact with passers-by, and feeling angry over the lack of civility and common respect that seemed to define everyday encounters. Drop by drop, our excitement for city living was draining away. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Before our marriage, Nina had worked at a homeless social services agency for seven years. I'd worked as a consultant with dozens of non-profit organizations. We knew that we didn't have to give up on society, but we also knew the personal cost of actively working for its improvement. All we wanted was to spend our first year together building the bonds of our marriage, planning our future, and extending the honeymoon. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But in the city, the magic between us was dwindling. Each time we discussed starting a family one of us would ask, “Why would we want to bring up a kid here?” We could never find a satisfying answer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Back on the tube Eddie Arnold was screwing up his face with his trademark “Oh come on” look over something Eva had just said. I gave Nina the same pained look, not knowing how to escape the urban trap that seemed to be shrinking around us.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“So what do you want to do?” I asked her. She bounced up and gave me a hug, all smiles. “Farm living is the life for me,” she sang out. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“But we don't know a thing about farming,” I said, trying to humor her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Didn't you tell me you were interested in agriculture as a kid?” Nina answered. Before I could say anything, she was leafing through my childhood scrapbooks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“See, right here,” she said, jabbing her finger at a yellowing scrap of paper. “Occupational plan, first choice – Agriculture!” She was pointing to the Ohio Vocational Interest Survey I had taken as a ninth grader in 1971. “Ninety-fifth percentile,” Nina noted. “Don't you see? You were born to be a farmer.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">What my wife didn't know was when I took the test I was more interested in roto-tilling my parents' environmentally incorrect lawn than I was in planting anything. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nina took my OVIS results as some type of genetic proof that I am a direct descendant of Mr. Green Jeans. “The reason you're unhappy is you've been denying your destiny,” she told me. Satisfied that she had found the answers to our urban woes, Nina began leafing through back issues of <i>Martha Stewart Living,</i> apparently to better prepare us for a life on the land.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn't think either one of us could survive in the country, that after a few days in a small town we'd be pining for the craziness of city living that we claimed had been driving us crazy. But Nina was insistent. She wanted to give farm living a try. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I called my friend Cynthia at the California Farm Bureau in Sacramento. The Farm Bureau represented 70,000 farmers and ranchers across the state. I figured one of them might be willing to help us out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I explained to Cynthia that we felt increasingly alienated in the city and wanted to take care of someone's farm for a few days, maybe a week. “<i>You</i> want to take care of a <i>farm?”</i> she said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“That's right,” I told her, nodding confidently to Nina. I felt like hooking my thumbs in my overalls except that I was still in my bathrobe at 11 AM.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well, I know someone who has an <i>ant</i> farm you could take care of,” she said before bursting out with a guffaw worthy of Mister Ed. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“No, I'm serious,” I told her. “We want to, you know, live on a farm for a few days and then be left in charge. So we can get an idea of what it would be like.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Cynthia explained that no sane farmer would ever let two concrete pounders like us take over. Maybe she could help us find someone who might let us work on a farm for a few days. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What kind of farm are you looking for?” she asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We hadn't thought that far yet. I put the phone down. “What kind of farm are we looking for?” I asked Nina. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We talked for a few minutes. We decided livestock was out. Although we're both meat eaters, we felt squeamish about raising crops we might have to kill. Fruits, vegetables and flowers seemed passive and boring. “I don't know,” I told Cynthia. “What do you recommend?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What about llamas?” she asked. “I know some llama farmers.” I relayed her suggestion to Nina.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“They spit, don't they?” Nina said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“No llamas,” I told Cynthia.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“All right. How about ostriches? I know a pretty neat ostrich farmer who might let you help out.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“How about ostriches?” I asked Nina. “No,” she said. “I had a bad experience once with a rooster.” I thought about this for a moment, then decided the rooster incident was something I didn't need to know more about.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Poultry is out,” I told Cynthia.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well, there's sheep and goats,” she said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“How about sheep or goats?” I asked Nina.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“You and sheep?” Nina said. “I don't think so. But goats, goats sound good.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Cynthia gave me the numbers of a few members of the California Dairy Goat Association, a group I had not encountered in Safeway. I started calling around, explaining that we were a newlywed couple trying to get out of the city and that we wanted to help run a farm.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“You wanna do what?” they all said. “Let me get back to you.” Eventually I was referred to a place on the Santa Cruz coast.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“You want to work for me?” Nancy Gaffney of the Sea Stars Goat Cheese Farm asked. “For free?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Yes,” I told her. “We want to come and learn about farm living.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well, come on down. <i>I'll</i> put you to work,” she said in a way that made me wonder what we might be getting into.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I gave Nina the thumbs up. “We're in,” I told her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Over dinner that night, Nina produced a small tub of goat cheese. As she slowly spread it around her cracker, I noted a lessening in her enthusiasm for farming.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I was just thinking, you know, that maybe we should visit the farm before we really go to work there,” she said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We arranged to meet Nancy on a Monday morning. Just driving out of the city and along the Santa Cruz coast relieved some of my pent-up anxiety. The road was empty. The fields on the bluffs above the ocean had recently been tilled. Even in the car, we could smell the richness of the earth in the fields' nut-brown furrows, something we never sensed in the city. Once we got close, it wasn't difficult to pick out Sea Stars. It was the place with 70 goats all pressed up against the fence trying to catch a whiff of the strangers.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A slender woman with wind-whipped hair and steel blue eyes came out. “So you're the honeymooners,” Nancy said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I explained to her that we had actually been married for nearly a year and, if things worked out, we'd be spending our first anniversary on the farm. “Well,” Nancy said, “We're still calling you the honeymooners.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Still the frenetic urbanites, we'd only scheduled enough time to make sure we liked Nancy and that she was okay with us. We followed her around as she supervised work already underway.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nancy explained to two farm hands what she wanted done with a certain pile of compost.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“See,” she said, “this stuff (the compost) is still too hot for the garden.” The workers were Spanish speakers from the neighboring Brussels sprout farm. To clarify her point, Nancy plunged her hands into the fresh compost and held up some of the decomposing manure. “You see, it's too hot for the garden. <i>Demasiado caliente,</i>” she said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Apparently Martha Stewart handles her compost differently than Nancy because Nina found this hands-on demonstration absolutely riveting. “You see,” I whispered to her, “This is what organic farming is all about.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“It's organic all right,” Nina said as she headed for the car.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">By the time we left Sea Stars I was thinking that maybe our time on the farm wouldn't be too bad. Nancy seemed amused and excited by the prospect of having us around. The farm itself was beautiful, an odd shaped acre squeezed between the coast highway and the bluffs above the ocean. The goats were as friendly as puppies and cuter than stuffed animals. Nina was surprisingly quiet on the way home.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What are you thinking?” I asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“We're going to need some of those tall rubber boots,” she said. “And gloves. I want lots of gloves.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nancy told us to bring clothes that we didn't care about. We pulled out every piece of clothing we owned. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nina packed a pair of Playtex gloves, then went to the kitchen for two more. I packed long underwear. “Where do you think we're going?” she asked. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What if I have to go outside and round up the flock in the cold?” I asked her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Herd,” she said disdainfully. “Goats come in herds. Poultry come in flocks. Believe me. I know.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Undaunted, I packed the long underwear. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Since when do you know what it's like on a farm?” I asked. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don't,” she answered. “And I'm sure if I did, I wouldn't be going.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn't remind her whose idea this had been in the first place.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">On our way to the farm, we stopped at a hardware store for gloves and rubber boots. Nina took a pair of supple leather gloves from the shelf. “These are the kind Martha recommends for garden work,” she said. I looked at the label. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don't know. Do you think it's a good idea to show up wearing goatskin?” I asked. She changed them for a less fashionable pair of cloth work gloves.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">That evening we stopped for dinner at a Mexican restaurant on the north side of Santa Cruz. “Look!” Nina said, “They have <i>birria</i> on the menu. That's barbecued goat meat.” I stared at her until she recognized her <i>faux pas</i>. Horrified, she threw her hands over her mouth as though she had let out the family's dirtiest secret. We ordered chicken.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We arrived at the farm at 6:58 the next morning. A bright faced woman we had not met before asked, “Are you the honeymooners?” I threw Nina a glance and stifled her before she could say something like, “Yeah, that's right. I'm Alice and this is Ralph. Where's Norton?” That kind of quip might have worked in the city, but now we were in the country. Nancy was doing us a favor. I wanted to ruffle as few feathers as possible.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Yup,” I said. "That's us.” We told her about our interest in leaving the city. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I think what you're doing is great,” Lisa said, welcoming us as though we were old friends. “But are you sure you want to wear that?” she said. She was talking about our carefully selected clothes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Evidently white, no matter how old and worn, is not the best color for goat work. We explained that our recent color analysis revealed that white wasn't a good color for either of us. We figured farming was a good way to thin our wardrobe. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">While Lisa was absorbing the logic of our fashion statement Nancy appeared, coffee in hand. “Morning,” she said. She looked us over. “Are you sure you want to wear that?” she asked. We explained our reasoning again. “Okay,” Nancy said. She put us in Lisa's charge for the morning.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Pippi Longstocking would have felt right at home at Sea Stars. The farm is a collection of ramshackle structures made of weathered wood painted in purples and violet. Geraniums, fuchsias, calla lilies, and nasturtium grew everywhere. Tall, conical, purple “towers of jewels” lined the road, their pointy tops bent under the weight of new buds. Like Nancy, Sea Stars seemed to have a 1960s, “small is beautiful” wonderment about it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The farm was brimming with new life. Nancy's samoyed had had puppies. The cat had had kittens. Forty baby goats had been born in the past two months. Altogether there was a lot of yelping, mewing, scampering, barking and frolicking going on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In a small pasture the lone billy goat grazed with his harem of yearlings. The baby goats were kept in a different area. Pregnant does were in still another part of the farm. The milk goats had their own plot. A meandering series of fences and gates kept everyone happily segregated. Only the cat wandered wherever she wanted. Her litter stayed in the office.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Our first task was to round up the goats for milking. Most were already waiting. Lisa ran behind the few stragglers, clapping her hands. She lost her footing and did a Pete Rose style head first slide in the slick grass. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As she got up and wiped off her hands without a second thought, Nina and I both realized that a farm is a farm whether it's goats or cows or chickens. There's a lot of by-product involved with the production of goat cheese. It's not all curds and whey. “Glad I brought those gloves,” Nina said to me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Once we had the goats corralled, it was time to feed the babies. We poured warm goat milk into four “milkbars,” plastic buckets rimmed with nipples, and headed back outside.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The instant we entered their pen, the babies vied for every nipple. They chased after us on hind legs. They jumped on our backs. They jumped on each other. They jumped on top of the milkbars. Finally, most found their way to a nipple. Soon they settled down to feeding. The farm filled with slurping, suckling noises.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Omigod, they're so cute,” Nina said. She looked at me. “I'm so glad you made me do this.” Any doubts we had about being on the farm were melting away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A few babies hadn't quite gotten the sucking habit down. Lisa told us to direct mouths to nipples.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I reached down to pick up a kid. What I thought was animal turned out to be fluff and air. She couldn't have weighed ten pounds. She sucked air until I put her before an empty nipple. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">By then the pen was in pandemonium, a slurping, jostling mayhem. The babies nursed so vigorously the milkbars nearly toppled over. And then it was done. In a minute they had drained every drop. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ten yards away, in another enclosure, six very young baby goats watched our every move. They knew they were next. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I opened the gate and Nina entered with their milkbar. They followed at her heels waiting for breakfast. A small chocolate brown goat, that looked just like a stuffed animal come to life, took a few swallows and then walked away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“This one's not eating,” Nina said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Lisa picked it up. “What the matter Spontaneity?” she asked. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nancy had named this year's babies after positive virtues. The goats that were clamoring over us had names like Serenity, Nobility, Peace, Harmony, Joy and Love. We tried to feed Spontaneity with a bottle, but she wouldn't take it. “We'll try again later,” Lisa said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Not far away 30 alpine goats with full udders waited for us. We walked through them to get to the milking pen, which was a confusion of oddly shaped kettles, metal levers and weights on pulleys. The whole thing looked as though it had been designed by the combined madness of Rube Goldberg and Dr. Seuss. The gaggle of air lines and hoses that made up the automatic milking system sputtered and wheezed as an old vacuum pump chugged in the background. We let in the first four goats.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Before we could hook them up to the machinery, we had to get them started by hand. Lisa explained that the key to milking is a good pinch in which the top of the teat is clamped between the thumb and the base of the index finger, much the way one holds chopsticks. With the clamp in place, the other fingers press down and force the milk out. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I made a thorough study of the udder before me. The two teats hung down like the distended thumb and pinkie of a rubber glove filled with water. I stretched out my hands and cracked my knuckles, a concert pianist about to give a great performance. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I put my hands on the teats. I pinched. I clamped. I squeezed. Nothing. Then I felt the milk squirt the wrong way, upstream, back into the udder. The goat began to fidget and kick at my hands. Neither Nina nor I could express a drop. After three minutes, I wanted to run my hands over my face in frustration like Curly might have in a “Three Stooges on the Farm” episode. “Pinch harder,” Lisa advised. I did.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“That's a great pinch,” Lisa said as though I had just learned the secret of throwing a curve ball. A fine stream of warm milk shot down my shirt. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Once all four goats were primed, we hooked them up and let the machine take over. The milk surged through clear plastic hoses into two over-sized stainless steel kettles. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Once the machines got what they could, we had to finish the milking by hand. Lisa's practiced pinch and squeeze brought forth thick streams of milk. Her pail rang out with the “zing-zang” of liquid against metal. Helpless, Nina and I looked at each other in frustration. We were only getting dribs and drabs. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Pinch, pull, press. Pinch, pull, press,” I said to myself trying to find a beat. Goat by goat I began to get the hang of it. Done properly, I could feel the entire teat drain, then fill the instant I released my pinch. Every now and then I got it just right and the milk would shoot into the pail with the satisfying beat of a metronome.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When both kettles were full we took a break. Nina was massaging her forearms. “What time is it?” she asked. “I'm ready for lunch.” I looked at my watch. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Nine-thirty,” I told her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I'm sure you're kidding,” she said. But I wasn't. And we'd milked only half the herd.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In a large dairy the milk flows directly from the animal to a cooling system, but in a small operation like Nancy's much was left to hand. Lisa opened the drain plugs on the kettles. Two-inch thick streams of warm, pure milk flowed into waiting buckets. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Careful not to slip on any by-product, I carried the two buckets and their seventy pounds of milk inside. Lisa prepped the cooling unit with a large paper filter. All I had to do was pour.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I raised a bucket high, slowly moving it toward the huge funnel. Only I didn't raise it high enough. The bottom bumped against the side of the cooler. Milk, the milk that had taken us ninety minutes to collect and the goats all night to produce, sloshed over the top of the bucket and down the cooling tank onto the concrete floor. Nina looked at me stricken. I lost at least a gallon. And each milking only produced 14 to 16 gallons. Lisa took the bucket and showed me how to pour without losing a drop. “No sense crying over spilled milk,” I heard her say. But that's just what I felt like doing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It took us an hour to finish the rest of the herd. We found ourselves talking to them as though they were humans. “Come on honey. Quit fooling around. All right sweetie,” we said, trying to coax them quickly in and out of the milking stations. Each goat seemed to have a personality. Lisa spoke to them by name. We just stroked them and tried to seem at ease.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When the last goat was milked it was time to clean up. While Nina and Lisa washed the equipment, I took a broom and shovel and began cleaning the concrete corral where the goats had waited.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was the first time I had been alone since work began. With the compressor off, with the goats fed and milked, the farm was quiet. In the distance, I could see the surf building on the ocean. Farm living might not be so bad I found myself thinking. Then I turned to the task before me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Animal feed often comes in a pelletized form and the goats deliver pellets in return. Their abundant droppings, smooth and spherical, range in size from individual pearls to grape-like clusters. After a morning of waiting, the once neat scat had been trampled to a gooey green slime dusted with goat hair. I heard Nina mutter, “Don't you think they could be taught to go in the corner?” I put the thick blade of the shovel to the concrete and began scraping.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Although an ocean breeze was blowing, the air filled with the fermenting scent of half digested alfalfa blended with urea. I carried away shovelful after shovelful. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Weeks earlier I had attended the 10th reunion of my Stanford University Business School class. Around the swimming pool of a classmate's Atherton summer estate, I listened as my former classmates discussed promotions, start-ups, initial public offerings, and other forms of high finance wheeling and dealing. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Hearing them discuss the difficulty of juggling careers, family, and personal interests, my mind began racing with questions about the type of life I wanted for Nina and me. The sixty-hour work weeks my classmates were lamenting just didn't seem to leave much time for anything other than work. After ten years, I wanted a change from independent management consulting for non-profit organizations and small businesses. I wondered what kind of career would give us the time we wanted for us and the income we needed to get by.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I went to see a career counselor. She listened to my experience, gave me a vocational interest questionnaire, and told me to come back in a week. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Perhaps I should have told her about my OVIS results because now I was at the other end of a shovel full of heavy, oozing, animal waste. Maybe it was therapeutic for Eddie Arnold. I was no longer sure if farming was for me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Hey Nina!” I called out to Nina, “Don't you think you should give this a try?” Not wanting to back down from a dare, she sneered at me, took the shovel, and scooped a load. Just then Nancy came out. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“So, what do you think of farming?” she asked. Nina emptied her shovel into the compost barrel. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“It's a lot like marriage,” Nina said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">After lunch we began “tubbing” cheese. Suzanne, a neighbor who works part-time, showed us how to fill five-ounce plastic containers with a serving spoon. She explained the importance of neither over or under filling them. Any air pockets or spillage would lead to premature molding and shortened shelf life. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">After forty minutes neither one of us had filled a tub properly. Each time we tried to put on a lid, cheese would sneak up into the rim and down the outside. All we had to show for our work were a dozen tubs that needed to be emptied and sanitized.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As a consultant, my expertise had been in helping small businesses operate more efficiently. Unable to “tub” five ounces of cheese, I began thinking about ways to re-engineer Sea Stars.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The MBA side of my brain began redesigning and mechanizing the whole farm. I had visions of hundreds of containers whizzing by each second as Sea Stars threatened the market share of Kraft's Philadelphia brand cream cheese. For a moment, I felt like the Tim Robbin's character in the movie <i>The Player</i> who cynically suggests at a brain-storming meeting that if Hollywood executives could only get rid of directors, actors, and writers making movies would be a snap. I began to think likewise, that if I could just eliminate the manual labor, the tubs, the goats and their by-product, there'd be nothing to farming or making cheese. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Eventually I got the hang of tubbing, but not before my wrists burned with what I was sure was carpal tunnel syndrome. I began filling tubs faster and faster to see how far ahead of Nina I could get. Suzanne, the youngest looking mother of five I had ever seen, watched me with bemusement. “Hey Robert,” she said. “Take it easy. Remember, it's just about cheese.” Obviously Suzanne didn't have an MBA.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">After four hours Nina and I had packed 35 pounds of cheese, one hundred little tubs that would sell for $3.50 each. Before we got to the farm, Nina had complained about how expensive goat cheese was. Now with our forearms, wrists, backs and necks aching, she said, “You know, $3.50 is starting to look like a bargain.” The next day Nancy came in to help with tubbing. We watched in awe as she packed the same amount of cheese in under 30 minutes. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">By 5 PM, we had put in a ten-hour day. I felt that if we really wanted to be farmers we should stay for the evening milking. Nancy told us we'd done enough for our first day. Besides it was our first anniversary. “Have you been down to the beach?” she asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The beach was a tiny one, squeezed in between a small break in the ocean bluffs and the Brussels sprout fields. We watched the late afternoon surf. In the distance we could see a few sailboats on Monterey Bay. “What do you think?” I asked Nina. “Do you think you could do this?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don't know,” she answered. I didn't know either but what I had expected to be a slapstick fiasco was beginning to look like a real life style option. As the day had gone on, I found myself occasionally walking in my rubber boots with a cowboy swagger. During quiet moments I stood with my arms akimbo and proudly looked out over the herd and the farm as though they were my own. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">That evening we unwrapped the last piece of our wedding cake. Nina told me not to expect much, that after a year in the freezer, it might have picked up a few odd smells. “So have we,” I told her. The cake was delicious. We poured two glasses of champagne, drank half and collapsed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Tuesday morning the first alarm went off at 4:55 AM. Reaching for it I realized every muscle and tendon in my body had shrunk by half. I was one dull ache. I could barely move. The back-up alarm went off at 5. We were still in bed when the alarm on my watch went off at 5:05. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I hate her,” Nina groaned as we finally got out of bed. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Who?” I wondered out loud. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Martha Stewart,” Nina said. “She never said anything about getting up at this ungodly hour.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Our second day of milking, supervised by Ana, an eighteen-year old community college student, went more smoothly. With the exception of one skittish and stubborn old goat named Paulette, we were able to get the herd done in under two hours.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In the babies' pen, things weren't as good. Spontaneity was still not eating. She suckled Nina's finger up to the third knuckle but wouldn't take the bottle. “She's a little hot,” Nancy said, feeling her nose. While Nancy went for some aspirin, Val, another friend and part-time employee, put Spontaneity across her lap and look a rectal temperature just as one would do with a human baby. Nina stroked the little kid's coat trying to comfort her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Come on girl,” Nina said. “You're going to be okay. You've got to get better.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Later that day I joined Nina in the dairy where she was busy making “Van Goats” and “Monets.” These are round cheese torts decorated with edible flowers such as bachelor buttons, calendula petals, and Johnny jump-ups for which Sea Stars has become well-known. Meanwhile, Skeeter, Nancy's one full-time employee, showed me how to “flip” cheese.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What type of cheese is this?” I asked as I looked at the soft white curds in the pasteurizer. Skeeter gave me a gaze a drill sergeant would have admired. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Goat cheese!” she said. “What did you think it was?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">For the next two hours, I gently placed the wet cheese into a bucket lined with cloth sacks. Each sack weighed 40 pounds. After hanging twenty of them over a bathtub where the whey drained, my back and arms felt I as though I had spent the afternoon at 48 Hour Nautilus. Nancy had told me earlier that people, admiring her trim, strong figure, often ask if she “works out.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“No,” she told me she tells them, “I work.” A few more days on the farm and I figured I could drop my gym membership.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We took a break and went to see Spontaneity. She didn't look sick to us, but she wouldn't take the bottle. Nancy called the vet. “I'm so worried about Spontaneity,” Nina said as though she were the goat's mother. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">By the end of our second day, we were so exhausted that when Nancy asked if we wanted to go sailing after work, I thought she must have been joking. She wasn't. Sailing was the one luxury she allowed herself. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The wind on Monterey Bay was lighter than the blustery gusts at the farm. As we lolled over small waves on a boat that belonged to another of Nancy's friends, the concerns of the city seemed very far away. I felt as though I had run a long, long race. The sun warmed all my soreness away. Milking goats in the morning, sailing in the afternoon. Certainly there were many less satisfying ways to live. The anxiety I often felt about whether I was keeping up with business school classmates was as far away as my worries about parking or crime or what the Subterraneans were doing. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">One of the best things about working on the farm was eating huge quantities of whatever I wanted. Wednesday morning I sat down to an enormous farm breakfast of eggs, bacon, two pork chops, hash brown potatoes, toast and coffee. I figured it was what a real farmer would eat. Nina, too, was eating with two-fisted gusto. She reached across the table and speared one of my chops with her fork.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I can't wait till we get to work,” she said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Why's that?” I asked her, wondering if this new zest for manual labor was for real. She picked up my coffee cup and swigged a mouthful. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Cause I'm beginning to smell myself,” she said. We'd been wearing the same clothes for the last two days.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">That morning I set up the milking pen by myself. I was no longer fighting my sore body or the routine. As I hooked up each piece of the system, I wondered if this was the life for me. My normal aches and pains had been satisfyingly replaced by ones that I felt I had earned. I did much of the milking myself. As I quickly shunted the goats in and out of the milking pens, I sensed the rhythm of farm life becoming my own. Although the work was unrelenting, there was an easy pace that was much more soothing than the jumbled up staccato distractions of the city.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">By noon, things were in high gear as we got ready for the Santa Cruz Farmers Market and a UPS shipment. Four of us worked in the tiny Sea Stars office surrounded by phones, fax, freezers, a cooler full of cheese that advertised “Chilled Wines and Champagne,” a computer, two printers, supplies and, under the dining table that serves as a desk, the latest litter of kittens. The walls were covered with blue and red ribbons awarded to Sea Stars at the annual judging of the American Cheese Society. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">While Nina worked on invoicing, Nancy and Val took phone orders and I packed shipments. Nina was so exhausted that she nodded off in her chair. We'd already put in a full day and were headed for at least five hours more. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Before we left for the market in Santa Cruz, Val brought Spontaneity into the office. Nancy prepared a syringe. This was a last ditch effort. At $30 a vial, Nancy couldn't afford to keep pumping medicine into her no matter how cute Spontaneity was. As the needle slid into Spontaneity's neck, she cried out, a long, scared wail that sounded just like a human baby's.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Driving down the coast to Santa Cruz, I told Nina, “I want to sell everything.” We had five coolers full of cheese that we had made and there was no way we were going to bring any back to the farm. Selling out would be my way of showing Nancy she had made a good decision when she let us come work for her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">My determination to sell out was redoubled by the eclectic crowd that shops at the farmers market in Santa Cruz. Barefoot kids reeking with patchouli oil and draped in Gypsy gear mingle with straight-laced academic and high-tech types and graying hippies. Some shoppers came up and smacked down their money. “I love your cheese,” they said, needing no sales persuasion. Others looked at Nina and me suspiciously when we suggested, “Try some goat cheese today?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Those were the customers I wanted to get. “Don't like it,” some said. “Ever try it?” I asked. Many never had. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I put samples in their hands. They took small nibbles and then larger bites. “Hey, that's not bad,” they said. “Honey, try this.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Unlike other things I'd sold in the past, I felt no hesitation promoting the cheese. It was nutritious, tasty, and artistic. The goats were treated well and the work environment at Sea Stars was pleasant and easy-going. During one afternoon, Nina and I were able to convert a dozen skeptics. With each sale I felt real pride. Maybe we <i>could</i> make it a way of life. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nina, Lisa, and I were busy all afternoon, making change, offering samples, and thanking everyone who came by as though it were our own business. “We're going to sell out,” I told Nina.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">One young woman returned to the stand repeatedly. She picked up the cheese, looked at it, and put it back. She looked at the Monets with a desire that seemed to border on lust. But she never bought. Finally she said, “I can't. I was hooked on this stuff all last year. I've got to stop myself.” She threw up her hands with the drama of a diva and marched off.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was hard to be positive when people just sampled with no intention of buying. We had worked so hard. The cheese was so good. The goats were so loving. How could people <i>not</i> buy our cheese? Every person who walked past felt like a personal rejection. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">By five o'clock the crowd was thinning. We still had a few tubs left in our coolers. A young man wearing paisley pants and a crocheted vest walked up. I told myself I would close the sale no matter what. He asked all kinds of questions about the edible flowers used in the “Monets.” I told him what I knew. Then he walked away without buying. I called after him. “What about some cheese today?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“No man,” he said. “I just wanted to know what the flowers were, you know man, so I could eat 'em out on the highway.” Nina rolled her eyes. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Santa Cruz,” she said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As we packed up another fellow came by and asked if we wanted to buy a “Speak Happiness” bumper sticker for a dollar. I wanted to tell him what I had done the last few days to make a dollar's worth of cheese but instead I just said, “No thanks.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As Lisa and Nina broke down the stand, I counted the money. We netted just under $300. It didn't seem like enough but Val told us it was the best day so far this year. “Maybe I should hire you guys,” Nancy said. It was a tempting offer, but what Nancy could pay us would barely cover the rent on our apartment. I wondered if we could make ends meet as farm owners. Being a farm employee would probably mean a change in our standard of living that we hadn't begun to contemplate.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">At the end of our 13-hour day, we were starving. We decided on a Thai restaurant for dinner. At the front door I looked at Nina's filthy pants. We hadn't changed clothes since six that morning. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Do you know what you look like?” I asked. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“No,” she said, “but you've got hoof prints all over your back.” We asked the hostess if she would seat us as we were. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Why not?” she said reflecting Santa Cruz's easy ways. In the city, neither of us would ever go out dressed the way we were. Wednesday night we wore our filthy clothes like merit badges.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Over dinner, we discussed how realistic it would be to take up farming. For certain, we wouldn't be able to fall backwards into it as Nancy had. Back in 1976 she was living in the Sierra while finishing college. A roommate asked her to watch his goat for a few weeks. The goat had kids, the roommate never came back, and suddenly Nancy was a goat farmer. All the goats at Sea Stars are descended from “Fanny the Goat,” as Nancy calls the inherited matriarch of her herd. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But that was nearly twenty years ago. Today it would cost tens of thousands of dollars and more hard physical work than either of us had ever done to build up a small operation like Nancy's. And it wouldn't be like buying a franchise fast food joint. There was no guarantee of success.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Thursday was our last day. By now both of us were enjoying the work. We were no longer concerned about by-product or even noticed the smell of the goats. In any case the nearby fields had been fertilized with chicken manure. That smell was so acrid I could feel it burn my sinuses. “Just imagine what ostrich manure smells like,” Nina said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Although we had both approached the farm with reservations, neither of us was ready to leave. The “goaties,” as Nancy called them, were more like puppies to us than mere farm animals. We had gotten to know many of them by name. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In the babies' pen, things were improving. Spontaneity was on the mend. The injection seemed to have worked. She attacked the milkbar with the other kids and then joined them in butting heads. On our last day, I had only one ambition. I was going to get some milk out of Paulette.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Paulette had different ideas. The machine got nothing from her. She kicked the pail and wouldn't let me milk her by hand. Nancy had told me there was little profit in the farm. I concluded goats like Paulette were the problem. She was eating $2 of feed a day and not doing her part. I figured she was an old goat that probably should be put down.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“How old is Paulette?” I asked Nancy after the milking was done. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Four,” she answered to my surprise. Alpine goats often live to be 15 years old. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nancy explained that Paulette hadn't been bottle-fed and, as a result, was skittish around people. She kept Paulette because she had belonged to a friend, Paul, who had died. At business school, despite classes in “Ethics and Business” and “Business and the Community,” the justification for every decision eventually boiled down to the bottom line. Thinking about Paulette, I realized that if I ran a farm, the rational decision, as I had been taught in graduate school, wouldn't always be the easy one. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As we got ready to leave, Nancy's friend Rick showed up. “How about a reike treatment?” Nancy asked. She and Rick had been swapping cheese for massage for some time. We didn't want to leave. Much less than a free massage would have kept us. “Sure,” we both answered.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rick's hands were warm, very warm. As he let them rest on my forehead I felt the final residue of urban life drain away. An hour later, when I got up from the table, my mind was completely at ease even as I sensed the soreness in every muscle.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As we got into our car, fog was just beginning to creep back onto the coast. Nancy and Suzanne stood in the road, waving us good-bye. The goaties crowded up against the fence. They watched us pull away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">For the first several miles we were very quiet. Farming for a few days had been wonderful. Could we do if for a living? Three hundred sixty-five days a year? I wasn't sure. Nina is 38 years old. I'm 39. Farm work was not a 90-minute work-out at the gym. Much better than before we understood it was a physically and mentally demanding life that was as constant and unrelenting as anything the city or the white collar world had to offer. And we didn't have Nancy's worries about raising two teenage sons, making a payroll, or keeping 70 goats healthy and productive.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Yet the farm offered an immediate sense of achievement that I rarely sensed in my life as a consultant. Often I'd worked on projects for weeks and months that in the end were shelved or fell through bureaucratic cracks or yielded no tangible results. In contrast, on the farm, we had completed an entire cycle in just four days, producing, packaging and selling a product we had made, were proud of and enjoyed ourselves. It was this immediacy that I found so deeply satisfying.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I loved the closed circle of the farm. We milked the goats, they gave us the cheese. We took the whey and fed it back to them. I watched this recycling program and realized it was much more a miracle of nature than my putting out the newspaper or empty cans and bottles for curbside collection.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">More importantly, we sensed we had become part of a community, a community of people and animals. We had connected in a way we almost never felt in the city. We worked outside in a place where the litter was strictly biodegradable. We spoke and worked with neighbors. The air <i>did</i> feel cleaner, the sun <i>did</i> feel warmer, we <i>did</i> feel safer and healthier, and we felt as close to one another as we ever had.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When the alarm went off the next morning neither one of us leapt out of bed. We were home, but we were homesick for the farm. “I miss the goaties,” Nina said to me. I did as well. The city just didn't have the texture or the natural rhythm of the farm. Plus, I didn't know what I could do that would give me the same sense of accomplishment I had felt working with the animals.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I went to the gym. Early in the morning people were waiting in line to get on the Stairmaster. I thought to myself that if ever there were a metaphor for all that's wrong with modern living, the Stairmaster must be it. Climbing and getting nowhere. Sweating and producing nothing. I got my thirty minutes of cardio and went home wishing the gym offered wood chopping instead of “step” classes. At least I'd have something to show for my effort.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">At the apartment, there was a message from Nancy on the answering machine. “Hey you guys,” Nancy said, “Got up this morning and everyone realized we really miss you down here. Spontaneity's better. She says, 'Baaaaaaah.'” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Nina came in the room as I listened to message. Nancy's voice made us realize we were home, but in the wrong place. “Come see us anytime,” Nancy said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">At last I looked at Nina. “Well, what do you think?” I asked. “Could you do it?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don't know,” she answered. “It was great, but I still don't know.” She looked out the window at the ships on the Bay. “How about you?” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn't know then and I still don't know now. On the farm I felt as though all my senses were rekindled, that my head and body worked together. In the city, they often felt like separate beings competing with each other. But still the fact was that we were city kids who liked having a coffee shop on the corner. There seemed to be no easy way to compare the two life styles we were contemplating.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don't know either,” I told Nina as I headed toward the door. I couldn't think about it right then. I'd left the car in a tow-away zone. I had to go look for parking.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt 0.5in; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>A version of this story first appeared as the cover story of the July 9, 1995 edition of </i>West,<i> the Sunday magazine of the </i>San Jose Mercury News.</span></p> Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-70462056554009750052011-03-01T14:34:00.006+03:002011-03-01T14:49:43.769+03:00Fortune Told<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoBodyText3" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If you're like me, you watched some terrible films and wondered, “How did a movie like that get made?” You left the theater angry with the filmmakers, feeling they not only stole your money but wasted two hours of your life. Though the only thing you know about movie-making is what you learned on the Universal Studios tour, you can't resist thinking, “I could do something better than that junk.” It was this type of thinking that got me into the movie-making business.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Initially, I hoped to succeed as a screenwriter. But after five years of trying, all I had to show was a growing stack of “Thank you, but no thank you” rejection letters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I knuckled down one last time and wrote a romantic thriller set in Africa. In letters to agents and producers I told them my script was like “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Killing Fields</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">... but with a better love story.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Through the friend of a friend, the script was put in the hands of Danny Glover. After months of waiting, his secretary called on a Friday afternoon. “Robert,” she said, “are you going to be home this weekend? Danny likes your script. He wants to talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In an instant, I was on the phone with my mother telling her about the celebrity who wanted to discuss my script. I spent all weekend waiting by the phone. I'm still waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A junior executive at a small studio said he would read my script. A month later I heard from his assistant. In a pseudo-English accent (no doubt cultivated at a third rate junior college) she told me, “We're passing.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Why?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“To be honest,” she said, “I thought it was...” and here there came a long pause and, I imagine, some nail filing, “...mundane and banal.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Two weeks later, her boss was fired. He went on to executive produce </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dumb and Dumber</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Perhaps I should have accepted his assistant's reading as the final blow to my cinematic aspirations. Yet a year later I found myself flogging the same script at the Sundance Film Festival in Utah. As I waited to register, a woman joined me in line. It took a few seconds to place her. Justine Bateman. Mallory. Michael J. Fox's dim-witted sister from the television sit-com </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Family Ties</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Sorry to bother you,” I said as I rummaged through my briefcase, “but I have a script that's perfect for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Uh-huhn,” she said, avoiding eye contact.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“I have it right here. It's an adventure romance, takes place in Africa,” I continued as she began edging away. “It's got everything. Political intrigue. Violence. Inter-racial sex.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She scrawled a phone number on a scrap of paper. “Call my manager,” she said. She couldn't get away fast enough.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I stood there, frozen, script in hand, as Justine Bateman, Mallory for heaven's sake, raced away from me. A small crowd had watched this scene. “Pathetic,” I thought I heard people say. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had reached bottom.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“I've got to do my own movie,” I told my screenwriters circle. “I just can't keep making a fool of myself.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Good idea,” they said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So I bought “how-to” books. I took courses. I volunteered on low-budget films as a PA, or production assistant, ground floor on the filmmaking totem pole. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As a PA, my responsibilities included driving to the camera supply house, holding back curious pedestrians and traffic during shooting, and getting coffee, cigarettes and pizza for people fifteen years my junior.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Doing these truly banal and mundane tasks made me realize that filmmaking was vastly more complicated than I ever imagined. The Universal Studios tour had given me no idea the attention to detail that was necessary simply to get an image on film. On top of that, it was all supposed to make sense, look good, and be entertaining.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Many television shows cost million dollars per episode. The average Hollywood film runs into tens of millions. At the time a year in film school cost $30,000. As a struggling writer, I had $5,000 to spend on my project. I hoped the resulting film would open the doors that my scripts had not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was told that the key to minimizing expense was to limit the number of locations and actors. With that advice in mind, I wrote a script. A man and a woman on a first date. Dark suspicions surface when they read the unusual fortunes in their cookies at the end of a Chinese meal. I called the script </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It had three speaking parts; the man, the woman, and the restaurant owner. It required only one location; a Chinese restaurant. It was just five pages long. Written in standard Hollywood format, those five pages would roughly translate to five minutes of screen time. Five pages, five minutes, five thousand dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In my living room, I videotaped a reading of the script. I showed it to my “Introductory Filmmaking” class at San Francisco State Extension. My classmates laughed aloud. I thought I had written a chilling, dark, film noir thriller.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“What are you talking about?” they said. “This is a comedy.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Okay, fine,” I said, determined to go ahead. “It's a comedy.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Quickly I became overwhelmed with the details of pre-production. There was crew selection, casting, locations, permits, releases, insurance, equipment rental, film purchases, set decoration, catering, contracts, and script revisions. It was more than I could handle. I needed help.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I hired one of my instructors, Debbie, as production manager and assistant director.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before I knew it, she had hired a DP (cinematographer), gaffer (lighting), key grip (heavy lifting), and sound man. They, in turn, hired their assistants, a wild bunch of punk rockers who would make the crowd at a Dead concert look like a convention of IBM salesmen by comparison.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They were all part of the Bay Area independent filmmaking scene in which hundreds of young, wannabe moviemakers are willing to work for next to nothing to get into “the business.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Paying the absolute minimum possible, I was now on the line for a crew of twenty people and over $2,000 in salaries. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Meanwhile Dave, my hyperactive, chain smoking DP, was arranging for equipment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Motion picture cameras are astonishingly expensive. A good 16mm camera, such as the one we planned to use, can cost $200,000. For a 35mm camera, the more sophisticated workhorses of Hollywood, double that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Because cameras are so expensive, low budget productions often join together to rent equipment. Dave, my DP, arranged to shoot four short films back-to-back for 11 straight, 18-hour days. My share would be $800. I was now in for $3000 and not a frame of film had been exposed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Meanwhile, Debbie, the assistant director, and I figured out the order in which the scenes would be filmed. Even though our “shot list” had no excess, even though I had confidence in my crew, I was still nervous. If </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> didn't get done in one day I would have to pay everyone for another day. My budget would double. I called Alex, a storyboard artist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Storyboards are cartoon-like illustrations that give an idea of what the film will look like – before the camera starts rolling. Some directors have one done for each scene. Others don't bother with them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For my five-minute movie, I had Alex do 153 drawings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At last, nearly everything was ready. The shoot was set for one month away. Two problems remained. One, I didn't have a location. Two, I didn’t have any actors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I called casting agents and asked if they represented any actors who would be interested in my low-budget short. Head shots, the 8 x 10 glossy photographs that are the calling cards of acting talent, flooded in. Actors, I realized, are even more desperate for work than writers. I asked 30 people to audition.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In a frigid room in San Francisco's Fort Mason Center, I watched young, talented, ambitious actors read my words. One woman was so good looking, I hardly noticed her performance. I found myself transfixed by this smashing starlet. Then I felt the stare of my fiancée who had made a special point of attending the auditions. I escorted the redhead to the door.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Thank you very much,” I told her coldly. “I'll get back to you. Next!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In fact, she had been perfect, just what I was looking for. Her agent told me not to hire her. “Why?” I asked, “You sent her to me.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“She's too good-looking,” the agent said. “You've got a short film. You want people watching your movie, not the actors.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Eventually I hired two talented actors, both attractive but not so unusually good-looking as to stun an audience into mindless gawking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Meanwhile, I discovered I had a very big problem; finding a location. Most Chinese restaurants stay open seven days a week, many 14 or more hours a day. I drove to every Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Thai, Nepalese and Bhutanese restaurant in the Bay Area. “Not interested,” they all said. The allure of having the name of their restaurant in the credits of my film changed no minds.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With just days to go, I was frantic, unable to sleep. My $3000 was gone and I was about to be ruined. If my shoot fell through, so would the other three in the equipment rental. One of those was a music video for Rancid. At the time, Rancid had not yet made it big. What I knew was that I didn't want anyone or anything called Rancid angry with me. I put out an APB for a Chinese restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A friend introduced me to Chun and Mei, the owners of Yan's Kitchen, a small Hunan restaurant near the Transamerica Pyramid. Hungry for publicity, they agreed to let me use their place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They had no idea what they were getting into. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">On the day of the shoot, I arrived at Yan's Kitchen at 7 AM. At 8 the phone rang. It was Debbie. The crew had worked until 3 AM the night before. They couldn't get to the restaurant until 10:30. “Don't worry,” she said, anticipating my imminent mental collapse, “We'll get it done.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Three hours later the crew began ripping Chun and Mei's restaurant apart. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The grips carried the furnishings outside to make room for equipment. They turned daytime into night by hanging black tarps over the windows. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Two grips held ropes wrapped around the gaffer's waist as he tapped the building's main power lines, by-passing any circuits we might overload. In case he did something wrong, the grips would yank him away before untransformed current turned him to toast. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Watching this I stopped regretting the $470 I had spent on workers compensation insurance for my one-day shoot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As the crew readied the set there was little for me to do. The sound man set up his tape machine behind a drape like the Wizard of Oz. The camera was mounted on a rolling stand known as a dolly. The DP and the gaffer adjusted the lights, and then adjusted them some more, and then adjusted them again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When all was finally ready, a friend of the DP showed up with a second camera. Now, instead of shooting only one actor at a time, we could film both the man and the woman simultaneously. This, Dave said, would save lots of time. Except that the lights had to be re-adjusted. Another hour crawled by.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At one o'clock, six hours after I had arrived, we were ready.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Places everyone,” Debbie said to the 30 people I had hired for the day. As the director, I assumed that I would call most of the shots. But on the set Debbie was the field marshall. My role was to decide whether or not I liked the performances.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Quiet on the set,” Debbie yelled, beginning the motion picture countdown I had heard a thousand times before. “QUIET!!!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Sound!” she hollered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">From behind his curtain, the sound man yelled back, “Sound speed.” His equipment was recording.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Camera,” Debbie yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Rolling,” Dave hollered from behind the camera.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Allen, the bandanna-headed, multiple ear-ringed second assistant cameraman stepped in front of the camera. “And marker,” he said as he snapped the black and white slate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Annnnnnnnnd ACTION!” Debbie yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before I could absorb that my movie was finally underway, Dave, the DP, was yelling “Cut, cut, cut.” Something had gone wrong. And so it went for the next 13 hours as we captured as many goofs as good shots. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes the camera would “dolly” too far and reveal a production assistant smoking in the background. Buses went by and drowned out the actors’ lines. We forgot to turn the telephone off. Someone called for Chinese take-out, ruining another shot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Throughout the day it was a race against time. Around midnight, we were running out of film and energy. We did a few scenes outside the restaurant and then aimed our puny lights on the Transamerica Pyramid. I hoped it would make a beautiful opening or “establishing” shot for the film. It was the last thing we filmed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“That's a wrap,” I said. Within an hour the crew had put the restaurant back together and left to start on Rancid's music video.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I have climbed some very high mountains and bicycled across the continent. I’ve completed open water ocean swims and run a marathon. Nothing compares to the exhaustion I felt after 20 hours on the set. That night I hallucinated for several hours wondering how and if my film would come out. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The camera could have malfunctioned. The film might have been no good. There was no telling until it came back from the lab.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Two days later, I gathered with the crew to watch the “dailies,” the low cost, first print of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. The image looked good, great in fact. The tension I'd been feeling for weeks began to drain away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Hey look!” someone said. “There's a boom shadow.” The shadow of the microphone was visible in every shot. My heart fell. A boom shadow is one of the most basic filmmaking errors. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Don't worry,” Debbie told me. “No one will see it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe. But it wasn't her money and reputation on the line.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To get </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> in the can, I had spent months writing, planning, fretting, rehearsing, fretting, reviewing, casting, fretting, and finally filming. I had spent $5600, more than my original budget for the entire project. I had taken on the tasks of writing, editing, producing and directing for three reasons; one, I wanted to learn as much as I could, two; I wanted to show all the jerks in Hollywood what a huge talent they had overlooked, and, three; I was cheap.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I began to edit the film into a “rough cut,” I discovered to my astonishment that we had failed altogether to film a scene on the day of the shoot. Without it, I didn't know if the film would make any sense. Going back to “pick up” the shot would have cost thousands. I became so despondent I would have dropped the whole thing except for the money already spent. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To better understand the film-making process my instructors suggested I edit </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> myself. A professional could have finished the job in a week. It took me months. And months.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Often, to get the pacing right, I would take out small pieces of film, sometimes just two or three frames. Keeping track of all these “outs” took as much or more time than editing the film itself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText3" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Later, when I wanted to change a scene again, I had to go back into the reels of “outs,” find the sections of film and sound I wanted, cut them out and tape them in place. I spent hours and hours and hours working over tiny fractions of a second of film. I pleaded with Nina, my fiancée who had since become my wife, to help out. She did. Once. She had no patience for the pre-digitized world of film editing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I continued to edit and mutilate the working copy of my film, there were countless other details still to be taken care of. Peter Whitehead, an avant-garde musician, agreed to write and perform the score for </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. When I heard his music, performed on a toy piano, cello, spinning bicycle spokes, and a few hand-made instruments, I thought it was all wrong. Distraught, I looked at Nina for commiseration. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“It's great!” she said. “So much better than that corny saxophone you wanted.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Even as the film neared completion, the list of things to be done seemed to grow ever longer. I needed titles. To have the words Fortune and Tell appear over the Transamerica Pyramid cost me $600. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To get the sound right, so that all the voices, background sounds, and music blended together ran another $1000. All for a movie that would eventually be just six minutes and eighteen seconds long.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All along, it was difficult for me to know what was good enough. When the budget broke the $10,000 barrier and with my VISA bills mounting, I knew </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> was as close to good enough as it ever would get. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I took everything to the lab. There, technicians balanced the film's color so that the actors' skin always had the same hue. They wed the sound to the film. They told me to come back in a week to view the “first answer print,” the print that would answer whether or not my film worked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A week later, I pushed a button in the lab's small screening room and told the projectionist to roll it. The lights went down. Peter's music filled the room. The Transamerica Pyramid faded in on the screen. I watched </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, in its completed form, for the first time. I had been working on it, in spurts and starts, for more than 22 months.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It wasn't perfect, but it was good. How good I wasn't sure. Whether it would catch Hollywood's attention I couldn't know. I sent videotape copies to festivals. My wife and I left for an extensive overseas trip. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina told me to prepare for total rejection. The top film festivals get thousands of submissions for a few dozen slots. And getting into a festival, any festival, was no assurance that Hollywood would stand up and notice. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After two months on the road, I called to see if there was any news. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Oh, there is,” my mother-in-law said from halfway around the world. “Aspen, Denver and San Francisco all want your film. It's so exciting.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Two weeks later, on opening night at the Aspen Film Festival in Colorado, I took my seat in the sold-out orchestra of a beautiful, gold rush era theater. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> had been paired with another dark comedy, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To Die For,</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> the hit by director Gus Van Sant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before the lights went down, I must have gotten out of my seat a dozen times. I went to the bathroom. I went to the drinking fountain. I went back to the bathroom. Before returning to my seat I paused at the back of the packed hall. I turned to the person next to me, perhaps planning to make a little nerve-soothing chit-chat, only to see that, like quite a few others, Martina Navratilova would be standing when my film began.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Feel my heart,” I said to my wife as I finally took my seat. No audience had ever seen my film. All I could hear was the pounding in my chest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before I knew it, the audience was applauding, applauding wildly. My six-minute eighteen-second baby was over and they had loved it. Nicole Kidman was on-screen. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To Die For</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> had begun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was only later that night that I realized </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> had succeeded. My film noir thriller had people laughing so loudly that half the jokes had been drowned out. The expense, the agonizing, the self-doubt all faded away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Making </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> was the hardest thing I have ever done. I spent two physically and mentally exhausting years working on something that lasts just six minutes. The short has since played all over the United States, in Europe, in airplanes, on television, in theaters and now on the Internet. And in Hollywood they still don’t return my calls.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So, would I do it again? Sure. You bet. Though it’s now been years since I last sat in a theater and waited for my film to begin, I can still hear the audience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A version of this story first appeared in the January 28, 1996, edition of </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">West,</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> the Sunday magazine of the </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">San Jose Mercury News.</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In addition to debuting at the Aspen Film Festival, </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fortune Tell</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> played at festivals around the world including New Directors/New Films at the Museum of Modern Art in New York (paired with Stanley Tucci's debut feature, </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Big Night),</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Manheim/Heidelberg, The British Short Film Festival, Palm Springs, Taos, and many others. It has also been shown on multiple PBS stations, the BBC, Canal+, and as part of in-flight programming.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6upt6V5zgE">here</a> to view</i> Fortune Tell</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> on YouTube.</span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;"><br /></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-21318031489755615952010-10-11T06:10:00.002+03:002010-10-11T06:13:22.636+03:00The Really Big Screen<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;margin-bottom: 12pt; line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was never as good as we will remember it to be. The features were typically second rate, the sound lousy and the screens dirty. Someone was forever slamming a car door on the way to the bathroom or concession stand. Late arrivals swept their headlights across the screen wiping out the picture altogether. Horns blared as the intertwined limbs of awkward adolescents got caught up with steering wheels and dashboards. Thinking back, I can't remember much about any of the movies I saw. Still, I am going to miss the drive-in.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My wife and I rediscovered the drive-in after our daughter was born. At first we took her to those few regular theaters that allow infants. But even there, with her fast asleep in my arms, other patrons cast disapproving looks our way. “I thought this theater had a no infant policy,” a woman said to us at a matinee of Woody Allen's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Everyone Says I Love You.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Evidently not,” my wife snapped back as we took our seats. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When our daughter turned five months old, she began yapping at the characters on the screen. Our family days at the movies were over, at least for a while. Tickets, parking, and a baby-sitter made a night at the movies a fifty-dollar affair. Without dinner. There just weren't any pictures we wanted to see that badly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Let's go to the drive-in,” my wife suggested. That afternoon we drove to the southern edge of San Francisco, to the Geneva Drive-In, to reconnoiter the area, not wanting to get lost near the Cow Palace at night. Even with the sun shining the Geneva looked like a run-down, dangerous dump and was that much gloomier and ominous at night. An old grandstand was on the verge of collapse. The four huge screens didn't seem much sturdier. The stanchions that once held the speakers had been battered so many times by night-time movie goers and day-time flea market patrons that they looked like the teetering crosses of a ghost town cemetery. Still, we became something like regulars.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Simply seeing the screen at the Geneva entailed regularly starting the engine to run the defroster. Even with a clear windshield we still wound up occasionally watching a movie through streaming fog that raced toward the Bay and tormented San Francisco Giants fans at nearby Candlestick Park. The sound, channeled through the radio, came across as though broadcast from the other side of the planet. It wasn't the best way to watch a movie. But then going to the drive-in was never really about going to the movies anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a kid growing up in the Northeast my widowed mother took my brothers and me to the drive-in fairly often. We even went in the winter as a way of escaping the incipient cabin-fever that slowly built during the long, dark, cold days. I don't recall a single movie I saw with my family, yet those were magical nights. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What could have been more exciting to a six-year old than going out, at night, in the middle of winter, wearing pajamas with feet, to see a movie through falling snow? It was the height of surrealism. (Of course, I wasn't at the drive-in in Fontland, Ontario, when a tornado swept through the theater, blowing the screen to smithereens while </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Twister</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> was playing. Talk about special effects.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My mother gave up on the drive-in about the time we all became more interested in what was going on in the cars on either side of ours than on the screen in front of us. “Mom, what are they doing over there?” one of us was sure to ask. She would concoct some vague answer in the Ozzie and Harriet, Donna Reed style of the day. “But why would they want to do that?” one of my almost adolescent brothers was sure to ask. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Twenty years later I knew the answer when the woman I was dating suggested we go to the drive-in. She was a big gal who drove her pick-up like a cowboy. We bounded into the drive-in, she backed into a space, got out a cooler, and unrolled a mattress. The Richard Gere remake of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Breathless,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> said to be one of the worst movies ever made, was playing. I wouldn't know. A couple hours later the second feature was over and it was time to go. Neither one of us saw a frame of either movie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One might think that with more and more pick-ups and SUVs running around, a drive-in renaissance might be in the offing. But rocketing real estate prices, cable and satellite TV, the VCR, and the demise of teenage virginity and the automobile bench seat have all but killed the drive-in. Thirty years ago there were more than 220 in California alone. That number has dwindled into the low forties and continues to head downward. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Not surprisingly the Geneva closed for good in 1998. Despite the miserable weather and facilities, we had good times at there. I'm sure that when Ben Stiller opened the door for Cameron Diaz in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There's Something About Mary</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> every theater in America rolled with laughter. But it couldn't have been the same as watching cars bounce up and down as people howled and smashed their dashboards over the same joke at the drive-in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One drizzly night at the Geneva an armed guard chased a gang of young men right past our fogged-over windshield as we tried to watch </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tomorrow Never Dies.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Wow,” my wife said after our hearts stopped racing. “You won't see that at the Coronet,” one of San Francisco’s few remaining single screen movie palaces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another mildewy evening we went to see </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bullworth</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in which Warren Beatty plays a senator up for reelection. During one scene Beatty winds up in an after-hours club, dancing with Halle Berrie, and rapping “Yo baby, yo baby, yo baby.” From the back seat, our then eighteen-month old daughter, who we thought asleep, joined in in her tiny, high pitched voice. “Yo baby. Yo baby. Yo baby.” For the rest of the evening any time it grew quiet she would start up again. “Yo baby. Yo baby. Yo baby.” We have never laughed louder at the movies. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some time ago I stumbled across what must have been a great party. Inside one of the piers at the Fort Mason Center in San Francisco, professional organizers had 30 or 40 convertibles parked before a large movie screen. Someone – someone very rich – was going to have a birthday party with a drive-in movie theme. The convertibles were all new. The sound and the projection were sure to be state of the art. No doubt the catering was fabulous. Under cover, there'd be no fog or rain or snow. But I wondered if they could really capture the essence of the drive-in. The awkward walk to the concession stand past cars full of necking strangers. The anticipation of maybe “getting someplace” with one's own date. The juvenile delinquent delight of sneaking friends into the show inside the trunk. The impossible juggling act of trying to watch the movie, comfort the baby and eat popcorn all at the same time. There was probably none of that. Now, in the Bay Area, there are people so rich they can spend thousands to recreate a drive-in even as the real thing disappears. It seems almost undemocratic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was about the same time that we last went to the Burlingame, the only San Francisco area drive-in still standing and scheduled for imminent demolition. Our car bottomed out several times as we negotiated the flooded aisles. A naked hot dog suggestively jumped into a waiting bun in the trailer for the concession stand, which commanded us to “Celebrate the Drive-In.” As instructed, we turned our parking lights on and soon a young man appeared out of the thin rain to take our order for pizza and popcorn. On screen, Buzz and Woody ranted their way through </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Toy Story Two</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. The anemic sound that came in over the radio was half static. There were exactly three other cars watching the show. We wouldn't have to answer any embarrassing questions that night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“It's not very romantic,” I said to my wife as the window-wipers beat back and forth, the defroster blasted, and our daughter complained that she couldn't see a thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Let me tell you what's romantic,” my wife said before leaning over to kiss me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like I said, I'm going to miss the drive-in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:14.0pt;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A version of this story originally appeared in the March 19, 2000 edition of the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">San Francisco Sunday Examiner Magazine.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-52336092614811865162010-08-09T12:04:00.008+03:002010-11-25T05:47:44.469+03:00The Marabou Shrug<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I couldn't fall asleep last night. No ma</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">tter how many times I went over it in my mind, I couldn't remember what I had done with the marabou shrug - and that's what kept me from falling asleep.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just a few months earlier, like most people I suppose, I had no idea what a marabou shrug was or that one would soon come into my possession.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now that it is gone, its whereabouts have bedeviled me and filled me with guilt.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Trying to remember what I had done with it wasn't like trying to remember the lyrics of a song - or where I was the first time I smelled a smell that I had just smelled again after many years of not smelling it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It wasn't ticking through the dusty leaves of my mental Rolodex trying to bring up some long forgotten fact.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The marabou shrug had come and gone recently.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had held it and then let it go.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My impetuosity made me sad. I felt I had to get it back. But, of course, I couldn't get it back if I couldn't remember what I had done with it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What was I thinking?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A marabou shrug.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Where would I ever find another one?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And even if I did, it wouldn't be the one I had gotten rid of.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And that was the only one that mattered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I found it in a small, flat box tucked away on a shelf in her closet.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The closet that was her original closet.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After my brothers and I grew up and moved away, all of our closets became her closets.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And then when Dad died, his closet became hers as well.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But I found the box in what was her original closet, the one two rows deep with hangers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The one I can remember hiding in as a child, looking up at the belts and the scarves and the blouses while making fortresses from all her boxes of shoes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The box I found the marabou shrug in was the type fine clothing stores used to send men's shirts home in, protected by a few sheaves of white tissue paper. A box that was almost guaranteed to make some sort of crinkling sound when opened.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This was, of course, before the advent of plastic wrap.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Though the box was tucked away just next to the closet door, I doubt it had been touched, or even opened, since she moved in.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That was 51 years ago.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Embossed in gold on the top of the box was "Garfinkels, Chicago."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Written just next to that, in pencil, in my mother's unmistakable hand, was "Marabou Shrug."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was never any mistaking my mother's handwriting.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's been exactly the same for seventy years, maybe longer. Full of grand swirls and tiny loops, it's entirely feminine but somehow in no way frilly.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Every letter was always precisely the same, whether written in the 1930s or in the 1990s.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's so uncannily consistent, it could have been a font.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The typographer could have called it "Betty."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't know why, but her capital G, the first letter of her maiden name, always reminded me of a treble clef while not looking anything like a treble clef but more like the prow of one of Columbus' ships.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">How did she come up with this style, unlike anything anyone was ever taught in school? She must have first spent weeks devising it and then many more practicing it over and over and over again.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I asked her not long ago where the "Betty" font had come from.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I don't know," she said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is the problem with not asking questions until a parent approaches her tenth decade, everything starts to fade.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Marabou Shrug?" I wondered to myself during the brief moment between the time I found the box and the time I opened it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What is a Marabou Shrug?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As expected, inside the box were the layers of crinkly tissue paper now gone yellow with age.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And inside them, folded as neatly as my mother's handwriting was always exact, was what?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A bunch of feathers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I reached in and with two hands gently lifted up a tiny piece of clothing, smaller and shorter than the vests toreadors wear.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lined with white satin, the outside was nothing but long, white feathers stitched to the backing by the thick end of their quills.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Oh, that's my marabou shrug," my mother said as though she had been looking for it yesterday.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"A marabou shrug," she said wistfully, as though only to herself.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Can you imagine anyone wearing one today?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We were on day number two of going through my mother's clothes. On day one we had worked our way to the back of her closet and dealt with blouses, skirts, coats and dresses. We were about to open a second front and begin the attack on her shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom had moved out of her house, the house I grew up in and the house she had spent 51 years in, three months earlier.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She didn't go far.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just a mile or so up the street to an independent living facility called The Oaks at Menorah Park which was a new addition to what used to be called The Jewish Home for the Aged.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My brothers helped her make the initial move from house to home.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the time, she took with her only those clothes she thought she would need immediately, following our advice to leave everything else at the house, taking what more she needed as she got established in her new place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That turned out to be about twelve linear feet of clothing.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Left behind, in the old house, the rest of her clothes lined another perhaps 20, maybe 30, feet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was her original closet with the two long crossbars for hangers plus the double shelves and the stacks of shoes that we had mainly gone through already.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was Dad's closet, much smaller, but still enough to have accommodated his several suits and dozens of wing-collar powder-blue dress shirts.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was my brothers' closet, about the same size.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then there was my closet which she had appropriated right after I left for college.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Those were the closets on the second floor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the basement, there was another closet, that one filled with winter clothes and orphaned zip-in liners from old coats that had been given away years ago.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then there was the front hall closet, no longer accommodating the outerwear of guests, who were less and less frequent, but given over to Mom's rain coats, winter coats, various rubbery things with which to protect shoes, umbrellas, more scarves, more shawls, a few hats that hadn't been worn in years (Did my mother ever wear a beret?), a pair of crutches, a bamboo cane - the type a vaudevillian might have used in a soft-shoe act, and a plastic bag filled with those small, fold-up, plastic hair protectors that expand from the size of a credit card to that of a small geodesic dome.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And then there was the faux-cedar closet in the attic, a three bar walk-in that held the whites in winter and the wools in summer as well as outfits with sequins, boxes from B. Altman's, Lord & Taylor's, Marshall Field's, and all the now long gone department stores of my Syracuse youth; Dey Bros., Flah's, Addis's, Sibley's and even Madame Netter's, the milliner.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nearly all of Mom's outfits in the attic were protected by the flimsy plastic sheaths used by dry cleaners, many of which still had the receipts, from the 1960s and the 1970s, stapled on.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In absolute ready-to-wear condition was her first lieutenant's uniform from the Second World War, complete with matching cap protector and wet-weather cape, from when she served in the Navy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What caused Mom to hang on to all these things she would never wear again?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nostalgia?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Depression-era mentality?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't know.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But unlike most women, my mother's size never varied more than a percent or two from the 115 pounds she carried on her 5' 5" frame since adolescence - so purging her closets to accommodate the ups and downs of weight gain and loss was something she never had to do.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Taken altogether her wardrobe was a like an uncurated collection that stretched from the 1930s to the 21st century and across all four floors of her home.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Its arc connected nearly all the points of fashion in the last 70 years, from the natural fabrics of her youth, to the first synthetics of the fifties to the 1970s </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ne plus ultra</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> of Halston's Ultra-Suede, which some day historians, together with the first moon landing, may identify as the apogee of the American Era, after which it was all downhill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In among the hundreds of items of clothing - the dresses, belts, blouses, slacks, suits, sashes, Bermudas, flats, pumps, mules, and heels - we didn't find anything terribly outlandish.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom's was a wardrobe defined by a childhood of going to the movies during the 1930s and by her first job out of the University of Chicago, at Warner Bros in Chicago, with everything closely tailored for the educated career girl with a svelte figure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom liked bright colors - daisy yellow, farmhouse red, golf course green, glaring winter white and wore them all well.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For years, the carpet in her living room was the color of a fairway in spring.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes I thought she selected her clothes to go with that carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After three days of trying on and taking off clothes, Mom was completely exhausted.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She didn't really want to go through every item.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She wanted to take every item with her.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But that wasn't possible.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Her apartment at The Oaks is probably 8 or 900 square feet.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Her house was 2,200.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And she had a full basement and a full attic.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm sure her house had more space for storage than her apartment at The Oaks has total space.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For my part, I wanted her to try on every item and approve its retention or deaccession.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In fact, I insisted on it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Weeks or months later, when I was certain she would ask, "Where's my Burberry jacket?" I wanted to be able to say, "Mom, remember, it had gotten too big for you.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We agreed to get rid of it."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Of course, the clothes weren't growing.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom was shrinking.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And now that she had been gently nudged out of her house, I didn't want her thinking that we were unilaterally getting rid of still more of her things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Trying on the clothes wasn't only tiring for Mom but for all of us.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For the keepers, I put up a portable rolling rack.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The items that were stained, didn't fit, or eternally out of fashion went on her bed to be donated or sold.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"But I want it," Mom would plead over the tenth, fifteenth and twentieth white blouse that I had put in the donate pile.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mom, it's got a stain.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">See?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the collar is starting to fray."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"But I need it."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mom, you don't need it," I would say.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"You have six others just like it."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't know exactly when it started to happen, but sometime in the past decade my mother started to buy multiples of the same item.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I understood this with shoes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She wears a 10 AAAA, a "canoe" in the trade, and if the shoes fits, and you like it, you'd better buy several pairs.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But why three and four pairs of the same lace-up walking shoes?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Why four, five and six of the same LeSportsac purses?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Why thirty or forty white turtlenecks, all with zippers custom sewn into the back of the neck so that she could take them on and off without mussing her hair?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What can I say?" she once told one of my brothers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I love beautiful clothes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I always have."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But the multiples weren't of beautiful clothes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They were of everyday items.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm going to attribute it to the Depression and the same sense of childhood loss that always had a freezer in the basement full of bread - "Just in case" - as she would say.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I think she never lost the fear that one day you could have everything and the next day you could wind up with nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Early on during the winnowing, we struck a bargain; Mom could keep not more than two of any of one item.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She was not happy about this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Robert, I need it."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mom, your closets at The Oaks are almost full already."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"But I need it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I want it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Please."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mom, we've just put two aside here and there are already two in your apartment."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"But I like it."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I know you do, Mom.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Someone else will, too."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Somehow I wish I had been more ruthless with my mother years earlier.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now, with her tired and elderly and struggling to remember things, it just didn't seem right.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Her pleas made me feel like an involuntary sadist.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Her clothes were one of the few obvious things that still gave her pleasure - and I was forcing her to forego even that.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It had to be done, I told myself, though now, in reflection, I'm not entirely sure why.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had Mom try on wonderfully tailored pantsuits that I couldn't remember seeing her ever wear but that Barbara Stanwyck or Katherine Hepburn could have worn straight on to the set.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Some of the slacks were so long I wondered how much Mom had shrunk over the years or if maybe once she had been taller than 5' 5".</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lately Mom's been struggling to keep her weight between 95 and 100.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Despite the drop of 15 or more pounds, she couldn't fit into her Navy uniform.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was too tight.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I want it anyway," she said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I didn't argue.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My mother's service in the military represents, I think, one of her proudest achievements and one of the happiest times of her life.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Her uniform went on the keeper rack.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For the scarves and the shawls, she sat on the edge of her old bed and nodded yes or no as Nina and I held them up for her to inspect.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There wasn't one that she didn't want.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They were small.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They wouldn't take up much space.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We didn't argue and took 50 or 60 of them out to The Oaks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After Mom finished trying everything on, we loaded the car with the keepers and drove them out to The Oaks where we rearranged her closets - winter clothes here, summer clothes there, "nostalgia" clothes on the shelves above the racks or in zippered plastic, portable, hanging wardrobes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Back at her old place, I went on-line and posted two ads on Craigslist/Syracuse.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The first read:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Large collection of stylish, classic women's clothing from 1940 - 1995. Casual to formal to evening wear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The second read:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Large assortment of women's shoes in sizes 9 and 10 AAA to AAAAA. Heels to mules to pumps to flats from the 1960s to the 1990s. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Both concluded with <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Call Robert at (315) 436-5496 to arrange an appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I waited a week.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I didn't get one call.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This in a world in which t-shirts, exposed midriffs, and "no-wrinkle" clothes that contain not one warp nor one weft of natural fiber represent fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I got out the Yellow Pages and called the one vintage store left in Syracuse.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's owned by the girlfriend of the son of a long-term family friend.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She was always out.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She was always busy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I left message after message and couldn't reach her.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I even called her common-law mother-in-law to ask for help.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Finally, after intimating that the Salvation Army would be getting everything, she came by the house with an assistant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They quickly let their fingers do the walking, picking out a suit here, a blouse there while flicking past 90% of what I had assumed was vintage and collectible.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Quickly we realized that they weren't about to take everything as I had hoped.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Or even very much at all.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After half an hour of watching them overlook what I assumed were classics, I found myself selling THEM, trying to convince THEM that the things they were skipping past were indeed worth taking, the selections of a woman with a good figure and the good taste to match, someone who knew how to carry classic lines and colors while never broaching the avant garde.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Yes, it's wonderful, they would tell me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But it's not what people are buying.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It won't sell.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A few years ago, sure.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A couple of years from now, maybe.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But not right now.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The shop is full.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sorry, we can't carry inventory that won't sell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What about these? I pleaded, You've got to take these.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A 1950s clutch covered in a unicorn-motif brocade with three-inch high heels to match.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Can't.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Won't sell.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Plus who wears a 10AAAAA?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What about this, an alligator bag with the clasp made from the baby alligator's head?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Look, the sales tag is still inside.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the receipt.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She bought it in The Bahamas.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">1948.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nope.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sorry.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No one's going out with that today.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But it's got the matching compact inside, I insisted.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nope.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Can't do it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They don't make stuff like that anymore.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But it won't sell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After two hours of rummaging through the things that had taken us three days to cull, they settled on just half a rack.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They found the little back-of-the-head pin-on hat made of bright red parrot feathers that no one has worn since Jackie Kennedy left the White House irresistible.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They took the lambskin stole, the one with the missing mink collar.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That one was a bit tough to let go.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I vaguely recall that it had been passed down from a grandmother.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Someone had had "Betty" hand-embroidered into the lining.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Does $210 sound about right?" the girlfriend of the son of the family friend asked while getting out her checkbook.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My God, I thought, some of those outfits cost more than that 20 - 30 years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I know," she said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"But they might stay on the rack for another five years.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They might never sell.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll wind up giving them away."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I took the check.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The next buyers we contacted were a mother and daughter team.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They were more interested.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We told them what we had.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Thirties, forties, fifties.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Things in the box.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Some of it never worn.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Things with the tags still on them."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They came right over.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just as quickly as the first couple of buyers, they quickly flicked through the racks.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They agreed that Mom had had wonderful taste.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We just can't sell it they said over and over again, shaking their heads and moving on to the next hanger.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"It comes to $119.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Will that be all right?" the daughter asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After Mom had culled her collection, after two dealers had gone through it, we were still left with 15 feet of clothes and boxes and boxes of shoes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What do we do now, I asked the mother-daughter team.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I just didn't think we had reached the point where the Salvation Army was the only remaining option.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Did you call so and so, another dealer, they asked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had - and she hadn't returned my call.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The daughter got on her cell and began to sell the third dealer who I could tell must have been just as overstocked as everyone else.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Finally the daughter pulled out all the stops regarding the remnants of Mom's wardrobe.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"It's very Talbot's," the daughter said over her cell.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"It's very Anne Klein-ish."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The third dealer came over that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I wish you had called me six months ago," she said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But now, she explained, she was stuck in between seasons, too late for summer and too early for Christmas.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She couldn't afford to take much and have it just sit on the racks.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"It comes to $85.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Will that be okay?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And what does one say to that?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Those clothes cost thousands of dollars.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nineteen fifties dollars, nineteen sixties and seventies and eighties dollars.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That outfit cost two hundred dollars when gas was selling for twenty-six cents a gallon?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No, that's not what we said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We wanted it to be done.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We took the check.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The following morning Nina and I loaded my mother's car.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A late-model Impala, smaller than full-size cars of old, but still with comfortable seating for six.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Layer upon layer of clothes, all on hangers, many still in bags from the dry cleaners, went into the truck until it was so full the lid bounced when I tried to slam it shut.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then we filled the back seat from floor to ceiling. Dozens of pairs of shoes, all in their original boxes, filled the foot wells.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina got in the front seat and I piled her lap so high that I couldn't see out the side window nor she out the front.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Salvation Army in Syracuse is a wonder.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A vast, K-Mart like building with glaring fluorescent lighting over what must be several thousand feet of racks.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's down on Erie Boulevard, one of America's ugliest streets.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's less than a mile away from Mom's house, at the bottom of the very steep Seeley Avenue hill.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We were there in six minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I supposed I expected the receiving clerk to be awed by this car full of impeccably maintained clothes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But he wasn't.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Several other cars that had been just as full as ours were pulling away while still others were lining up behind.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A lot has been written by economists and others about the multi-trillion dollar windfall that Baby Boomers will inherit in the next 15 years from The Greatest Generation.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I wonder if anyone has calculated the trillions of tons of stuff they will also be inheriting - and what on Earth they are going to do with it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom said she was thrilled that someone had finally helped her go through all her stuff.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But I'm not so sure.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Things had given her meaning, whether she used them or not.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And now the things were gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With Nina leading the charge, we finally braced ourselves and entered the large basement room where my dad had tossed his eclectic collection of antique and modern toys, old typewriters, Edison phonographs, medical quackery, antique radios and radio tubes, his mother's household furniture and all the stuff that had once filled his office and labs at the university.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't know if he ever truly planned to get around to it, but he died 21 years ago without ever going through anything.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Since then, it all sat there, dozens and dozens of corroding batteries attesting to the benign neglect.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My mother always said she wanted to deal with the basement room, but that she didn't know where to start.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With Nina it was like a chapter out of "Get Things Done."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She started in the far corner and over three full days worked her way to the other side of the room.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The room that had once been difficult to enter was now barren.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In six weeks of ten and twelve hour days, we completely emptied the house it had taken my mother more than 50 years to fill.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I still have a hard time believing it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We donated dozens of items to the university.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hundreds more were taken away by an auctioneering house.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Every Tuesday night for six weeks I dragged up to 16 garbage cans of stuff out to the curb to be thrown away. In Syracuse, every household is limited to two cans a week, so for a month and a half I parceled out our excess up and down the block in front of the households that weren't using their quota.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was amazing how much stuff there was to be thrown away; carpet remnants, plastic hangers, metal hangers, shredded bank statements and bags and bags of cancelled checks.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Out of the thousands of old checks, one fell out of the stack, like the sought after card in a magic trick.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The check was made out by my Dad to Henry Cramer, the dentist, long retired, who still lived directly across the street.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was for $75 and dated 1948.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I took it over to Dr. Cramer, now 89, and we both wondered why anyone had hung on to a check for nearly 60 years.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Someone directed us to Mr. Gilbert, the local ironmonger who came by with his son and hauled the chest freezer Mom had brought to Syracuse from Chicago in 1954 out of the basement.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It had been broken for years and she used it to store light bulbs.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He also dragged out the extra range Mom had also brought from Chicago, and which still worked but hadn't been used since a particularly large Thanksgiving dinner sometime in the 1960s.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And later he came back again to take the large, broken upright freezer that stank terribly after someone had turned it off but left the door closed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">How he makes any money from hauling this stuff away for free and then breaking it up for recycling, I have no idea.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But he saved us the $500 others wanted to take it all away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">An "end lots" man came by to take stuff the auctioneer didn't want and the Salvation Army wouldn't take.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He filled up his rusting Econo-Van twice and gave us $40.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We heard he sells the stuff at weekend flea markets.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Someone else agreed to take all the old radios and phonographs and auction them for us on eBay.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The 61-year old daughter of the dentist across the street bought my brothers' childhood bunk beds and dressers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She now lives in Florida but wanted them for the three-bedroom home she recently bought in Syracuse for $37,000 so she could have a place to stay when she visits her father.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And every day for weeks I put stuff out on the curb - mattresses, broken furniture, an Encyclopaedia Britannica - that no one would buy and that no one would take.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the grand tradition, all day long passing cars would slow and sometimes stop, their owners getting out to grab a rusted lawn chair with broken weaving or the three-legged wing chair that sat unrepaired in the attic for at least 45 years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And still we had a couple dozen bankers boxes filled with memorabilia and photos to take to The Oaks where we stacked them on the racks above Mom's clothes in the closets.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But among the thousands of items that once filled my mother's house, it was the clothes that were the most emotional.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the Salvation Army, the clerk, Nina and I began carrying armfuls inside where we found ourselves at the base of an immense mound that rose nearly to the ceiling of a large warehouse type building.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"We got a little behind at Christmas," the clerk told us.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was late July.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With no ceremony whatsoever, the receiving clerk started throwing the clothes up as high as he could onto the mound.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the far end, other Salvation Army workers were prying clothes loose and sorting them out into the saleable and the not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina and I looked at each other with disbelief.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All those years of buying.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All the fittings and the tailoring.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The dry cleaning.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The pressing and preserving.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And now, like a doll discarded by a child, the clerk was simply tossing Mom's cherished clothes willy-nilly among old jeans, t-shirts, soiled winter clothes, mismatched shoes, crushed hats, random pieces of underwear and who knows what.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We stood there with our arms full.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then we began to toss.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Like the tails of kites, the items in dry cleaning bags fluttered to the top of the heap and then slid right back to the bottom where they came to a stop in a jellyroll like lump of plastic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It took the three of us four or five trips to the car to unload it completely.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I heaved the last item onto the pile, I thought of the final scene in "Citizen Kane," when Rosebud gets tossed into the incinerator.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Meaningless to the worker, it was the kernel of Kane's psyche - as perhaps my mother's wardrobe was to her - and both wound up in a pile of rubble of no value or meaning to anyone else.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now, several months later, it seems to me that I had pleaded with the various clothes dealers to take the marabou shrug, but that none of them wanted it. Who could fit in it? they had wondered.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Who would wear it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe one of the dealers did take it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't remember it floating up and then settling back down on the heap of castoffs at the Salvation Army.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And now that it's gone, probably forever, I want it back.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And that's why I couldn't sleep last night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In my mind's eye, I see a photograph of my mother wearing the marabou shrug when she was a Wave in the Navy, stationed in San Francisco, where she had the possibility of a dozen dates every night with sailors and soldiers on shore leave.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The photo is a big 8 by 10 in black and white taken with a Speed Graphic like Weegee used and the loud "pop" of a disposable flash bulb.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the photo, Mom is smiling broadly, men in uniform on either side of her, as they make their way into The Top of the Mark, or The Starlight Ballroom, or The Tonga Room, or Bimbo's 365, which was then at 365 Market Street and not down on lower Columbus Avenue as it is today.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the photo, Mom's posture is great. She's slender and pretty and happy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She's not made up much, a little lipstick maybe.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But she didn't need to be made up because she's wearing the marabou shrug and so make-up would have been gilding the lily, as she might have said about someone else.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The marabou shrug follows her shape so closely it's as though they were her feathers and not those of some poor and rather ugly and awkward African stork.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With her head high and shoulders back, the marabou shrug holds her form in such a way that every man in the place must have wanted to be the one to help her slip it off and onto the back of a cocktail chair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Four months have passed since we cleaned out Mom's house and she's probably not remembering all the things that she once had.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She's probably forgotten about the marabou shrug.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But I haven't.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'd like to get it back.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe it's on the racks at that vintage store in Syracuse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But if it isn't, I'd like to think that somewhere in Syracuse, there is a 16 or 17 or 18 year-old high-school girl with a slender figure who stands about 5' 5" and who's thinking about her prom, imaging how wonderful her bare arms will feel as they slip along the satin lining of the marabou shrug.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And that when the time comes, she will gently yet firmly pull it onto her shoulders where it will settle in a way that will lift her spirits and the heart beats of all the young men who see her.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She is going to go out feeling wonderful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I hope that she wears the marabou shrug with pride and bearing, and that it stays in her closet, and with her children, for a long, long time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:1.0in;text-align:left"><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:none"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I wrote this story in December 2007.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My mother died yesterday.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She was 92.</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:1.0in;text-align:left"><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonefont-family:Verdana;font-size:12.0pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6xwqk_ZAMRGq7VblBbFmPRLGz0-kgImfsBgpujH9sq_k0RJPpd2tWMAgFTlm_V_o2Rfuc9hYHAuTPq1DpTFBujk-JMzEbJ-MhpoDmqLq0qbG6X55YjmVKtQXMDYZVb77tOsssAaJmak/s320/Betty.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503340064869879714" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 232px; " /></span></i></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-7005464099104372762010-06-04T14:57:00.002+03:002020-12-21T13:23:40.342+03:00Love in an Upper Berth<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My wife was insistent. She wanted to see penguins, in the wild. It didn’t matter that we live twenty minutes from a zoo. She wanted to see them in their native habitat. So, together with our ten month old daughter Allegra, we traveled to Chile, to the Straits of Magellan, to see </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">pingüinos</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fifteen hours after leaving San Francisco, we landed in Santiago. Chile is a ridiculously long, narrow country stretched between the Andes and the sea. We had flown more than 6,000 miles. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Los pengüinos</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> were still 2,000 miles away.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To reach the penguins it would have been easiest to take another flight from Santiago to the very bottom of the hemisphere, to Punta Arenas, the largest, southernmost city in the world. But there was a rumor that the state owned passenger train that runs south from the Chilean capital was about to be discontinued. It would take us only 600 miles, to the city of Temuco, less than half the distance we needed to go but this was a chance we might not have again. The line that once ran to the north of the country had slid off the rails more than a decade earlier.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Let's go to the station,” I said to my wife. “If they have tickets, we’ll take the train.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Estación Central</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in Santiago is an old wrought iron barn with six tracks. On one stood a steam engine. The overall look of the place made me unsure whether it was a museum piece or something that actually still puffed its way somewhere.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tickets were available for that evening’s sleeper. Seventy five dollars secured a deluxe bedroom. We climbed aboard.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The dank smell of aged mildew filled the Pullman car. The rich, dark woods and green, velour, nail-head upholstery conjured up Agatha Christie. A porter showed us our room.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The edges of the two facing seats were worn down into a thin jade while the backs had somehow retained their original emerald color. The carpet was threadbare, the double framed windows cracked and yellowed. The lamp fixtures appeared as though designed shortly after the domestication of electricity. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The train jolted out of Santiago at 8 p.m., exactly on schedule. Through our open bedroom door, across the narrow corridor, and out through the windows on the far side of the train, we watched the distant ridge of the Andes turn orange, then gold, then rose and finally disappear in a cloak of violet and darkness.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our daughter stood on the edge of the seat, her head draped out the rattling window like a Labrador. A waiter appeared to ask what time we would like to be seated in the dining car. He poured us two pisco sours, the margaritas of Chile. Quite quickly our sense of balance and the sway of the train became one.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There was one other couple in the long dining car. Lace curtains, etched fixtures, and the parquet floor hinted at the art moderne elegance now retained only by the tuxedoed staff. We ordered roast beef and more pisco sours. Our soup sloshed back and forth as the waiter made a great show of presenting the wine. He swayed like a violinist, assuring us this was the only way not to spill. We ate slowly and quietly, handing off Allegra to the waiter, the chefs and the other couple. Unlike American restaurants where a young child is likely to be greeted with sneers, on the train and in every restaurant in Chile, our daughter was swept up by strangers who were happy to play with her as we ate. For desert, the waiter brought us coffee and flan. Outside a world entirely black passed by at 50 miles per hour.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Back in our room, I lay down with our daughter in the cozy bed that had been made up from the two seats. My wife clambered into the upper berth. Allegra wasn’t sure what to make of this bed that lurched, jerked, and slid from side to side and back and forth. She burrowed her way into the nape of my neck, her breath tickling my skin like the gentle puffs of a tropical breeze. Soon, she was deep asleep.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Silently finding my way in the darkness, I stepped on the sink and hoisted myself into the upper berth. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What are you doing?” my wife hissed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What do you mean, what am I doing?” I said. “I’m coming to visit you. I’m your husband.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“And what about our daughter?” she said in a way that suggested I had forgotten the child sleeping below us.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“She’ll be fine,” I said. “She’s dead asleep.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No, no, no. Get back down there. Right now. She could fall on the floor. She could fall out the window!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“She’s not going to fall out the window,” I said. “She’s fine. And the window is closed.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I attempted to pull my wife close. She pushed me away. I nearly tumbled to the floor six feet below.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What are you doing?! She’s perfectly safe. Relax. Do you know what a room like this would cost on Amtrak?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Even Amtrak doesn’t have rooms like this,” she said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rebuffed, I climbed back down. In the few seconds I had been gone, our daughter had taken over the entire twin bed. She lay there, fast asleep, warm and slightly damp, like a huge mound of dough left to rise, showing no inclination to move. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“We’re supposed to be on vacation,” I seethed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Go to sleep,” came the response from above. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">An opportunity for romance was slipping away. The train rolled on.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I teetered on the sliver of mattress left by our little girl, unable to sleep. Counting penguins didn’t help. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“But we’ve never had a bedroom on a train before,” I said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Make a note,” my wife said. “Now GO-TO-SLEEP.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I rolled up the blanket and tucked it in around Allegra. She had only just begun crawling. Short of a derailment, she was not going anywhere.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Quietly I stepped on the seat, then the sink and launched myself back into the upper berth. I slipped under the thick, heavy, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ferrocarriles del Estado de Chile</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> comforter. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What are you doing?” my wife asked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What do you think I’m doing?” I said. “I’m your husband.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Is that so,” she said coyly as she put her arms around me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At 8 a.m., twelve hours and six hundred miles after departing Santiago we arrived in Temuco, the gateway to Chile’s stunning lake district and the end of the line. The train had long been in the station when the porter awoke us. The night, punctuated by the train’s motion, had passed in an instant. The penguins, however, were still 1,400 miles away.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Days later, after eight hours on busses, a two-hour flight, and a 90-minute trip in a mini-van, we arrived at the penguin colony, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">las pingüineras,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 30 minutes before dusk. The landscape along the Straits of Magellan was completely unforgiving. It’s a bleak, storm swept place where the outline of Tierra del Fuego forms the horizon. Our small mini-van shook from the constant buffeting of the wind. I wrapped Allegra in three layers of clothing, put her in a baby sling, zipped both of us inside my jacket, and stepped out into the 50-mile per hour wind. Instantly, she began shrieking and would not stop. She had traveled for more than a week, to the very bottom of our hemisphere, to the 53rd parallel, without complaint. But of this wind she was having none.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Watching our ordeal, the park rangers invited her to stay behind in their small, warm, wooden hut. Allegra, who a moment before could not be comforted, was thrilled. We had come to the end of the earth to show her penguins in the wild, but now we plunged into the wind without her, walking the final mile out to the penguin colony by ourselves. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There, 50 small Magellan penguins waddled back and forth from the sea to their hutches. While the wind exfoliated our faces, the penguins seemed to be having a gas, rolling in the surf, playing follow the leader in their little black and white penguin lines. Within minutes we were absolutely freezing. Meanwhile, our ten month old was blissfully happy, eating cookies next to a warm fire with four attentive park rangers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“It would have been easier to go to the zoo!” I yelled to Nina over the wind.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What?” my wife yelled back.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The zoo,” I shouted. “We could have gone to the zoo!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She put her lips up to my ear.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“There’s no train at the zoo,” she whispered just above the wind.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We spent 30 minutes watching the penguins then turned to leave, our faces coarse and dry from the wind and cold. It would be a long trip home. More than 8,000 miles. But we knew a fine night of sleep waited for us on the train back to Santiago.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 12pt 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A version of this story first appeared in the October 4, 1998 edition of the </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sunday</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Chicago Tribune.</span></span><i><o:p></o:p></i></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-67071173724838428522010-04-22T07:24:00.002+03:002010-04-22T07:32:29.014+03:00Cutting Teeth - In Queensland<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There’s a lot of things that will kill you in the far northeastern corner of Australia known as tropical north Queensland.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Australians who live there never tire of telling visitors about the many hazards present in their state, famed as home to the Great Barrier Reef.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s as though once you’ve made the 15 hour trip from California the locals inadvertently intend that you should never leave your hotel room.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Despite its perils, Queensland does have something for everyone.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There’s the famed Australian Outback -- millions of acres of barely inhabited nothingness.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There’s the Reef, with its thousands of islands and countless dive spots.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There’s the tropical rainforest which cascades down to the very edge of the ocean.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And there’s the beach, hundreds of miles of brilliant white sand, utterly unpeopled and unspoiled.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Aside from snow-capped mountains, Queensland has every possible setting a tourist might want.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And every one of them has something sure to kill you.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Steel fencing encloses vast stretches of beach to keep them safe from the great whites that prowl off-shore.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During Queensland’s early spring and summer, a second, inner net is dragged out to keep the swimming areas clear of box jellyfish or “stingers” as the locals call them.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One well meaning Queenslander told me that should I get stung I’d have 90 seconds to get back to shore, find some vinegar, and splash it on the stingers.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This would neutralize their deadly toxins.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fortunately, he explained, there are bottles of vinegar left out at all public beaches.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, if I didn’t make it in time, I’d begin to lose consciousness and death would quickly follow.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Of course, he reminded me, that while deranged and racing panic stricken from the surf, I should try not to attract the attention of any of Queensland’s thousands of enormous crocodiles that regularly drag inattentive bathers to gruesome and bloody submarine deaths.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And don’t get them started about scorpions, spiders, deadly rainforest plants, or Queensland’s famed and endangered cassowary bird, which, unlike its relatives the ostrich and emu, is aggressive and can kick a grown man 20 feet through the air, splitting his chest open in the process.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m a reasonably adventurous traveler.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve bungee jumped.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve stepped out of a perfectly good airplane 15,000 feet above the ground.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In one 12 month stretch I visited four different countries all claiming to be the world’s most destitute.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I even rent an apartment in San Francisco.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There’s not much that scares me.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But this constant confrontation with nature’s deadly side gave me the idea that boldly probing Queensland’s many wonders might result in more adventure than I wanted.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After a few stunning dives on the Reef and with “stinger” season about to begin I decided that the dry Outback might be a bit less hazardous than the wet and wild coast.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ha! I was told by each and every Queenslander.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Had I never heard of the taipan, the brown snake, the death adder, or the tiger snake?</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Didn’t I know that Australia was home to 8 of the 10 deadliest snakes in the world?</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No, it’s 18 of the world’s 20 most deadly snakes another well intended, proud and chauvinistic Aussie informed me with the same zeal New Yorkers once used when bragging about the crime problem in their city.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Just so I shouldn’t miss the point, during my visit one of the local papers reported that fatal snake attacks had risen 600% in 1998 alone.)</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well then, maybe just a daytime bush walk in the Outback, I suggested.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fine, I was told.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Just be careful of the black spear grass, an innocent looking plant with a seed that catches on one’s socks and then slowly corkscrews its way into one’s ankles where the body’s natural humidity causes it to germinate.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The well meaning man who guided me through the eerie lava tubes of the Undara National Park told me that occasionally very nasty infections result, with a plant eventually erupting on the other side of one’s leg.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Clearly this was something I wanted to avoid because bringing live plants back from Australia would violate USDA and Customs Department regulations.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Having survived the Reef, rainforest, and outback, I was ready to see more of Queensland’s non-fatal side.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What about a farm stay? I asked of the tourism people.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Well, ah, okay,” they said.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nearly all Americans come to Queensland to dive the Reef.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My request for a home on the range experience had them ruffling through their brochures.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What kind of farm?” they asked.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“How about an alpaca farm?” I said.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Al-what-a?” the woman said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If nothing else, the Australians are persistent and not long after I was headed toward the Willow Park Alpaca Stud and Albion Farm Stay, home to a herd, rather “mob,” of fuzzy, funny-looking, and, most importantly, non-venomous alpacas.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The worse they could do was gob some spit at you, I was told.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Non-venomous spit.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I didn’t know much about alpacas.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A few years earlier I had seen a mob of them in the San Juan Islands of Washington State.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Their fur was the king of all fibers I learned, more prized than cashmere or pashmina.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Alpacas and an alpaca farm, I thought, might be the way out of my confined, urban apartment existence and to a long held back-to-the-land fantasy that once had me and my wife working on a goat farm.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But unlike goats or cows, alpacas didn’t require milking twice a day.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Aside from an annual shearing, they pretty much took care of themselves.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Driving through the Australian countryside, I passed towns with names that only Fred Flintstone could have conjured up.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Towns like Biddaddaba.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The welcoming sign for the city of Warwick informed me that I was passing through a “tidy town.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Albion was not far away.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I began to daydream about my future as one of America’s great alpaca barons, rocking away on the porch of my alpaca Ponderosa, contemplating the fortunes of my mob with my feet up.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Far away from the perils of sharks, and stingers, and spear grass, and crocodiles, I began to relax and enjoy Queensland’s gently rolling farm land.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My daydream came to an end at a small rural junction outside of Warwick where a sign pointed to the town of Albion.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But a few minutes down the road I had more than covered the distance with no sign of a town.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After turning around, I quickly arrived at Willow Park Stud, realizing that in rural Australia you don’t have to be as big as a town or village to have your own road sign.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can just be a house or a farm.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Albion and Willow Park were one and the same.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Forty furry, long necked, absolutely goofy looking alpacas stood quietly clustered together in the large paddock.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A few had been shorn and their odd, camelid features must have inspired George Lucas and his production designers when they first imagined some of the creatures that inhabit the world of Star Wars.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Out strode Harry Liaubon, who together with wife Jen, owns Willow Park and has been in the alpaca business for 10 years.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Harry, with his stiff gray mustache, head of perfectly silver hair, and a broad, gap-tooth smile, looked more the retired Buckingham Palace guard than alpaca tycoon.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the “barbie” he had a six inch thick, butterflied leg of lamb that easily weighed 10 pounds.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Do you have other guests?” I asked Harry who easily juggled cigarette, beer, and grill tools while swatting at the flies that should be Australia’s national bird.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No Robby,” he said.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Just the three of us.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’ll cook down.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You’ll see.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No worries.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Australia,” I thought.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Big country.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Big food.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Over dinner Harry and Jen gave me a brief tutorial on alpacas. </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They’re a high plains animal from the Andes whose wool was once coveted for royal garments.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now they provide the yarn for the finest of woolen goods.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">An alpaca sweater at Neiman-Marcus, for example, can go for $500 or more.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At Albion, Harry and Jen raised the more common huacaya with its coat of puff-ball wool as well as suris whose wool hangs in long, tightly curled locks like the tassels of a flapper’s dress.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Just feel this Robby,” Jen said.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I plunged my hands in a large bag of alpaca fiber.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Until someone begins weaving feathers or baby’s hair it will have no challengers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I told Harry and Jen that I had come to Albion for a hands on experience.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wanted to know if alpacas were in my future.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They shouldn’t coddle me.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Right,” Harry said, “No worries Robby.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We can cut some teeth tomorrow.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That sounded good -- until the next morning when I learned that Harry really meant cutting teeth -- alpaca teeth.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For an alpaca, life at Willow Park is the gravy train.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Without having to forage among the rocky plains of the Andean altiplano their teeth grow indefinitely, like beavers or woodchucks without wood to chuck.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Problem is” Harry explained, “that when the machos (males) are battling for mates they tend to bite each others’ testicles.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So we need to cut their teeth.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I briefly put myself in the male alpaca’s place.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Have my teeth cut with a garden shears or have my testicles bitten by a romantic rival.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was a choice that made me want to forget about dating altogether.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like goats, alpacas are gregarious animals.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They like company.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Trying to separate one from the mob is like trying to split a drop of mercury.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Jen, Harry, the dog, and I eventually penned half a dozen animals in a small corral and then went after our intended, long toothed quarry, a pure, all-white suri named “Whitewater.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Chasing the quick, fuzzy, jumpy animals on wet grass pebbled with slippery alpaca droppings was the kind of activity guaranteed to appear on a “stupidest home videos” program.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I, of course, had brought only one pair of pants.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Once we had Whitewater in his own corral, it was time for a bit of dental hygiene.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But first, of course, we had to get a hold of him.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Harry, 59, strong and wiry, demonstrated, walking slowly behind Whitewater before grabbing a fistful of wool under the neck while going for a headlock with his other arm.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Right,” he said freeing the animal, “Now you try it Robby.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In my still semi-presentable pants, I cautiously approached Whitewater from behind as Harry had done.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We stood about the same height, 5’7”.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Harry told me the larger machos weigh about 180 pounds so Whitewater had me by 40 pounds.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I can do this,” I told myself.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With the animal in reach, I lunged.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But my hands found nothing to grab.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first 6 inches of an unshorn alpaca is utter fluff.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While I tried to reach deeper, Whitewater saw his chance and landed a crushing, backwards upper cut of the foreleg to my ribcage.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As I struggled to hold on (and get my breath back), Harry quickly pried open Whitewater’s mouth to take a look at his testicle tearing teeth.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No,” he said, “this one can wait.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But let’s give’m a pedicure since you’re so cozy and all.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Harry quickly clutched Whitewater’s feet and snipped off the overgrown, claw-like hooves with the same garden shears he would have used on Whitewater’s teeth.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Over lunch, Harry and Jen explained the economics of alpaca ranching.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In Australia, an alpaca can live for 20 years while producing 7 to 11 pounds of wool each year.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The wool sells for about $20 a pound so a good producer might earn a few hundred dollars annually.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yet a highly prized female or hembra can sell for $50,000 or more.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although I have an MBA from a prestigious business school, I couldn’t quite figure out the bottom line in this.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Well, you see,” Jen said, “nowadays the business is in the breeding, not the wool.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You’re lucky if the wool pays for the feed,” Harry added.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Evidently, for years alpaca farming has been a coming thing.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are said to be only 10,000 alpacas outside South America, and ranchers have been waiting for the animal’s day to arrive.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile, long term alpaca breeders like Harry and Jen, he a retired automotive engineer, she a retired oncology nurse, have become well-to-do beyond their dreams.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It all started because Jen saw an alpaca for sale that was so cute she couldn’t resist it.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You’re looking at three quarters of a million out there Robby,” Harry said to me as we quietly rocked on the porch of his 40 acre Ponderosa.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Really?” I said, amazed that so few animals could be so valuable.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Course, I don’t mean to big note myself,” he said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What do you mean?”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I asked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Big note myself?” he said.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh, I don’t mean to wave the flag is all” he added as a way of explanation before taking a drag on his cigarette and a pull on his beer.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Australians possess a bewildering multitude of peculiar expressions.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s as though, separated from the rest of the world, the English language has evolved much in the same way Australia’s fauna has, resulting in expressions as unusual as the koala or platypus.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Harry was simply trying to explain that he didn’t mean to boast about his and Jen’s success.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">These two unassuming alpaca farmers had become wealthy on an animal that costs far more to buy than it can ever recover with its fleece.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I realized I could afford to become an alpaca rancher just about the same time I could afford to buy a home in San Francisco.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A few years ago Harry and Jen’s mob numbered 160.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That was when they ranched near Melbourne.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They moved north in search of peace and quiet.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rural Queensland is a quiet, slow moving place.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Something like agricultural America 30 or 40 years ago.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And in this vast quiet, Albion was very quiet.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Not much more sound than the occasional bleating of a sheep or the wind rustling through the eucalyptus. </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With my fantasies of an alpaca empire dashed, I resolved to learn what I could in the time I had left at Albion.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With the animals so expensive, why, I wondered, wasn’t there more artificial insemination, which might bring the price down to where I could start out with an itsy-bitsy mob of 2 or 3 animals.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Can’t do it Robby,” Harry began.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“They’ve spent millions researching it.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You see, the macho’s a dribbling ejaculator.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You just can’t get enough of the stuff.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Well, I suppose you could try to catch some of it -- you know -- afterwards,” Jen said before going on to describe a process that could only interest an alpaca breeder or, possibly, a member of</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ken Starr’s staff.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“And you see,” Jen added, “the hembra, well, she’s an opportunistic ovulator.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can’t really know when she might be ready.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“She needs that warm and fuzzy feeling,” Harry said, before she’ll release an egg.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently a turkey baster just isn’t what fires a female alpaca’s libido.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For several days Harry and Jen had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of a baby alpaca or cria.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Every couple of hours we went out to a small corral to see if Tammy, the pregnant hembra, had “unpacked.”</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was scheduled to leave that afternoon but decided to stay another night, hoping to witness the cria’s birth.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Jen said there was nothing cuter than a new born alpaca.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I didn’t doubt it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Over dinner that evening Harry and Jen confided to me that what they most like about alpaca farming are the clear nights when they go out into the paddock, hand in hand, lay down beneath the stars, and listen to the alpacas.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“They make this delightful murmuring sound,” Jen explained.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tammy didn’t unpack while I was at Albion but during my last night I did walk out into the paddock.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fires glowed along the dark horizon where farmers were burning their fields.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The night sky was black and filled with unfamiliar stars.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Huddled together against the slight chill, the mob lay quietly murmuring, their soft rumblings like a chorus of small brooks cascading through a mossy forest.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Maybe I never would be able to afford an alpaca ranch of my own.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But I had found a wonderful place in Queensland - a place where there was nothing to kill me but the quiet.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A version of this story originally appeared in the September 12, 1999 edition of the </span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">San Francisco Sunday Examiner Magazine.</span></span><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-91929382542743417552010-04-07T07:11:00.002+03:002010-04-07T07:13:48.498+03:00The Ceremony of One Chip<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The old stone dining room at the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 12 miles inland from Big Sur, was filled to capacity and busy with conversation. The moment Edward Espe Brown entered, draped in the robes of a Zen priest, the quiet chitchat stopped. Author of vegetarian classics such as </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Tassajara Bread Book, Tassajara Cooking</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and co-author (with Deborah Madison) of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Greens Cookbook,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Ed was about to give an evening lecture, one of the three I would hear while participating in his workshop, "Cooking as a Spiritual Practice." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had gone to Tassajara hoping to overcome my performance anxiety in the kitchen which, for years, has made every dinner party, every entertaining occasion, something to fear and dread rather than enjoy. In his workshop, Ed concentrated on the very basics. We tasted salt. We tasted pepper. We sharpened knives. We meditated. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At Tassajara, snuggled deep into the rugged Santa Lucia Mountains, there were no carbonated beverages, no meat, no junk food. We ate beautifully prepared vegetarian meals. We thought about food at its most elemental in our attempt to appreciate more deeply the joy and pleasure it can give. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although Ed is highly regarded as a chef, it seemed at Tassajara he was more respected for his knowledge of dharma than of food. The room remained quiet as he settled into his chair, adjusted his robes and pulled the microphone close. I didn't expect instantaneous enlightenment from Ed's lecture but was hoping for something thought-provoking and profound. After what seemed like a very long time, he finally said, "I really don't have much to say this evening," and chuckled to himself. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The room grew quiet and solemnity had re-established itself when Ed reached down and began fidgeting with something in his bag. Although I couldn't see what it was, the crinkly sound was unmistakable. Ed had a bag of potato chips. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Tonight we're going to perform the ceremony of eating just one chip," he announced. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Something, however, was already amiss. Someone had gotten into Ed's nine-ounce bag of Lay's, and he wasn't sure if there would be enough chips for the 100 or so people crowded in the room. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That problem appeared to be solved when several closely shorn Zen students raised their hands and asked the master what to do if they didn't want to eat even one chip. "Then you will celebrate the ceremony of not eating one chip," Ed answered. "In Zen," he noted, "the eating of one potato chip and the not eating of one potato chip are kind of the same thing." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When the bag finally came our way, the Zen student next to me rummaged around the bottom and found the tiniest shard, which he placed on the end of his finger as though he and the chip were auditioning for an Intel ad. My other neighbor dropped his chip. It broke in two. He looked at it, mortified. This was, after all, the ceremony of eating one chip and not two. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ed instructed us how to approach our chips. Foremost was concentration. We were to "collect your mind. Attune your mind to the chip. Pay attention to the chip." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were to use all our senses, our fingers, our eyes as well as our taste buds. He reminded us to be aware of our ears because "there will be some crunching going on." And we were to be mindful, meaning that we needed to be fully aware of what we were about to do. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Usually it is only foods that we don't care to eat or are repelled by that we give such close attention. I'm sure that I had never before been mindful of even one of the thousands of chips I have eaten. I took a good long look at my chip. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was shaped like a girl's tongue caught in mid-giggle, a cute squiggle with a thin corona of gold running around its blond edge. I smelled it, and my nose filled with the familiar scent of grease and starch. I ran my tongue over its rough surface and sensed its salty effervescence. There seemed to be a lot of un-Zen like giggling going on as people inspected their own chips. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When we were finally told to eat our chips, there was a crunch more than worthy of one of Jay Leno's old Doritos television ads that used to shake the television screen. After digestion had begun, Ed asked people how the experience had been for them. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some commented on the salty aftertaste. One person said just holding the single chip and waiting to eat it had made him very nervous about the whole enterprise. Others noted how the fingers and the mouth worked so well together. Several people were still working on the residue caught between their teeth. The conscientious objectors said they were surprised by the loudness of the crunch. A lone dissenter didn't quite get the point of the exercise, commenting, "But chips are meant to be eaten quickly and absentmindedly." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ed told us that chips are perfect for what they are but because, like so many things in life, we take them for granted, we don't have a sense of them - no matter how many we have eaten. The whole notion, he explained, was to take the time, to have a careful awareness of whatever we are doing, or eating, or cooking, and not assume that we already know all that there is to know. Not even about the simple, guilty pleasure of a single potato chip. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After carefully observing a chip for the first time and fully experiencing its salty, greasy, pulpy "Buddha nature," Ed told us he was able to walk away from potato chips for several years. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"But now," he said, "I'm thinking they're pretty good again." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:6.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me too.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A version of this story first appeared in the October 26, 1997 edition of the San Francisco Sunday </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Chronicle Magazine</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-28015317234995970512010-03-23T08:00:00.004+03:002010-03-23T08:32:07.034+03:00Hotel Paradiso-o<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was late. Too late to go back to Tokyo. Our guidebook had no information at all about Shin-Fuji, a small town between Osaka and Tokyo. From the railway station platform there was only one obvious place to stay, a five-story building a few blocks away. The sign on top advertised "Hotel -- 6,000 Yen." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When we arrived, there was no one at the front desk. There was no front desk -- just photos of the rooms along one wall. Two were illuminated, the rest were dark. We didn't know what to do. There was no one to ask. After four months of honeymoon travel on the road in Asia we were weary. We didn't have the energy to figure out another baffling cross-cultural situation. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A side door opened and an older man and a younger woman came in, all smiles and giddy. Unlike us, they had no luggage and seemed to know the routine. The man quickly withdrew a key from a cubbyhole. The adjacent photo instantly went dark. Tittering, the couple disappeared into the elevator. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What do we do?" my wife said. "There's only one room left." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before I could answer she was over at the wall. Gingerly, as though extracting the detonator from a bomb, she drew the last key from its slot. Tiny lights embedded in the floor began to flicker, outlining a path down the corridor. From around a corner the glow of a larger light pulsed. We moved cautiously ahead, as though caught in a tractor beam. We looked around. There was no one. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had no idea what to expect. Even on our budget of $200 a day the astounding cost of everything in Japan had limited us to sex-segregated guesthouses and youth hostels. Now, without having checked in, without having spoken to anyone, without having left an imprint of our Visa card, we were about to enter a hotel room. I opened the door. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Look at this!" Nina said. This room was huge, as big as a typical American hotel room and much bigger than any other place we had stayed in Japan. We exchanged our street shoes for the "house" slippers that waited on the threshold. The larger pair had a groom in a tuxedo embossed on the rubber toe piece. Nina's had a bride in white. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"They must know we're newlyweds," she said, leaping onto the bed. She held up the condoms and the origami lovebirds that had been left on the pillow. "They've thought of everything." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I opened the room service menu. There was no sushi on this menu. But there were a lot of things that looked like sushi. The most outlandish was adorned with small nubs and a collar that resembled an anemone from a Jacques Cousteau special. Apparently it cost 13,000 yen, batteries not included. I reflected on what had happened so far. The May-December couple with no luggage, no front desk, condoms on the pillow, and the very special room service menu. I knew we had stumbled onto something truly unusual. We had checked into our first Japanese love hotel. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had heard about love hotels. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Abec hoteru,"</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> our guidebook called them -- discreet, fantasy getaways the Japanese use for afternoon and evening assignations. We had even looked for some, but, assuming they would resemble the tawdry, no-tell motels that line America's secondary thoroughfares, we were unable to find any. Now, without speaking to a person, without seeing a single employee, we were in one. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The room was replete with electronic gadgets straight out of Hugh Hefner's bedroom. There were remotes for everything: the lights, the 440 channels of music, the air-conditioning, the television, the bed. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What are you doing?" Nina said. She had changed into a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"yukata,"</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> one of the razor-crisp robes that came with the room. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Hang on a second," I told her. "I've got to check this stuff out. I mean come on, I'm a guy." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"If you don't stop right now," she said, "I'm taking a shower." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I could feel the tension rising between us, but I couldn't help myself. The room was like Mission Control in Houston. Given what the menu had to offer, I had to find out what was on cable. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I'll be there in a second," I told her. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Some love hotel," she muttered and stalked out. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I toyed with everything. The fridge was a little automat, stocked with sushi and sandwiches just waiting for my 100-yen coins. There was a karaoke machine with dual mikes. The accompanying songbook was the size of the Manhattan directory and had every song of Elton John and Andrew Lloyd Webber, plus thousands of Japanese favorites. In one corner there was a small weight-lifting machine. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What exactly do the Japanese do in these places?" I wondered. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A curious pneumatic tube system, the kind once used for billing in old-fashioned department stores, snaked out of the wall. I turned on the television. A man was binding up a woman in Saran Wrap. Clearly this was no Motel 6. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"C'mere, c'mere, c'mere," Nina cried from the bathroom. "Read these." She handed me a basket full of complimentary toiletries. On the tiny bag that held a "Hair Band," I read the caption. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it: "Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"'I've got some real estate here in my bag.' What is that supposed to mean?" I said. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina raced back to the bed. "Oh my God," she said, "that's from 'America.' Simon and Garfunkel were here." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I followed her back to bed, ready to resume the romance that had dwindled over the last few days as we pinched pennies on everything. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What's that?" she said. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What's what?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"That," she said, pointing to the far wall where a red digital clock was pulsing with the seconds. It read "0:42." We looked at each other. The clock changed to "0:41." It was ticking down. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Suddenly the playfulness that had been building between us was gone. "What do you think this room costs?" Nina said. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I don't know. The sign said 6,000 yen." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Right," she said, "but do you think that's for an hour or all night?" I felt my chest constrict, and it wasn't from what I'd seen on the television. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had already seen a $70 cantaloupe and a $100 mushroom for sale and had heard about bars where beer costs $300 a bottle. Before I could complete the thought Nina said, "What if it's 6,000 yen an hour?!" It was a great room, but we didn't have $600 to spend for one night. I began to panic. I picked up the phone. A woman answered. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Hello, do you speak English?" I asked. At first I thought she said, "What do you think of our sushi?" but then I realized she was speaking Japanese. "How much does this room cost?" I asked anyway, wondering how one counts above 1,000 in Japanese. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina handed me a brochure from the Japan National Tourist Organization. It had all the standard questions and answers needed by tourists written in both English and Japanese. The tourist, me, is supposed to point to the questions and the happy-to-assist Japanese person is supposed to point to the correct answer. It works less well on the telephone. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I opened to the hotel section and said, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Kono heya wa ikura desu ka?"</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> which, according to the book, means, "How much is this room?" This unleashed an immediate answer I didn't understand at all, except that it sounded like "$1,200 or whatever you have left -- whichever is more." Sweat began beading on my forehead. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By now my bride was laughing hysterically. My mind strayed from the <i>raison d'être</i> of love hotels and began to focus on the Japanese penal system. "Maybe we should leave now," I suggested. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Are you crazy?" Nina said. "It's after midnight. We're going to sleep. I don't care what it costs." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Right," I thought. "This is why the groom's family pays for the honeymoon." As I put my head down, I saw traveler's checks flying out of my wallet. The digital clock clicked down to "0:08."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What's that?" Nina said. Someone was knocking at the door. The digital clock pulsed "0:00." In the hallway a dissolute Japanese woman waited. The minute she saw me she began speaking rapidly in Japanese. When she finished I patted myself on the chest with both hands the way Indians used to do in old Westerns and said, "English." Evidently she was unable to pick up the language from this gesture and took off again in Japanese. Somewhere in her stream of words an island rose above the torrent. "<i>Check-out-o"</i> I thought I heard her say. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Check-out-o?" I asked. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>"Check-out-o,"</i> she insisted. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now the picture began to clear. The clock had ticked down. Our time was up. I had heard a "kerplunk" in the pneumatic tube. When I hadn't put in my money this woman was sent out to collect. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"No check-out-o," I said. I put my hands to the side of my head like the woman in the Singapore Airlines ad and repeated, "No check-out-o. Sleep-o." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She started up again in Japanese. I gestured for the woman to come inside the room. She threw her hands up in front of her face and waved them back and forth as though trying to stop a runaway train. She wasn't coming in. Even love hotels have rules. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">From the bed Nina called, "Try the book." I retrieved the pamphlet, hoping it might work better face to face than it had over the phone. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the pamphlet I pointed to "How much does this room cost?" She wrote 6,000<span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">¥</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span>on her palm. Still, I didn't know if that was per hour, for two hours, for the time we had been there, or what. With book, pen, and a rudimentary written language that consisted of these symbols -- <!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;">¥</span></span><!--EndFragment--> -- ? --> -- together with the hours of the day written in the 24-hour clock of the military, I was able to figure out that our first two hours cost 6,000 yen and the rest of the night would be another 6,000 yen. I paid her the money. I wasn't ready for the challenge of the pneumatic tube. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Only 6,000 yen for midnight to 10 a.m.," Nina said. "That's not bad." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's true we had been spending nearly that amount to stay in separate bunkrooms with Korean schoolkids on vacation. If love hotels were all like the "Dear Hotel," it looked like the reasonable and romantic way to see Japan. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The next day we were off to Nikko, an alpine town north of Tokyo famous for its temples and natural beauty. "To hell with natural beauty," Nina said. "We've got plenty in California. Let's find another love hotel." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Although well known to the Japanese, the locations of love hotels are not mentioned in guidebooks. After quickly seeing the sights of Nikko, we went to tourist information. An older, genteel Japanese woman stood at the desk. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"You ask her," I said to Nina. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"I'm not asking her," Nina said. "She's like a grandmother." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As we glared at each other, the lady asked in perfect English, "May I help you?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I looked at this lovely woman who was waiting patiently. I couldn't do it. What would she think of Americans if I asked her about an </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">abec hoteru?</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I gathered my courage. At last I asked, "Is there a bank anywhere near here?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The clerk at the bank was a young man who also spoke English. After we changed money I gestured that he should come closer. From inches away I whispered, "Can you tell me if there is an </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">abec hoteru</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> around here?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Abec hoteru?"</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> he restated at full voice, apparently not constrained by any prudish American convention regarding places for sexual trysts. "Just moment please." He then turned to a female teller and began a conversation in Japanese that sounded something like Abbott and Costello's "Who's on first?" routine, with </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">abec hoteru</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> running the bases. After much discussion that involved the entire staff of the bank as well as the use of several maps, he directed us to a hotel up the street. When we got there a dozen elderly women were getting off tour buses and checking in. Something had gotten lost in the translation. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What should we do?" Nina asked. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To get to Nikko we had changed trains in Utsunomiya, a small junction town. The bullet train had sped past a bright neon sign for "The James Dean Hotel." It had to be what we were looking for. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Let's go back to the James Dean," I suggested. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By the time we returned to Utsunomiya it was already past 10 p.m. Nina suggested taking a taxi, but the flag-fall was 600 yen and every mile was about that much again. Getting to the James Dean could cost a fortune. Besides, it seemed to me the hotel was near the station. I figured we could walk. As we learned an hour later, it's difficult to judge distances while on a train going 180 miles per hour. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Pulling our suitcases behind us, we were soon trudging down narrow roads on the outskirts of town. I could see the neon glow on the far horizon. Like desperate gamblers low on gas it drew us on like the distant lights of Las Vegas. We were walking through rice fields and around agricultural warehouses. The roads were empty. But the lights were getting closer. So was an odd, rhythmic sound. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thhhh-kwack! We heard. Thhh-kwack! Thhh-kwack! We turned a corner. In front of a convenience store a man and a woman were hitting golf balls tied to an elastic cord. Thhhh-kwack! The ball took off, fell to the ground and snapped back to the tee. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We stopped and watched them. They stopped and watched us -- two <i>gaijin</i> pulling suitcases in the middle of nowhere at midnight. And we thought they were strange. We continued on. They watched us leave. Thhh-kwack! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We were absolutely beat when we got to the James Dean. It was in an enclave of love hotels. Next door was the Passion, a metallic, futuristic castle. Down the street was the Chalet, an ersatz Tudor building with turrets worthy of Rapunzel's affection. Each had individual parking spaces for each room. The couple pulls in, closes a curtain behind the car and goes directly inside without being seen by anyone. We circumnavigated the building. All the garage curtains were drawn closed. We had shortchanged the historical wonders of Nikko. We had walked for more than an hour. And now, at midnight, on a Thursday, the James Dean was full. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We wheeled our bags across the street to the Cosmo Part II. Each of us and each of our bags tripped the electronic sensor at the gate. No doubt wondering how four cars could pull in at the same time, the proprietor, an old man in slippers with a cordless phone, shuffled out. From my experience the night before I was now nearly fluent in love hotel Japanese. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Check-in-o," I said. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Hai, check-in-o,"</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> the old man responded. He then asked, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Rest-o?"</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I shook my head no and said, "Stay-o." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Rest-o" is the word for the two-hour tryst enjoyed morning, noon and night by seemingly every person in Utsunomiya and the rest of Japan. "Stay-o," which runs overnight, begins only when most lovers have gone home to spouses or parents. If one can wait around, a stay-o costs much less than a traditional hotel and comes with more exciting fixtures. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The proprietor showed us a graphic display of the rooms. We chose the "disco" room. Our stay-o in rural Utsunomiya would cost 6,000 yen. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"It's better than last night," Nina said. The room was twice as spacious as our room at the Dear. Not only did it have everything the Dear had, but it had a sauna, a large selection of adult video tapes and, directly above the bed, the<i> pièce de résistance,</i> the item I had wanted above my bed ever since junior high, a rotating mirrored ball. I started surfing the music system in search of "Disco Inferno." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The phone rang. I picked it up. I heard the old man's voice. <i>"Front-o,"</i> he said. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What do you think he wants?" I asked Nina. I went downstairs. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the foot of the stairs was a small trap door, the kind used by milkmen for home delivery. The old man's arms were jutting through, a small Coca-Cola bottle in each hand. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"For you," he said in English. "For American friend." It was the most touching thing anyone had done for us in Japan. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After we finished with the bath and the sauna we were ready for bed. "Do you want to see what's on TV?" Nina said softly, raising her eyebrows in a coy, newlywed kind of way. We had never watched any adult anything before. "It could be educational." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I clicked the set on. Evidently the Japanese have a thing for fresh foods because again a man was sealing a woman up with plastic wrap. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Oh my God. I can't watch this," Nina said. "Turn it off. No, don't turn it off. No, I've got to watch this." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We watched until the woman looked like she would stay fresh until at least tomorrow. The man began to undress. As the camera dropped to follow the action, the anatomically correct, precisely outlined parts of the image became blurred, digitally scrambled. This didn't conceal the faces of the actors but only the areas most people are interested in seeing when watching these films. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The sexual encounter that followed was like watching two pulsing, swirling lava flows merging with one another. Everything was rendered in a wild paisley. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What is this?" Nina asked. "Are they trying to protect us from something? We're in a love hotel." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Yes, we are," I said, turning on the rotating mirrored ball above the bed. Little ovals of reflected light spun around the room. I drew her near. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Wait a minute," she interrupted. "Don't you think you should ... you know, sing some karaoke? Or do some weight lifting? That machine is going to waste." Laughing, she added, "Oh, I don't understand this country at all." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The next morning, before leaving, I put 200 yen in the karaoke machine and crooned my own rendition of "You're Just Too Good to Be True." Nina woke up just in time to see me hop on the weight machine for a quick twenty reps. I then brewed two cups of complimentary coffee. Fully pumped up, I pulled the karaoke mike into bed. Nina looked at me and said, "I think it's time for us to leave." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By the time we returned to Tokyo, we were expert love hotel spotters. Near railroad stations they seemed to comprise entire blocks. They dotted residential neighborhoods. How could we have overlooked places with names, English names, like the Happy Heart Hotel, the Once Around, the Sweet Night Inn? Even the Japanese neon signs took on a certain stimulating familiarity. We became fluent in identifying the essential characteristics of love hotels: the wild architecture, the wilder names, the continuous streams of cars and pedestrians, and, always, the sign out front with the prices. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After four months of honeymoon travel by plane, train, car, boat, and motorcycle, it was now time to head home. Ours had been an amazing journey where each day contained an element of the surreal. We had hoped to go on to Europe, but time and budget prevented that. So, in lieu of Paris, we spent our last night in Tokyo at Le Chic where all the little sayings on the toiletries were in French. We used the room to its fullest. No gizmo was left untouched. When we were finally exhausted, when we had taken advantage of everything Le Chic had to offer, I dimmed the lights and tucked Nina in. I put a few coins in the karaoke machine and softly began singing </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Chansons d'Amour.</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Paris had nothing more to offer. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A version of this story originally appeared in </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">West</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, the Sunday magazine of the </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">San Jose Mercury News</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, in June 1995.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It has since been published in many magazines, newspapers and anthologies (and plagiarized repeatedly).</span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-65622299406864051692010-03-12T14:21:00.004+03:002010-03-23T08:05:29.216+03:00Honeymoon in Vietnam<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:10.0pt;margin-left:.5in;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">According to scholarly journals such as </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Brides, Modern Bride</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cosmo</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, a honeymoon should be filled with irrepressible desire and romance. Tenderness should be combined with wild experimentation and adventure. Ideally, newlyweds should venture to faraway places where they can test the conventional wisdom that says the couple that travels well together is destined for a long and successful marriage. This may be hard to achieve if the honeymoon is limited to just a few days or a long weekend. If you have several months for honeymoon travel, as my wife and I did, you can push your young marriage right to the limit.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When first discussing our honeymoon plans, we considered all the standards: Hawaii, Mexico, Europe, the Poconos. I thought Paris would be perfect, but Nina disagreed. "I want to go some place that's changing," she said. "Some place that won't be the same in another five years. Some place that's not overrun with Americans."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Immediately we thought of South Africa and Vietnam. When I was hired to do a management consultancy in Thailand, South Africa fell out of the running. Besides, we had heard that Vietnam had many charming touches left by the French, that certain parts would remind us of Paris, and that while a dollar would get us only four or five francs in France, in Vietnam we'd receive nearly 11,000 dong. Though we had no idea what a dong would buy, we decided to look for the romance of Paris in the tree-lined streets of Hanoi and Saigon.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hearing that, after seventy-five years of combined bachelorhood, Nina and I were to be married, our friends and families were as happy for us as we were for each other. Until we told them where we were going for our honeymoon.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Are you sure you want to go there?" they all asked.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We explained that Vietnam seemed to have all the exotic features we wanted in a honeymoon destination. We told them about the reading we had done, the lectures we had attended and the films we had seen to prepare ourselves.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They listened patiently to our enthusiastic and lengthy explanations. Then they asked again, "Yes, but why would you want to go there?"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A few weeks later, as I trudged up the curved staircase of the mildewed Dong Khoi Hotel in central Saigon, I was wondering the same thing. We had taxied all over town trying to find a vacancy in a reasonably priced hotel. We were flush from the heat. My fingers were blue from counting the very newly printed Vietnamese money we had received at the airport in exchange for our immaculate travelers' checks. What we needed was air-conditioning and a bath. Our guidebook said something about the Dong Khoi possessing the weathered grace of a bygone era. That sounded like a euphemism for "romantic and inexpensive." Incurable romantics ourselves, we decided to take a chance.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The French style elevator with its filigree cage of wrought iron did have the grace of a different era. Unfortunately, its bowels were just as old and hadn't functioned in years. By the time we reached our suite on the third floor we were burning up. Feverish, I went to the air-conditioner. The switch was one of those large porcelain and copper devices that makes a sharp crack when thrown by mad scientists in low budget, science fiction movies. Worried that I would electrocute myself, but too hot to care, I threw the switch. The air-conditioner rumbled to life. The rumbling grew louder. The casement window around the air conditioner began to shake. Just when I thought the whole thing would break free and fall to the street, it gave off a final shudder and went silent.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In a heat-induced panic, Nina raced over to the corroding metal box. She frantically turned the knobs and dials. They were labeled in Russian and she was unable to make any of them out. "What does this mean?" she said, pointing to "Sdelena v SSSR." "Broken," I told her as a loose translation of "Made in the USSR.".</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nothing worked. The furniture was damaged and filthy in a way that would challenge the collective imagination of a fraternity. We had three enormous rooms, each darker, hotter and drearier than the last. The hotel suffered from an acute case of architectural varicosis. Rusting pipes bulged through crumbling plaster. Bare electrical wires hung in mid-air. Slime oozed down the cracked tile walls of the bathroom. "Vietnam probably has a bright future in pharmaceutical research," I thought to myself. The place was too sordid for the tawdriest affair plagiarized from a poorly written spy novel. During our first night in Vietnam, romance was out of the question. Exhausted, tired, and grimy, we had begun our honeymoon in Vietnam.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now I realize that what the Dong Khoi lacked in chintz, charm, and gestures (no chocolate mints on the pillow) it made up for by preparing us for the incredible, surreal adventures we had during the next five weeks as we traveled south to north by train, van, boat, motorcycle, cyclo, bicycle and foot. Along the way we encountered the mysterious and the bizarre, the inexplicable and the entertaining. Our honeymoon in Vietnam brought us closer together, physically and romantically, than either of us could have imagined. Since returning home we have recounted our trip a hundred times, each time asking the other, "Can you believe that really happened?" Food was a critical part of our honeymoon. Sensual meals by candlelight were easy to come by for often the power would fail just as we sat down to eat. One night, as we headed to dinner in Danang, a tremendous storm began. Streets that had been flat and uninviting in the harsh florescence of storefront lighting were momentarily frozen by lightning into the silver beauty of an antique photo.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina pulled herself close as we negotiated the blackened, rain slick streets on a small, rented scooter. "Try and avoid the lightning," she said, holding me tight. "If it hits us, I'm sure you'll blame me," I told her. She leaned forward and bit my ear. "Who else?" she said. As the streetlights flickered back to life, I realized it wouldn't be long before new investment and sterile, modern technology erase the charmed decay we enjoyed so much.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">One afternoon in Saigon we searched for the A-Dong restaurant that had been recommended by a cyclo driver. By the time we found it the lunch time crowd was gone, leaving this huge, ocean liner of a restaurant to just the two of us. We knew the food had to be good. None of the scrawny cats that roamed the place and rubbed against our legs had seen a left-over in years.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The A-Dong itself is the kind of place that burns its way into one's memory and retinas. The interior is a blinding clash of lime and pink pastel paint, plaster dragons, mirrors, and fountains with mermaid motifs. "We must be paying for atmosphere," I said to Nina. We were still getting to know each other. I could tell from her look that my attempt at humor had missed. She shooed a cat away from her leg. She leaned forward across the table. "You have no appreciation of kitsch," she said. "This worries me deeply."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mid-way through our journey we stopped in a small town south of Hue. On the beach we were befriended by a young boy who, wanting to impress us with his English, recited the scores of all fifty-three World Cup matches together with the key plays. By the time he finished we were not only amazed, but starved. We took his suggestion that we try an outdoor restaurant not far away.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The roadside patio was empty. We casually ordered a few dishes expecting nothing more than something to kill our hunger. Just as Nina said, "I've never been hotter in my entire life," two young girls began to fan us. It was a quiet gesture we would never have been bold enough even to suggest. In the still heat of the afternoon these puffs of breeze silently skimmed the sweat away. I was somewhere between deep meditation and heat stroke when our food arrived. The fresh seafood was slightly piquant and among the best we had anywhere in Asia. We ate slowly, taking a forkful with each beat of the girls' fans. Two large pigs rooted around our feet waiting for scraps that would never fall. The tab came to 45,000 dong, fanning included. Paris had nothing on this bistro with no name.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Stimulating modes of travel, best typified by the gondolas of Venice, are often considered a pre-requisite for a successful honeymoon. If there is a form of travel in Vietnam that isn't stimulating, or at least exotic and dangerous, we didn't find it. In my bachelor days, I squandered tens of thousands of frequent flyer miles showing girlfriends the romantic pleasures of Paris and Venice. Romantic as they might have been, they simply couldn't bring a couple as close together as travel in Vietnam can. I had promised Nina that before we finished our trip we would make an intimate journey by train. The notion of falling asleep while rocking gently back and forth in a private compartment was deeply appealing to both of us. The challenge was to find a train in Vietnam where this was possible. From Saigon to Phan Ram we traveled in the second class car the Vietnamese call the "soft seat." Apparently the "soft seat" was designed to recreate the squatting position favored by many Asians over sitting or simply standing around. Having already spent fourteen hours with our chins on our knees in "soft seat," we knew that wasn't an option if romance was our objective.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had tried the second class sleeper from Nha Trang to Danang. Traveling with two strangers in an unair-conditioned four berth compartment simply didn't recreate the "Love Boat" atmosphere we wanted. For our romantic train trip we had to book a "Super Berth," the only compartment in Vietnam designed just for two. We decided to do this on the train from Hue to Hanoi.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At 566,000 dong each, the tickets were nearly as expensive as flying. After counting out 226 five-thousand-dong notes I asked the ticket agent how many stops there were between Hue and Hanoi. He thought for a moment and said, "Sixty-one." I suspected that wasn't right. I asked again, this time making a chopping motion with my hand as I said the names of possible stops along the way. "Hue," I said followed by a hand chop. "Quang Tri (chop), Ninh Binh (chop), Hanoi (chop). How many stops (chop, chop, chop) are there?" This combination of English and sign language seemed to get through. The agent looked around the station. He looked at his watch. He looked outside. He looked at the long list of "Rules for the Hue Waiting Room" that were posted on the wall opposite and which stated "all rules are to be enforced seriously and sufficiently." Finally he looked at me. "Three stops," he said.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just before I slid open the door to our "Super Berth" Nina smiled at me with anticipation built over many weeks. She looked inside and gasped, "No. This can't be a Super Berth. Not our Super Berth." I looked inside. It was nothing more than a four berth compartment chopped in two. Our night at the Dong Khoi was looking better and better. I called the conductor and pointed out that there was only one sheet for our two berths. I explained that we no longer expected the splendor of a Las Vegas bridal suite but we did want two sheets. "Not possible," he said. "No more sheet." I wanted to answer, "Exactly," but was unable to speak I was so annoyed.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My frustration boiled over into Ugly Americanism. I took out my ticket and jabbed my finger at the preposterous price I had paid for this room. He watched me with great dispassion then left. I turned to Nina not knowing what to do. Her gaze was fixed on the tiny table that doubled as a basin where an extended family of roaches was streaming out for the evening air. "Kill them!" she screamed as the conductor reappeared in our doorway. His extended arms held a hastily folded cloth. As I took it from him he said, "My sheet."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I began making the second bed, but the conductor's sheet looked like it had been used for sieving congee in the dining car. There was another knock at the door. Two men were ladling out bowls of porridge from a large bucket. "Dinner," one of them said.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nina looked at her bowl, her dreams of a luxurious night of railroad romance just about shattered. "It's gruel," she sobbed. I held a spoonful to her lips. She took a taste. She tried to blink back her tears of disappointment. Finally she looked up at me, the loving husband who had insisted on the train. "Think of it as A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch," I told her.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After dinner, I walked to the soft seat car where passengers were transfixed by a laser karaoke monitor. A plump blonde in a yellow bikini skipped along a sun drenched beach toward her lover as Diana Ross sang "Endless Love." In our Super Berth we had no laser karaoke. We had no "Endless Love." There was only one sheet. The train hobbled northward in the deep darkness of nighttime in rural Vietnam. Nina and I cuddled in the lower berth. We slept wonderfully.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Weeks earlier we had spent three days exploring the huge branches and tiny tributaries of the Mekong Delta. Very early each morning we took our seats, two lawn chairs, in the bow of a slender motorized punt. Though the boat could have held ten, we went alone, just the two of us and the boatman who spoke no English.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was nothing internal about the combustion of the small Chinese motor that propelled us at walking pace. In contrast to the motor's racket, the water was pristine. We never saw a single piece of litter, not an empty bottle, not a chewing gum wrapper. Occasionally plant roots jammed the propeller, stalling the engine. We would glide along hearing nothing but the splash of the boatman as he slipped into the river to clear the prop. The only signs that we were not in the tropical forest primeval were the television antennas that rose above nearly every house. Here and there we would hear the clatter of a billiard parlor. Each island in the delta seemed to have at least one. But mainly the Mekong was deep green and unpeopled wilderness. Heavy, tropical fronds scraped the sides of the boat. "It's just like the Jungle Safari ride at Disneyland," I whispered to Nina. She looked at me with complete incredulity, wondering what kind of idiot she had married. "No," she said. "This is the real thing. Disneyland is a theme park."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As we passed small villages, packs of children would slowly gather then follow us along, staring at me in my Panama hat and at Nina in her over-sized Ray Bans. Old women strained in their hammocks to have a look at us. Involuntarily we found ourselves waving to the crowds on shore as though we were returning astronauts or newly crowned beauty queens. Everyone waved back. Early one morning we joined a gathering flotilla in a broad tributary of the Mekong. Junks laden with rice, cement, greens, timber, vegetables, flowers and gravel drew alongside our small boat. A large, fast moving junk was sailing across traffic, heading straight toward us. It seemed we were just seconds away from appearing in a real life sequel to PT-109. I clapped my hands to get the boatman's attention. He was deep in negotiation with a cute young woman on a neighboring boat. He looked at me with the displeasure of a professional distracted from his work. He pushed the tiller and we veered away at the last second. As the junk passed I could have run my fingers through its cargo of rice. "That was close," I said to Nina. With her sun hat and dark glasses she was the portrait of an experienced traveler. She looked at me with complete sangfroid and said, "You are hardly an adventurer."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All the boats now moved into a still smaller channel. In the distance, the slender steeple of a church rose above the immense floating market of Cai Be. As we worked our way upstream it was as though Nina had just said, "Well, my broker is E.F. Hutton and E.F. Hutton says..." for every conversation on the river stopped, each transaction came to a momentary halt as the market watched us pass. "We're celebrities," Nina said and for the next hour the entire world was interested in our every move.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Everything we did seemed to be of great interest to the Vietnamese. When we told them we were on our honeymoon or on our </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">voyages du noces</span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> as they say in French, people were only more intrigued. After so much undesired attention, what we wanted was to escape the spotlight. Hoping to do so, we went to see a movie one evening in Hue. We arrived early and so went for a drink along the banks of the Perfume River. Colored lights were strung among the trees. "Dangerous" by Michael Jackson played on an endless loop. We sat scrunched up in tiny chairs just above the river's edge.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The air was warm and fresh. The red and green lights of river boats floated past. All around us young couples sipped their drinks through shared straws. Others strolled past hand in hand. We listened as their chit-chat bounced back and forth, a giggle growing into a laugh or softening to a suggestive whisper. "You know," Nina said to me, "there's no place like this at home. Where I would feel safe doing this. Sitting outside, at night, in the dark." "I know," I told her. I wished I could turn the clock back fifty years in America, to a time when people did walk at night, when a stroll along a riverside was a romantic and safe night out. I squeezed her hand. "It's a shame," she said.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Romantic settings were easier to come by in Vietnam than pure peace and quiet. The empty, beachside promenade of Nha Trang was perfect for long, quiet walks. We sat at empty cafes and watched as the sun went down and the lights of the fishing fleet illuminated the horizon. "This must have been what Phuket was like twenty years ago," I said to Nina. "Or Bali forty years ago," she said. "Or Waikiki sixty years ago," I responded. "Or Key West a hundred years ago," she added. We ran out of places, the names of which had once evoked visions of languid romance under the palms but were now better known for cheap T-shirts. One hour photo shops had already colonized commercial space up and down the beach in Nha Trang. A large billboard advertised that a fourteen-story hotel would soon be rising on this spot.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We stayed south of town, in a large, high-ceiling room with curtains that billowed in the warm breeze of afternoon. The walls of our room matched the blue of the sea we overlooked. Everything had the washed out color of sun and heat and second hands that moved only when they wanted. We stayed late in bed and watched the mosquito netting sweep back and forth across the glean of perspiration.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Like good photographers we realized that everything in Vietnam was better seen in the early, early morning or in the late afternoon. Outside Hue we visited the tomb of Emperor Tu Duc just as the sun went down. The busses and their grumbling engines were gone. The snack and curio vendors were closed. We strolled along the stone paths beside the lily-filled ponds in a quiet that the emperors knew. Nina took my hand. "Only lovers should be allowed in here," she said.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The next morning we went to the tomb of Ming Mang. Again we were the only visitors. While Nina explored, I chased a turquoise butterfly using my hat for a net. Several times I nearly trapped it only to have it flutter off as my hat smashed empty against a wall or a tree trunk. After twenty minutes, it alighted on a shady stone wall. I waited until its wings stopped moving. Slowly I walked toward it, my hat in my outstretched arm, expecting that, as before, it would fly away at the last second. This time it didn't. I slipped my handkerchief between the wall and my hat, completing the trap.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I found Nina resting in the shade by the vast lily pond. "For you," I said holding out my hat to her. She heard the panicked fluttering inside my hat. She looked at me, wondering. She peaked inside, smiled and pulled away my handkerchief. The butterfly flew off. Just then a white horse appeared from behind the wall of one of the many nestled buildings of the tomb. The horse paused when it reached us. It looked over and whinnied. I fumbled with my bag but by the time I got my camera out the horse had sauntered across the large stone esplanade near the entrance to Ming Mang and disappeared. "Perhaps this is one of those things you're supposed to keep only in your memory," Nina said. "Like a dream."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The romance of Vietnam came to us in many places and in many improbable ways. One day we saw a village that seemed more spectacular than any we had seen. It sat on the far side of a golden field of ripening rice. Beyond was the sea. Behind us rose heavily forested mountains of a green so deep it was nearly black. What set this village apart from all the others was a small stucco church painted in yellow and blue. It would have been right at home in the southwestern U.S. "Shall we go take a look?" I said to Nina. Yes, she nodded. We veered off the two lane highway onto a dirt track covered with rice straw drying in the sun.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As we rode into the village work slowed then stopped. Children led their water buffaloes in from the fields. One man with very thick glasses began a conversation with us. Soon he was translating for half the village. He told us he was the only one who spoke English and he was pleased to get some practice. We asked him how he had learned English all by himself. "From cassettes," he answered.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Talk turned to farming and life in America. We explained that we had very many cows, but almost no water buffaloes. We told him that if one wanted to see a water buffalo in America, then a visit to the zoo was necessary. He translated this and all the children, many of whom were sitting on or holding water buffaloes with tethers through the nose, became hysterical. Funniest thing anyone had ever heard. Having to go to a zoo to see a water buffalo.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was getting dark. We had to leave. The children chased us halfway back to the main road. Before starting out again I shut the bike off and walked out into the rice field. "What are you doing?" Nina asked. I found a stalk especially heavy with grain and clipped it. I put it in her hand.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She looked at the sprig of rice in her hand and began to cry. Over the weeks she had remarked how beautiful the countryside was and how hard the people worked. "It's so beautiful here," she said. "And the people are so sweet." She began to sob. We embraced. Tears cascaded down her face. There was no traffic on the road. There was no one around. We stood there for a long time, looking at the church in the distance, at the blue sea, at the golden waves of grain. Without speaking we got back on the scooter and pulled onto the empty road.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We've been married a year now and still don't know when we'll get to Paris. But nearly every day one of us recalls a moment from our honeymoon in Vietnam and says, "Remember when we..."</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>This piece originally appeared in the October 1995 edition of </span></i></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Destination: <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Vietnam</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> magazine.</span></i></span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-39290070401079404162010-02-07T09:46:00.001+03:002013-02-11T19:18:26.507+03:00Now Playing - Hotel Africa<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In 2006, while serving as the country director for the Peace Corps in Cameroon, I asked our staff to gather in the conference room for a special, all-hands meeting. My wife and I had recently watched </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hotel Rwanda</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and were deeply affected by it. I wanted to know what our staff of 32 Africans - a staff that included members of 15 different ethnic groups, French speakers, English speakers, Christians, Muslims, traditional believers and some of the most highly educated and highly paid people in Cameroon - thought of the carnage that took place in Rwanda in 1994. I wanted to know if </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hotel Rwanda</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> could happen in then peaceful Cameroon.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When the film ended, the staff answered my question with one voice and one word. "Tomorrow," they said it could happen.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was disappointed but not surprised to hear this. Bordered by perpetually unstable countries like Chad, Nigeria, and the Central African Republic, Cameroon prides itself as an "island of peace." During the five decades since it received its independence, Cameroon's more than 200 ethnic groups have lived peacefully side-by-side with only rare and brief outbursts of hostility. Yet while traveling throughout the country, I had heard many barely muffled statements of resentment at this group or that, and particularly at President Paul Biya who has been masterful at juggling so many competing ethnic interests while reining over them since 1982.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After the film, I asked everyone to complete a short questionnaire. I wanted to know what they thought they would do in circumstances similar to the ones faced by Paul Rusesabagina, the hero of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hotel Rwanda</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. I wanted to know what they thought their fellow Cameroonians would do. And I wanted to know what could ignite such a problem, what could prevent it, and what they thought the world would do if Cameroon ever went to war with itself as have so many countries in Africa.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The staff's answers were depressingly pessimistic. Few had any hope that their fellow Cameroonians would stand up like Paul Rusesabagina did. Or that the international community would lift a finger to help them. Most thought that even a relatively minor event could plunge Cameroon into Rwanda-like chaos. Their concern was validated in late February 2008 when a taxi strike quickly spun out of control and was put down only when the military was called in. Though the chaos lasted just three days, as many as 100 people may have died.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A few days after the Peace Corps/Cameroon staff viewed </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hotel Rwanda</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, I reported their reactions at an Americans-only meeting at the US Embassy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In a country famous for its people's willingness to argue furiously over the most trivial minutiae, the diverse staff at Peace Corps/Cameroon had been unanimous in its opinion that an ethnically driven conflagration could happen in Cameroon at anytime. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That didn't convince the Americans at the embassy. "Couldn't happen here" was their uniform response as they ticked off the statistical and ethnic differences between Cameroon and Rwanda. Two years later, that prediction didn't prevent the Embassy from going to "authorized departure" as soon as the 2008 taxi strike broke out, meaning any U.S. government employee could leave the country at government expense, together with his or her family members, if they felt uncomfortable or threatened by the short-lived turmoil in the streets.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On-going political mayhem has already set Ivory Coast, Kenya, Madagascar, Sudan and several other African nations back decades and has the potential to destroy them as functioning states. These days even the most stable, promising and economically robust countries in Africa stand upon foundations that are often little more than thin veneers. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">More than AIDS, malaria, malnutrition or childhood diarrhea, nothing has done more to retard Africa's economic development than inter-ethnic resentment and violence, which is often fueled by irresponsible, self-serving and intensely partisan megalomaniacal leaders. The list is long: Guinea, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Zimbabwe, Chad, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Sudan, Ethiopia/Eritrea, plus now once stable and prosperous Kenya, and perhaps soon Madagascar and South Africa.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Every year, the international community spends billions to combat disease and promote economic development in Africa, but it does almost nothing to encourage people toward the simple goal of living together in harmony. It does nothing to educate African populations that fighting over the little they have will likely result in everyone having even less. Unfortunately, this phenomenon is not limited to Africa - think Kosovo, Chechnya, the marginalized suburbs of France and even Los Angeles after the Rodney King beating - but it is in Africa that these sovereign self-immolations seem to occur most often.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What is particularly infuriating is that time and again, as ethnic and political tensions begin to simmer - with tragic consequences looming ahead as predictably as the iceberg in front the Titanic - the international community, which consists of the World Bank, the IMF, the European Union, regional organizations like the African Union, and the major diplomatic missions, invariably says that only the local community can resolve its problems. When locals beg them to intervene, their response is invariable. "We are not the police,” they say. “The local community must come together to find lasting solutions to their problems." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Never mind the decades that have passed while Northern Ireland, India and Pakistan, China and Tibet, and countries in the Middle East, the Balkans, the Caucuses and elsewhere have violently tried and mainly failed to find lasting local solutions to their problems.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As regards Africa, this benign washing of hands goes on, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months or years, until the smoldering chaos explodes into a firestorm of murder, rape, and destruction that lands an otherwise little-known, off-the-radar country on front pages around the world. Then, once the flames die down, the same international community that declined to intervene gathers at a luxurious destination - typically in a snowy, mountainous part of Europe – to pass the hat and collect hundreds of millions, often billions, for rebuilding and perhaps a one-time only round of heavily monitored elections. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While the international community diplomatically declines to play the role of the police, a role that might resolve a problem before it develops into a catastrophe, it is always ready to come in and play the part of the deep-pocketed parent, ready to help the wayward adolescent who steadfastly ignored advice not to play with matches.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Irony, however expensive, is, unfortunately, lost on the international community.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Equally unfortunate is that no matter how many examples show that acting out on ethnic suspicions is an extremely costly way for a country to achieve equality and harmony, this incredibly destructive societal psychosis occurs over and over again.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think there's a better way. And a much cheaper way. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The movies.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In Africa, a free movie still brings people together like nothing else.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hotel Rwanda</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> needs to be translated into every African dialect and shown in every office, in every slum, in every village and in every school in every forgotten corner across the continent. Moderated discussions need to follow at which the consequences of ethnic cleansing, racial hatred and power-play politics need to be aired.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then it needs to be done again and again and again. With other movies like </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cry Freetown, The Last King of Scotland </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">or even</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Schindler's List</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. People around the world feel for and respond to the suffering of others. They learn from it. And hopefully they will learn to avoid destroying their own lives and communities in the name of ethnic entitlement.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Those of us in the West forget, or aren't willing to recognize, that in cultures based on oral history, Hatfield-McKoy feuds aren't something that took place long ago but are as fresh and as real as the last retelling. To prevent subcutaneous hatreds from turning septic, this aspect of oral tradition needs to be countered. Movies - followed by open discussions in the local language - could do this. Armies and highfaluting after-the-fact diplomatic missions have repeatedly proven that they cannot.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Following the genocide in Rwanda, the cry "Never Again" echoed around the world. Yet now we see ethnically driven chaos in country after country. Just as every child knows how difficult it is to put Humpty-Dumpty together again, so does every diplomat know that history repeats itself. Yet, at huge cost in human misery, the international community seems incapable of absorbing this law of history.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So what did the Peace Corps/Cameroon staff think "the world" would do if a Rwanda-like cataclysm should befall their country? The following was typical of their answers: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"The world will do nothing. We will be alone and have to save ourselves. They will take their people away and leave us to die."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Despite all the talk and all the billions spent, that's pretty much what we see today in places like Darfur, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Somalia where it’s way too late for movies to make much of a difference. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But it isn't too late elsewhere.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is laudable that the international community commits enormous sums to fighting AIDS and combating malaria and rebuilding the corroding or non-existent infrastructure in Africa. Despite the failure of so many previous development efforts, maybe this time the billions will make a difference. But maybe what the international community ought to be doing is teaching people across Africa to love popcorn and gather together in the dark to watch movies. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then, maybe, people will learn to hate each other a little less.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A version of this story originally appeared in the May/June 2009 issue of </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Stanford</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> magazine.</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-67003293240951036122010-02-01T08:21:00.001+03:002010-02-01T08:23:32.081+03:00Notes from the Underground<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I have never cared much for pets. I grew up with cats and was as indifferent about them as they were about me. My brother once asked me to baby-sit his four cats for a few months. They were indoor cats. I was violently allergic to them so I put them on running lines in the backyard. When I came back several hours later they were all calmly suspended in mid-air, hanging by the neck as if out of some particularly demented Booth cartoon from </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The New Yorker</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">. Taking the near strangled felines down from their nooses I realized that domestic animals and I simply were not meant for each other.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Now I'm older, wiser, more compassionate and absolutely in love with my new pets. Even though I never let them out of the basement, I'm just nuts about them. I look in on them everyday and regret that they only need to be fed a couple of times a week. I'm so crazy about them that although I started with 1,000, I quickly bought another 500 and have now bred more than 10,000. They're quiet, clean, obedient, fun to watch, never need to go to the vet, like living in the basement, and, here's the best part, they eat my garbage. They're just great and I'm totally insane for them. They're worms.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It all started last spring, just before Earth Day. For several years I'd been carting kitchen scraps to the community garden in San Francisco's Fort Mason for composting. This invariably involved putting a bucket of wet, stinky, molding slop into the car and then having to empty it into a garbage can of even more fragrant molding slop at the garden. And when the stuff ultimately evolved into compost there never seemed to be any left for me, my more aggressive fellow community gardeners always having beaten me to the latest harvest of "black gold." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It was about that time that a notice arrived from SLUG (the San Francisco League of Urban Gardeners) informing me of a composting program subsidized by the City. If I acted immediately, a Wriggly Wranch Worm Farm (a $49.95 value) could be mine for the unprecedented low price of $20.00 (worms not included). I raced to Cole Hardware and was soon back at home with my Wriggly Wranch and two quart-size ice cream tubs, each containing about 500 rust-colored red wrigglers.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">With great expectation I put the Wranch together, and fluffed up the Wranch's worm "bedding" with the anticipation of a newlywed fluffing up pillows on his wedding night. After sitting on the shelf for who knows how long, my newly purchased worms appeared nearly catatonic. Still, I had visions of churning out large quantities of quality compost on a weekly basis. After all, the literature said that the worms could eat up to their weight in garbage </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">every day</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">As instructed, I emptied the worms onto the bedding, covered them with strips of moistened newspaper, closed the lid and left them alone to settle in. Well, almost. I just couldn't leave them alone. They looked kind of lost and helpless. I wanted to see them burrow down to the business of making compost. And they looked hungry. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Defying the instructions that said not to feed them for the first two weeks, I took some lettuce trimmings and a few banana peels down to the basement. When I opened the Wranch a week later I learned that worms cannot be rushed. They hadn't even looked at what I had given them which had turned into a fuzzy carpet of mold. I scraped it off, picked out the few worms that had dared to climb in, said my apologies, and started over. Being a successful worm owner would not be a simple as I had first imagined.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Over time I've come to better understand my worms' dietary needs. Avocado skins they will avoid for months. But put a piece of slightly overripe cantaloupe in the box and a vermicultural orgy commences with thousands of inch-long wrigglers sliming their way over each other into a thick ball of oozing, living spaghetti. Like childbirth, it's simultaneously grotesque and absolutely riveting. My three year-old daughter can't watch them enough. She'll blissfully pick up a handful of worms, select one, and stroke it as though caressing a cat under the neck. Or she'll hold a piece of food above their tray while calling, "Here wormy wormy worm." (Like I'm going to tell her worms don't have ears?)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">After six months of experimenting, I've fallen onto a favorite recipe. Here it is; into a food processor place any combination of banana peels, egg shells, salad trimmings, and used coffee filters with grounds. Purée. Pour over worms. They love it. My wife, however, finds this process completely disgusting and leaves the kitchen each time I joyfully call out "Time to feed the worms" and begin loading the food processor. Her retreat from the kitchen was particularly fortunate the time I tried to food process watermelon rind. The thick skin jammed under one of the blades causing the entire machine to skip madly over the counter. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Invariably, over-confidence gets lion tamers into trouble and as my worms and I grew more comfortable with each other, I, too, was headed for a fall. The Wriggly Wranch instruction manual firmly cautioned me against giving the worms much citrus. Facing a pile of grapefruit peels, I thought a little vitamin C couldn't hurt them. Into the food processor the peels went, creating one of the more pleasant and zesty slurries I've created. A week later, when I lifted the top off my Wriggly Wranch, a disgusting cloud of tiny flies rose into my face. Citrus. Red wrigglers. Not a good mix.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Now we are back on better terms. My initial 1,500 worms have multiplied countless times. The "castings," as the compost the worms leave behind is called, is a wonderful, dark, dense humus. The "tea" they excrete has transformed a pot of scrawny calla lilies into a portrait worthy of Imogen Cunningham’s viewfinder. Best of all is the smell. Each time I open the Wranch the fresh, clean, warm aroma of new soil rises into my nostrils. It smells like the humid floor of a tropical rainforest just as the sun begins to warm the day. Delicious.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">One thing you cannot, however, expect from worms is gratitude. Unlike dogs, or even cats, worms do not come running at the sound of the can opener. They will not brush up against your legs or beg on their haunches as you try to put down their food. If anything, worms tend to dive for the cover of darkness when their box is opened for feeding. And there's no taking them out for walks. No teaching them stupid pet tricks. A box of worms will never land you on David Letterman. For the dedicated worm owner (as I have become), satisfaction comes from watching them transform kitchen garbage into beautiful rich soil -- while remaining blissfully ignorant of how they do it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">"Do worms have teeth?" I asked my wife not long ago, wondering aloud about how in fact they do do it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">"Do worms have teeth?" she repeated in a defeated, incredulous tone as she left the room. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">"No really," I called down the hall after her. "What do you think? How do they chew all that stuff up?" </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Why don’t you subscribe to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Worm Digest</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">?” she suggested. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">After nearly a year, my worms have eaten their way through two stacking trays of scraps and I will soon add a third. According to the instructions, when that last tray appears to have been more or less converted to compost the castings in the first tray will finally be ready for use. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It's been a long slow wait for the one cubic foot each tray contains. Recently the worms have become much more active. Their diet remains the same and yet they are positively frisky when I feed them.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“What do you think is going on with the worms?” I asked my wife as she was trying to sleep. “They’re multiplying like crazy.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Enough with the worms already,” she moaned. “Let me sleep will you.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Yeah but...” I began before I figured it out. “Nina, Nina,” I said. “I know what’s happened. It’s because we switched from decaffeinated coffee to regular coffee. Ha!” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Oh give me a break already,” my wife pleaded, turning away from me and yanking the covers over her head.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“That’s got to be it,” I insisted. For a couple of weeks I had been giving the worms two coffee filters a day of Peet’s dark French roast grounds. My red wrigglers were buzzed out of their minds.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“What?!” Nina turned back to me infuriated with having been awakened. “You think worms are mammals? You think caffeine affects them?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“I don’t know? Are worms mammals?” I said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Do they nurse their young?” Nina asked, before storming out of bed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I suppose all in all it would have been easier just to buy some compost at the garden supply store. But then I wouldn't get to use the food processor so often. And I wouldn't have become a pet lover.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:14.0pt;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A version of this story originally appeared in the March 5, 2000 edition of the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">San Francisco Sunday Examiner Magazine.</span></span></i><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-85492453971829158502010-01-25T14:27:00.013+03:002022-03-14T16:22:18.855+03:00The Peace Corps Trilogy - In Six Parts<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On November 23, 2007 the</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> New York Times</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> published an article by Sarah Abruzzese about the Peace Corps' desire to recruit greater numbers of older individuals, an initiative known as "50+." </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the country director for the Peace Corps in Cameroon from 2002-2007, I had overseen volunteers ranging in age from 21 to 80, and had encouraged the Peace Corps to send more seasoned individuals to Cameroon.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, I was taken aback when, in early 2007, the Peace Corps announced that it would pilot "50+" in Cameroon. Why? Because no one in our country office, including me, had ever been asked by Peace Corps headquarters if this was a good idea or whether we in Cameroon could place and support additional "50+" volunteers before the initiative was publicly announced.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The decision to announce an important initiative with no field consultation seemed to me representative of the long-standing absence of any coherent strategic thinking at the Peace Corps as well as its on-going failure to adequately plan for and support volunteers in the field. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My Op-Ed about the Peace Corps, initially written as a response to Ms. Abruzzese's piece, was published in the </span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Times</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> on January 9, 2008, and led to a series of other articles, which I wrote hoping that they might lead to long overdue reform at the Peace Corps.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So here is my Peace Corps Trilogy - In Six Parts</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Too Many Innocents Abroad </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">—</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> the </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">New York Times</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">— </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">January 9, 2008</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps recently began a laudable initiative to increase the number of volunteers who are 50 and older. As the Peace Corps’ country director in Cameroon from 2002 until last February, I observed how many older volunteers brought something to their service that most young volunteers could not: extensive professional and life experience and the ability to mentor younger volunteers.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, even if the Peace Corps reaches its goal of having 15 percent of its volunteers over 50, the overwhelming majority will remain recently minted college graduates. And too often these young volunteers lack the maturity and professional experience to be effective development workers in the 21st century.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This wasn’t the case in 1961 when the Peace Corps sent its first volunteers overseas. Back then, enthusiastic young Americans offered something that many newly independent nations counted in double and even single digits: college graduates. But today, those same nations have millions of well-educated citizens of their own desperately in need of work. So it’s much less clear what inexperienced Americans have to offer.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps has long shipped out well-meaning young people possessing little more than good intentions and a college diploma. What the agency should begin doing is recruiting only the best of recent graduates — as the top professional schools do — and only those older people whose skills and personal characteristics are a solid fit for the needs of the host country.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps has resisted doing this for fear that it would cause the number of volunteers to plummet. The name of the game has been getting volunteers into the field, qualified or not.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In Cameroon, we had many volunteers sent to serve in the agriculture program whose only experience was puttering around in their mom and dad’s backyard during high school. I wrote to our headquarters in Washington to ask if anyone had considered how an American farmer would feel if a fresh-out-of-college Cameroonian with a liberal arts degree who had occasionally visited Grandma’s cassava plot were sent to Iowa to consult on pig-raising techniques learned in a three-month crash course. I’m pretty sure the American farmer would see it as a publicity stunt and a bunch of hooey, but I never heard back from headquarters.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For the Peace Corps, the number of volunteers has always trumped the quality of their work, perhaps because the agency fears that an objective assessment of its impact would reveal that while volunteers generate good will for the United States, they do little or nothing to actually aid development in poor countries. The agency has no comprehensive system for self-evaluation, but rather relies heavily on personal anecdote to demonstrate its worth.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Every few years, the agency polls its volunteers, but in my experience it does not systematically ask the people it is supposedly helping what they think the volunteers have achieved. This is a clear indication of how the Peace Corps neglects its customers; as long as the volunteers are enjoying themselves, it doesn’t matter whether they improve the quality of life in the host countries. Any well-run organization must know what its customers want and then deliver the goods, but this is something the Peace Corps has never learned.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This lack of organizational introspection allows the agency to continue sending, for example, unqualified volunteers to teach English when nearly every developing country could easily find high-caliber English teachers among its own population. Even after Cameroonian teachers and education officials ranked English instruction as their lowest priority (after help with computer literacy, math and science, for example), headquarters in Washington continued to send trainees with little or no classroom experience to teach English in Cameroonian schools. One volunteer told me that the only possible reason he could think of for having been selected was that he was a native English speaker.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps was born during the glory days of the early Kennedy administration. Since then, its leaders and many of the more than 190,000 volunteers who have served have mythologized the agency into something that can never be questioned or improved. The result is an organization that finds itself less and less able to provide what the people of developing countries need — at a time when the United States has never had a greater need for their good will.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Think Again: The Peace Corps </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">— Foreign Policy</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> — April, 2008</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the eyes of Americans, no government agency better exemplifies the optimism, can-do spirit, and selfless nature of the United States than the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, it’s never lived up to its purpose or principles.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Peace Corps Is a Potent Diplomatic Weapon”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> With diplomats stuck inside barricaded compounds or loath to venture from expatriate residential ghettos, a Peace Corps volunteer is likely to be the only representative of the U.S. government that poor, rural populations ever see. As the State Department cuts back on its public diplomacy and cultural exchange programs, the Peace Corps’ predominantly young volunteers wind up carrying more and more of the responsibility for demonstrating that the United States still has good intentions abroad.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That puts the Peace Corps and its volunteers in an awkward position. The Peace Corps was created as a separate, independent agency so that it would not be subject to short-term foreign-policy objectives. Volunteers aren’t trained or expected to represent the U.S. government, its positions, or its interests. When the Peace Corps is characterized as an effective diplomatic weapon, it is thanks to the goodwill that volunteers generate toward the American people, not toward official U.S. policy.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, of the tens of millions of people with whom Peace Corps volunteers have interacted during the last 47 years, many have no idea what the Peace Corps is. Few have any idea that the Peace Corps is a U.S. government agency funded 100 percent by American taxpayers. On the plus side, over my five years as a country director in Cameroon, hundreds of villagers and officials told me how happy they were simply to have volunteers in their communities. Less encouraging is that just as often, I was told how fondly they remembered the Peace Corps volunteer from Rome, Paris, or Tokyo. It’s tough to be an effective diplomatic weapon and build goodwill among nations if people don’t understand what nation you came from in the first place.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Peace Corps Recruits Only the</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Best and the Brightest”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">False.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The Peace Corps learned how to recruit by emulating traditional fishermen in developing countries — toss a large net and hope for the best. For decades, this system has been notoriously ineffective, sending Spanish speakers to Arabic-speaking North Africa and offering the rare, farm-raised, French-speaking applicant a job teaching English in Mongolia.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps claims that about 1 in 3 applicants eventually becomes a volunteer, implying that the agency is about as selective as many “elite” schools in the United States. Not long ago, the figure commonly cited was 1 in 7. Either way, the truth is that so long as applicants meet the minimum standards and are healthy and persistent, the Peace Corps rarely rejects them outright. Each group sent overseas includes a few highly motivated and capable individuals — and then there are the vast majority who before joining the Peace Corps weren’t sure what to do with their lives, were fresh out of school and seeking a government-subsidized travel experience or something to bolster their résumé, or for whom the Peace Corps represented a chance to escape a humdrum life or recent divorce.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Once overseas, the chances of being kicked out are slim. I queried my fellow country directors in Africa to find out how many trainees they had sent packing due to unacceptable performance. The figure was less than 2 percent a year, meaning that once accepted, an individual — qualified or not, motivated or not — is pretty much assured of sticking around.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, the Peace Corps’ failure to recruit the best isn’t limited to volunteers. Few agencies rival the Peace Corps for the percentage of political appointees filling mission-critical positions. Hardly the sexiest of sinecures, the Peace Corps’ 29 political appointments tend to be lower-level politicians, third-tier party loyalists, the relatives of elected officials, or minor political underlings who get “parked” at the Peace Corps.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Peace Corps Sends Volunteers Where They Are Needed Most”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rarely.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Like many bureaucracies, the Peace Corps operates predominantly on inertia. The agency sends most volunteers to the same places where volunteers have been sent before, often to do the same thing volunteers were doing 20 and 30 years ago — regardless of whether their mission still makes sense.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Reviewing the most recent U.N. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Human Development Report</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> shows that the Peace Corps is active in 10 countries with “high human development,” 49 with “medium human development,” and 11 with “low human development.” With so few resources to achieve its goals, one wonders why the Peace Corps hasn’t concentrated what little it has on the world’s poorest countries, where the need is likely greatest. Granted, half a dozen of those places are either so unstable or dangerous that there’s little hope of achieving much. But even if the Peace Corps didn’t concentrate only on the poorest of the poor, one has to question what it is still doing in Romania and Bulgaria, two countries that have already become members of the European Union.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One might also ask why there is approximately one volunteer sent to Tonga for every 3,800 Tongans but only one sent to Tanzania for every 245,000 Tanzanians. Or what the logic is of having one volunteer for every 2.5 million Mexicans when tens of thousands of Americans live in Mexico, millions of Mexicans live in the United States, and the two countries are among each others’ largest trading partners. The reason, in many cases, is that someone simply decided on a number and no one asked if it made much sense. Of course, closing a program in one country and transferring its resources to another requires explanation and large expenses, and is often resisted by the State Department and by zealous, vocal former volunteers who hate to see programs in their countries shut down.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some will argue that wherever there are poor people the Peace Corps has a role. But with the Peace Corps’ 8,000 volunteers spread out across more than 70 countries, giving each one such a small presence guarantees that no one can say with any authority if the agency is making a difference or not.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Peace Corps Is a Development Organization”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Says who?</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Since its founding in 1961, the Peace Corps has probably sent more development workers overseas, now upward of 190,000, than any other organization. But if the Peace Corps is a development organization, then it’s a bit like the late, bug-eyed comedian Rodney Dangerfield who, no matter what happened, claimed, “I don’t get no respect.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Indeed, if the Peace Corps were as successful at development as its literature and many volunteers and staff members attest, one would expect other organizations and scholars to cite it as a model. Yet pick up any of the recently popular books on development by Paul Collier, William Easterly, or Jeffrey Sachs, and you won’t find a single reference to the Peace Corps. Tony Blair’s 464-page </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Commission for Africa</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> report? Not a word. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Beyond Assistance,</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> the 215-page report of the HELP Commission on foreign-assistance reform? Just three passing mentions.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The reason the Peace Corps is overlooked as a development organization has a lot to do with the youth and inexperience of the majority of its volunteers. Equally important is its unwillingness to decide if it is a development organization or an organization with a mission “to promote world peace and friendship,” as stipulated by Congress in the Peace Corps Act. It would like to be both, but finds itself falling short on both objectives because it cannot decide which is the more important.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Many Peace Corps staff and volunteers see development work as a burdensome obligation undertaken only to legitimize the cultural exchange aspects of the agency. But without a focus on economic development and an improvement in standards of living, the Peace Corps is really little more than an extended, government-sponsored semester-abroad program. For applicants, the Peace Corps emphasizes the personal experience, not the volunteer’s development impact. That, of course, is not how the Peace Corps pitches itself to foreign governments, to whom it promises significant technical development assistance — only to provide predominantly recent college graduates who may or may not have any useful skills to offer.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The real problem is that the Peace Corps has never done a serious job of evaluating its impact. If it is a world peace and friendship organization designed to “help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served,” then, as a start, it ought to ask the peoples served if they even know which country Peace Corps volunteers come from. If it’s a development agency, then it needs to undertake rigorous measures to assess its impact. Currently, it does neither but rather relies on biannual surveys in which volunteers comment on whether they think they are making a difference. It’s a bit like asking a bunch of doctors how they think they are doing without ever talking to the patients — or even checking to see if they are still alive.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Locals Love Peace Corps Volunteers”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Not always.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> People everywhere almost always get a kick out of hearing a foreigner speaking — or trying to speak — their language. In small villages around the world, a foreigner who can use local parables correctly or dance the sacred traditional dance, or who appears content to sit around the village circle for hours on end, is a curiosity, an amusement. Lifelong attachments can and do grow. In Cameroon, dozens, if not hundreds of times, I was asked what had become of so and so, a volunteer who had served 30 or even 40 years earlier. I loved that many people had such fond memories of volunteers. For better or worse, people often loved “their” volunteers as much for the volunteer’s willingness to buy rounds of drinks as for any concrete thing he or she might have achieved.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But just as often, people were disturbed by volunteers who had set terrible examples by abusing drugs or alcohol or violating cultural sensitivities and professional norms. The Peace Corps strives to represent the diversity of the American population, but in casting its net wide, it scoops up many who represent less than the best American traditions of dedication, persistence, creativity, optimism, and honesty. Like any large organization, the Peace Corps has its share of deadbeats, philanderers, parasites, gamblers, and alcoholics. The problem is that the agency sends these people tens of thousands of miles from home and expects them to work responsibly with minimal supervision. Disasters logically result.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps is remarkably effective at cleaning up the messes those volunteers make and getting them back to the United States before local authorities step in. What’s less clear is the Peace Corps’ overall impact on people’s impressions and understandings of the United States. Does the goodwill generated by the small minority of great volunteers outweigh the indifference or outright hostility caused by the mediocre or truly sinister ones? The agency doesn’t know, because it doesn’t ask.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Peace Corps Has a Strategy”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nope.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The Peace Corps has plans, not a strategy. A strategy implies a conclusion, a final goal. The Peace Corps has none. In Washington, plans are already underway to celebrate the agency’s 50th anniversary in 2011. Celebrating half a century of existence ought to be a dubious benchmark for any development organization, particularly one that actively encourages its volunteers to “work themselves out of a job,” yet has no plans for doing so itself in any of the more than 70 countries where it is currently active.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps is unable to do this because it never has had any benchmarks to signal when the mission has been accomplished. In Cameroon, volunteers are still teaching math and science, the job they originally came to do in 1962. This was a situation I tried but failed to change because the placing of volunteers in the field was more important to the Peace Corps than questioning whether the Cameroonian government had failed to do its job by not training and hiring adequate numbers of local teachers over a period of more than four decades. In any case, doing the same thing for 46 years ought to indicate that something is broken, something the Peace Corps is unlikely to fix. A serious development organization would either not allow such a situation to persist or would refuse to abet it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Peace Corps Is One of the Greatest Things America Has Ever Done”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dream on.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Today, the Peace Corps remains a Peter Pan organization, afraid to grow up, yet also afraid to question the thinking of its founding fathers. The rush to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1960 campaign pledge was such that the Peace Corps never learned to crawl, let alone walk, before it set off at a sprinter’s pace. The result is a schizophrenic entity, unsure if it is a development organization, a cheerleader for international goodwill, or a government-sponsored cross-cultural exchange program. In any case, the Peace Corps tries to do too many things in too many places with too few people to really get much of anything done at all.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Despite these inherent faults, the Peace Corps is probably one of the least-expensive development agencies ever created. Supporting a volunteer in the field costs just $41,000 a year, including overhead. That’s about $12,000 less than a year’s worth of tuition, room, and board at Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service and a small fraction of the cost of supporting a single American diplomat or USAID worker in a developing country. The agency has long prided itself on doing more with a dollar than most other development outfits. Peace Corps Press Director Amanda Beck estimates that the agency’s direct expenditures per volunteer are actually only $3,000 a year. But if that is the case, one then has to wonder what the Peace Corps is doing with the other $38,000 it spends per year for each volunteer. However you count it, the agency’s relative leanness says more about the lack of significant results in the development business than it does about the Peace Corps’ cost effectiveness.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Based predominantly on the life-changing experiences volunteers had while serving, the Peace Corps continues to generate strong support from the American people. But for the agency to approach its potential, deep, substantive changes must be made.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sargent Shriver, the agency’s first director, recognized that a “Peace Corps, small and symbolic, might be good public relations, but a Peace Corps that was large and had a major impact on problems in other countries could transform the economic development of the world,” according to former Pennsylvania Sen. Harris Wofford. Because the Peace Corps has tried to be all things to all comers, that grand vision has never been realized or even approached. To become effective and relevant, the Peace Corps must now give up on the myth that its creation was the result of an immaculate conception that can never be questioned or altered. It must go out and recruit the best of the best. It must avoid goodwill-generating window dressing and concentrate its resources in a limited number of countries that are truly interested in the development of their people. And it must give up on the risible excuse that in the absence of quantifiable results, good intentions are enough. Only then will it be able to achieve its original objective of significantly altering the lives of millions for the better.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Peace Corps Blues — </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">NPR Weekend Edition Saturday</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> — May 17, 2008</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At college commencement time, some graduates explore Peace Corps opportunities. For nearly 50 years, the agency has been sending Americans all over the world. Scott Simon talks with Robert Strauss, former country director of the Peace Corps in Cameroon. Strauss says that the Peace Corps has lost its edge for assisting developing countries and the U.S.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=90554078"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Morning Edition Saturday - Interview with Scott Simon</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What the Peace Corps Could Do — </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">WorldView (National Peace Corps Association quarterly magazine)</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> — Fall 2008</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a former volunteer, recruiter, consultant and country director, I am a firm believer that Peace Corps could be one of our country’s greatest initiatives. Unfortunately, and to the detriment of volunteers, staff and host countries, the agency’s organizational culture and administrative policies have prevented it from ever approaching that potential. I believe the following steps would reinvigorate the agency and solve many long-standing problems.</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Table Any Discussion of Growth for Five Years</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Calculated in real dollars, support for volunteers has been dropping for years. Expanding the number of volunteers without a major budget increase is irresponsible and a formula for ineffectiveness and dissatisfaction. Peace Corps is not the only virtuous organization strapped for funds. In today’s environment of enormous federal deficits, pleading and hand wringing will not cause manna to fall. What Peace Corps needs to do is use its current budget more effectively. The first step would be to work only in countries that are stable, needy and serious about improving their citizens’ quality of life. This will require a system to select high potential partners. Operating in 50 or fewer such nations would free up millions of dollars, which would allow Peace Corps to…</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fix the Basics</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Peace Corps started off sprinting in 1961 and has never caught its breath. Astonishingly, 47 years later, some things as basic as standard forms and consistent policies don’t exist. Peace Corps must get out of its perpetual crisis management mode and focus on developing systems designed to achieve meaningful results in the field. That done, Peace Corps will be able to ask Congress for increased funding because it will be able to show that it is using public money responsibly. This will require… </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Getting Serious About Impact</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Whether one believes that Peace Corps is first and foremost a goodwill and cross-cultural exchange organization or first and foremost a development agency, it’s more than time for it to be measuring impact. Without credible evidence of real results, Peace Corps will remain on life support, getting nowhere near enough to make big, lasting differences in the lives of millions. This will require implementing…</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A Much Higher Standard of Volunteer Performance</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Too many Volunteers do not take their roles seriously, and use their unpaid status as an excuse for being AWOL or not doing their work in a professional manner. To make its expectations clear, Peace Corps must set much higher recruitment standards and then make sure candidates, both staff and volunteers, are sent to countries where their experience can be put to work effectively. This will require that Peace Corps…</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Focus on a Limited Number of Technical Fields</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Currently Peace Corps often offers watered-down debutantism in lieu of the expertise that developing countries want. Concentrating on a limited number of technical fields would allow the agency to improve its training and its ability to give people information they can use. Computer literacy, NGO management, assistance with applied research projects, management of water resources and improvement of agricultural productivity are among the areas in which volunteers could provide expertise that other countries may lack. Whether it does this or not, Peace Corps must…</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Exponentially Increase Support to Volunteers</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Regular, disciplined supervision is part of any well-run organization. With most volunteers working in unfamiliar circumstances, Peace Corps should provide much greater supervision than “normal” organizations. Yet it provides far less. Every volunteer should be visited by a Peace Corps supervisor at least every six weeks. These visits need to offer in-depth technical information, administrative assistance, and psychological support when needed. The result will be greater effectiveness and a dramatic reduction in avoidable dramas and disasters. Performance is important across the board and that is why…</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Number of Political Appointees Must Be Cut 90%</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Government Accountability Office has 3,300 employees. It has two political appointees. Peace Corps has a slightly higher number of employees and around 30 political appointees. Most political appointees get their get their jobs because they are “owed” one and not because of their expertise or passion. At Peace Corps the finish line is much further away than the next cycle of congressional or presidential elections. There simply is no role for extensive staffing by unqualified political appointees. Dramatically reducing the number of appointees won’t mean much unless… </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Five-Year Rule is Eliminated</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">According to the 2001 Workforce Analysis, staff tenure at Peace Corps averages 18 months. Having a constantly churning staff overseen by a constantly churning cadre of political appointees is why Peace Corps has reinvented the wheel more times than Fred Flintstone. In the 1960s it was a nice idea to think that forcing people out would result in a creative, dynamic organization. The result has been exactly the opposite; an inefficient, stagnant organization with no institutional memory. Peace Corps ought to be the world's most effective development organization. The churn caused by the five-year rule works directly against that objective. No one is around long enough to master how things work or to see substantive changes through to completion. By causing it to throw out the dead wood AND the good wood, Peace Corps has enshrined a rule that is much worse than no rule at all.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Getting Peace Corps on the right track after so many years of squandering its potential will not be easy. Many other issues need to be addressed. These include reducing the economic barriers that prevent many from ever considering Peace Corps, implementing creative solutions to the obstacles of a uniform length of service, creating a GI-type bill for RPCVs, establishing a truly independent Inspector General's office focused on malfeasance while creating a truly empowered, credible and competent evaluation division to assess impact objectively.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some of these actions might take years to implement. The ones detailed in this article could be put in place quickly and to great impact. All that’s needed now is the managerial will to leave the past behind and guide Peace Corps to a future that will shine as brightly as its initial promise.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grow Up - How to Fix the Peace Corps — </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The American Interest</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> — Jan/Feb 2010</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ever since I first joined the Peace Corps in 1978 as a health-education volunteer assigned to a rudimentary clinic in rural Liberia, the only job I ever really wanted was to be a Peace Corps country director. So I suppose it's a bit odd that when I finally interviewed for that position, I was dressed only in my underwear. I got the job anyway, but the experience forced me to see, once again, that my situation symbolized something that's been true about the Peace Corps since its very beginning: that it has been consistently, awkwardly under-prepared to achieve its objectives. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Perhaps this was inevitable given the Peace Corps's lofty, idealist origins. In October 1960, in the final weeks of a dead-heat campaign with Richard Nixon for the presidency, Senator John F. Kennedy made the following remarks at two o'clock in the morning while speaking to students in Ann Arbor, Michigan:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"How many of you who are going to be doctors are willing to spend your days in Ghana? Technicians or engineers, how many of you are willing to work in the Foreign Service and spend your lives traveling around the world? On your willingness to do that, not merely to serve one year or two years in the service, but on your willingness to contribute part of your life to this country, I think will depend the answer whether a free society can compete. I think it can! And I think Americans are willing to contribute. But the effort must be far greater than we have ever made in the past."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Kennedy's words captured the public's imagination, igniting a spark that the "ask not" passage of his Inaugural fanned into full flame on January 21, 1961. For thousands of young people weaned on the existential wanderlust epitomized by Jack Kerouac's recently published </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the Road,</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Kennedy's suggestion that the youth of America could get up, go somewhere, and do something that might actually make a difference seemed the perfect antidote to the ennui and complacency of 1950s America. The President's charisma and youthful energy only magnified that appeal. Even before it had a name, a "peace corps" was an unstoppable idea whose time had come. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Getting the program off the ground became one of the Kennedy Administration's first initiatives. Naming Sargent Shriver, the President's charismatic and photogenic brother-in-law, as the nascent agency's first director guaranteed the Peace Corps an indelible presence at Camelot's round table. Yet despite Shriver's relentless efforts to get the fledgling to fly (an effort in which he was assisted by a brain trust that included Bill Moyers and Harris Wofford, among other luminaries), the Peace Corps never realized the dream that it had so effectively implanted in the public's imagination: that a volunteer army of young people could redress the legacy of colonialism while bringing the world's newly independent nations into the fold of the land of the free and the home of the brave.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Half a century later, it all sounds wildly naive and excessively optimistic, almost like an adolescent's fantasy. The Peace Corps has never approached the scope its founders envisioned: 100,000 volunteers to be sent overseas every year. Forty-eight years later, the U.S. government has not yet managed to send 200,000 overseas. Total. No Administration has ever come close to funding the original ambition. The Peace Corps, which has worked in 139 countries and is today operational in more than seventy, gets by on a measly $375 million or so a year, the rough equivalent of what the U.S. government still spends every 28 hours in Iraq, and less than what our government is said to provide for military marching bands. But it's not just the money that hasn't been there; the whole organization has failed to mature. It's caught in a kind of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Groundhog Day</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> time warp that has it reliving the same hopes and the same failures over and over again. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps can still be an effective organization. It can make itself worthy of much larger budgets, but to see how, we first have to look below the Peace Corps's carefully polished public image and into the substance of its earthly condition. I have seen it from many angles, and it's not a pretty sight.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the two decades that elapsed between my time as a volunteer and my rejoining the agency in 2002 as country director for Cameroon, I acquired an MBA and MA from Stanford and worked as a management consultant for organizations around the globe, including projects for the Peace Corps in Fiji, Nepal and Belize. During many of my overseas assignments, I had the chance to observe Peace Corps volunteers in the field as an outsider. As had been the case during my 27 months in Liberia, what confronted me in each encounter was the huge disparity between the Peace Corps's public reputation and the reality in the field. Each observation reconfirmed for me what a fellow volunteer had said many years ago —</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">that "Peace Corps is the worst-run example of good intentions I've ever seen."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a veteran of what an advertising campaign called "the toughest job you'll ever love," I have a bipolar relationship with the agency. I have always loved the idea of the Peace Corps, but have been embarrassed and sometimes even ashamed by the reality of it. So many well-intentioned people have gone overseas, dreamily transported by the lofty rhetoric of the early Kennedy days, only to find that in their country of assignment the Peace Corps hardly knew what it was doing, and was coasting along on little more than good intentions and reputation. As tens of thousands of volunteers have said, those who succeeded in their jobs typically did so in spite of the Peace Corps, not because of it. Decades later, it's hard to say that the Peace Corps has done a good job of achieving any of its three original goals: helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for skilled men and women; promoting a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served; and promoting a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. The Peace Corps has always simply assumed that its good intentions justified its existence, whether the results have been good, bad, negligible or non-existent.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I first got a taste of Peace Corps's substitution of wishful thinking for professionalism when I applied to be a volunteer in 1978. As a Russian and economics major, I had no business volunteering to be a health educator. But my recruiter had suggested that a few weekends of volunteering at an emergency room would probably bolster my application sufficiently for me to make the cut. And so it did. Five months later, I was a Peace Corps trainee in Bendu, a small village on the shores of Lake Piso near the Liberian border with Sierra Leone. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some of my fellow trainees' résumés were even slighter than mine. There was the fellow who showed up to orientation in Philadelphia with a dime glued to the middle of his forehead. (He said it was in case he needed to phone home.) There was another fellow, this one flown to orientation from his home in Alaska, who was taken aback when the Liberian Deputy Minister of Health, a UCLA graduate, said he didn't want to see any more "mocha-colored Peace Corps babies" left behind in his country. A few of us guys took offense at the suggestion that we were joining the Peace Corps for the potential action rather than because we wanted to make a difference. But the fellow from Alaska apparently saw it differently. He raised his hand and asked what the problem was; "If you knock somebody up, doesn't Peace Corps just fly you home?" Presumably, these two, who thankfully never made it onto the plane, had gotten as far as Philadelphia after a series of background checks, interviews and some thoughtful reflection.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But perhaps I'm presuming too much, which brings me back to interviewing for the Peace Corps country director position in my underwear. I first applied for a country director slot nearly twenty years ago, when the position was still a low-level, not-ready-for-prime-time political appointment reserved for those who hadn't contributed enough to become backwater Ambassadors or USAID country directors. I hadn't contributed a dime to any political campaign but figured I had the necessary requirements; I had a fancy MBA and a couple years of globe-trotting work experience. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Compared to what I had seen, that looked like more than enough. Once, while on a consulting assignment in Southern Africa, I ran into another former volunteer from Liberia, and we decided to go out clubbing. There weren't a lot of choices, so we landed in a dump on the outskirts of town that was clad in corrugated roofing. Inside, there was a floorshow the likes of which I hope never to see again. A heavyset woman was dancing slowly in the middle of the floor as four or five young, lithe men writhed against her from all sides. It was like a slow-motion disco version of a queen bee being smeared with royal jelly. It was such a distasteful scene that I found myself recounting it the next day to someone from the U.S. Embassy. "Oh", the young FSO said. "So you've seen our Peace Corps director."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If anything, this episode increased my interest in becoming a country director, or "CD." I wanted to be proud of the organization I consider one of my alma maters. Another inspiration was a recollection from my time in Liberia. There, my own country director had failed to show up for the dedication of a school I had helped complete — this despite the presence of the Liberian President and the American Ambassador, whose every movement was reported 24/7 on national radio and television. What the country director had done was go to a village with the same name as the one to which I was assigned, but in an entirely different part of Liberia. If this guy, a White House Fellow, had made the cut, I figured I could, too. I, at least, knew how to read a map and that it would be bad form for a Peace Corps country director to be associated with the lyrics of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Love for Sale.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> But it was not to be with that application; I never got past the "thank you for your interest" stage. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The next time I applied was shortly after 9/11. I had received an email advising me that the Peace Corps was looking for country director candidates. Even though two decades of off-again, on-again experience told me the Peace Corps would never change, patriotism got the better of me, and I applied. There would be a one-on-one interview over the phone and, if that went well, a four-on-one panel interview. I passed round one and was invited to Washington for the panel interview — at my own expense. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Being a Peace Corps country director is a bit like being a lieutenant colonel in the military; you may be far from the general command, but you're still responsible for everything that goes on at the front. It's hard to imagine the Army asking a potential field commander to pay his or her own way to a job interview, but that's the way it was with the Peace Corps.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was a penny-wise, pound-foolish policy that captures a lot of what is wrong with the agency and an organizational culture that glorifies youthful energy over thoughtful focus, or wishful thinking over considered strategies and quantifiable metrics. The Peace Corps has always justified its frugality by insisting that every dollar go toward putting as many volunteers in the field as possible. Never mind that this meant forgoing expenditures that other organizations, and even other government agencies, consider mandatory: adequate staff to supervise hundreds of young people, many of whom have never been overseas before; foreign cost-of-living adjustments for overseas staff; intensive, regular strategic planning at the global and country levels; or even a line item for office furniture. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As regards the panel interview, in my case, I had an immovable scheduling conflict. "Couldn't the interview be done over the phone?" I asked. They balked at first, but then agreed. And so at the appointed time, I did the interview over the phone, while sitting in my home office in my underwear. When I showed up at Peace Corps headquarters in Washington a few weeks later for 22 days of staff training, no one had ever seen me in person. Fewer than a dozen people had spoken to me about the job. It seemed a very odd way to bring an essential field manager on board, but it was standard operating procedure for the Peace Corps.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I should have known what I was getting into. I knew that, while many current and former volunteers are rightly proud of what they did, or tried to do, very few would argue that the Peace Corps had made good use of their time, was a well-run organization, was rigorous about the countries in which it operated or the projects it undertook, or that the people it sent overseas, as a whole, possessed what was needed to make a substantive difference in the lives of millions. As the Peace Corps nears its fiftieth anniversary in 2011, one wonders how, given that volunteers still spend a great part of their spare time complaining about what a mess the agency is, it has escaped close scrutiny and resisted substantive change for so long.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a former volunteer, I wanted to be a country director because I wanted to help make the agency better, make it into something worthy of the ablest of the people who volunteer, as well as of the generous and forgiving folks overseas who have been housing, working and interacting with Peace Corps volunteers all these years. During my time as a CD, I sent so much commentary back to headquarters (constructive criticism, to my way of thinking) that one of the agency's top staffers said I must have worn the letters off my computer keyboard. Yet the agency, which has promoted itself as a vehicle for change overseas, remains remarkably resistant to change within. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My internal communiqués led to few substantive changes at the Peace Corps. They did lead to my being recalled to Washington, where I was warned that my job would be on the line if I didn't shut up about my many concerns: the lack of budget and staff to get the job done, the youth and inexperience of most individuals being sent overseas, the Peace Corps's image in the United States taking precedence over its impact overseas, the appointment of politicians with little or no relevant experience to key senior positions at headquarters, and the vulnerability of the agency's overseas offices to terrorist attack. As it happened, I left the agency in 2007, having made very little progress at nudging the agency out of its lethargy. I continued tilting at the Peace Corps windmill, however, as in a January 2008 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">New York Times</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> op-ed in which I urged the agency to focus on recruiting mature, professional individuals - something I thought harmless enough and not terribly radical for an organization whose first goal is to provide countries with technical expertise. The official response from then-Peace Corps director Ronald A. Tschetter was that nothing was wrong with the Peace Corps. He further encouraged "Americans of all ages and backgrounds to consider serving." The sentiment was parroted by Senator Chris Dodd, himself a former volunteer of the era when service in the Peace Corps provided an automatic exemption from the draft (and Vietnam), who called for the Peace Corps to double its size.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In subsequent essays I pressed the issue, suggesting several concrete steps, none of them earth-shattering, that the Peace Corps could take to improve its operations, including:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tabling any discussion of enlarging the Peace Corps until it fixes the basics regarding administration, recruiting, country selection and volunteer placement; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Reducing the number of political appointees from around thirty to two or three; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Getting rid of the Peace Corps's unique-in-government rule, which forces 85 percent of all American staff members out of the agency, along with whatever expertise they have gained, after a maximum of five years of employment; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Exponentially increasing support to volunteers so that they are visited and supervised directly every six weeks rather than every six months, as is currently the norm under the best of conditions; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Getting serious about doing meaningful, quantifiable work that makes a difference in standards of living overseas; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Demanding a much higher standard of volunteer performance (and a much lower AWOL rate); </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Providing post-service benefits, comparable to the GI bill, so that more Americans would serve in the Peace Corps in the first place; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Focusing on a limited number of technical fields that would give volunteers true expertise to offer; and</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Allowing terms of service shorter than the standard 24 months so that, again, more people could consider serving.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Despite these suggestions and an ambitious effort led by a husband and wife team of former volunteers, Chuck Ludlum and Paula Hirshoff, that has produced hundreds, if not thousands, of pages of testimony about the Peace Corps's many failings, the official response from Washington has been simply to assert again and again that everything is swell.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Why does the Peace Corps continue to stonewall the kind of change so many of its alumni would like to see? The answer is, I suspect, like the proverbial dog who pleasures himself - simply because it can. The Peace Corps has no significant constituency to which it must respond. Pesky volunteers (or staff members) move on after a couple of years. (According to a 2001 study, average American staff tenure at the Peace Corps was just 18 months.) Of the agency's 200,000 alumni, fewer than 5 percent, an anemic number by any standard, belong to the National Peace Corps Association. The agency's budget is the equivalent of dryer lint at the bottom of the Federal budgetary pocket. And aside from the embattled Senator Dodd, the agency, as an independent organization, has no powerful friends in Congress. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because almost no one cares about the Peace Corps one way or the other, the agency could, if it wanted, try something more radical than sending recent college grads to teach HIV/AIDS awareness to indifferent villagers or English to unmotivated students who spy few job prospects on their horizons even if they speak English. But doing so would require admitting that the world is not the same in 2010 as it was in 1961, and that maybe the Kennedy brain trust didn't get it quite right back then, when people knew even less about development than they do now (hard as that may be to imagine).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Change in any organization takes dedicated leadership, determination and a pay-off worth the cost of all the hassle. With the typical Peace Corps director sticking around for just a couple of years, who would want to take the heat from those who would rather not question the status quo — particularly about a program that, for a small number of aging zealots, still gives off Camelot's only vestigial glow? So rather than being a dynamic, experimental, cutting-edge organization, the Peace Corps, like most bureaucracies, rarely learns from its mistakes. Indeed, it rarely admits it makes any mistakes. For example, shouldn't someone from the Peace Corps staff have figured out, after nearly fifty years of experience, that the trainee they sent us in Cameroon who packed all her belongings in transparent plastic garbage bags might not be the ideal person to help others with their needs? Or that the trainee who had never lived outside her parents' house might have some adjustment problems? Or that even operating in a country like Cameroon, which regularly appears near the top of Transparency International's corruption index, might not be fertile ground for getting much done? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One of the reasons the Peace Corps ignores such matters concerns what some have called the agency's unwritten "fourth goal" — that the Peace Corps exists to help young Americans without much direction or focused ambition to grow up. The thinking is that maybe life overseas will stimulate personal growth and, ultimately, maturity. But life overseas in loosely structured, poorly supervised situations is, with few exceptions, a formula for boredom, depression, desertion and generally getting into trouble. As a country director, I would have kicked myself (as a volunteer) out of the Peace Corps. While still a trainee, I had already gotten high, left the country and been in a motorcycle accident — all grounds for expulsion. And that was just in one day. Things haven't gotten any better with Generation Y or the Millennials.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Eight Fixes</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One cannot fault the Peace Corps for any lack of idealism, or naivety. Years after its founding, it continues to send under-qualified people to work — without adequate support or supervision — for cynical, corrupt, self-serving regimes while still believing that this is all for the greater good. This organizational delusion is a shame because the Peace Corps could actually be a model for doing good overseas. It just needs to drop the idea that its good intentions excuse ineffectiveness and put a dozen or two sensible policies into force. In addition to what I have already mentioned, the following eight fixes would go a long way to resuscitating the original Peace Corps mission. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First, get over thinking that the Peace Corps will ever have an effective worldwide presence, either as a development or a cultural-exchange organization. And forget about hare-brained initiatives such as the current attempt to increase the Peace Corps's presence in majority-Muslim countries. One hundred or one thousand volunteers, no matter how helpful, friendly, courteous, kind or optimistic, are never going to make a significant impact on how the Muslim world views the United States. The Peace Corps needs to steal a page from the Millennium Challenge Corporation playbook and get serious about working with serious partners on behalf of well-defined and reasonable goals. Set some criteria for what a country needs to have happening on the ground before it is deemed eligible for a Peace Corps program — simple things like minimal respect for the rule of law, press freedom and a real commitment to economic development. Revisit this list every five years, with a clear possibility of the Peace Corps directing its limited budget elsewhere if the country isn't serious. We need to stop wasting money racing in and out of countries like Haiti and Chad, places that have never been stable enough to take development seriously and are unlikely to do so any time soon.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Second, assign more volunteers to outstanding people-to-people organizations and fewer to government agencies that, even in the best of circumstances, rarely work better than the post office (on a good day). In other words, place volunteers with organizations in countries disposed to success rather than solo in places likely to guarantee 24 months of head-banging frustration.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Third, stop moaning about how much money everybody else gets (like those military bands), and start doing something substantive with what the Peace Corps does get. Presidents Clinton, Bush and Obama all pledged more support for the Peace Corps, and it never happened. Given current economic constraints, this is unlikely to change (despite an impressive recent grassroots campaign launched by the National Peace Corps Association). Accept the fact that presidential candidates (and Presidents, too) pull the Peace Corps off the shelf when they need a little feel-good publicity or an applause line, and then promptly shelve it for another four years.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fourth, set some objective criteria for what it takes to get into the Peace Corps as a volunteer. For younger people without a track record, how about a demonstrated commitment to volunteerism, such as one or two years in AmeriCorps or CityYear? And forget the unwritten fourth goal of the Peace Corps being a place for young Americans to "expand their horizons." Host countries aren't interested in Americans who are searching for life's meaning; they're looking for people who can get stuff done. Americans who are lost, whether young or old, don't often "find themselves" in developing countries. More typically, they find that they really like flush toilets and being able to keep up with who's doing what to whom on the latest episode of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lost</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fifth, make development the priority. If the Peace Corps really started helping people to improve their standards of living, mutual understanding and goodwill among humankind and nations would follow. Right now, believe it or not, the Peace Corps says its number one priority is the safety and security of volunteers. Of course, this is a concern for every organization, but that doesn't mean it should be a strategic goal. How did this happen? Several years ago, a volunteer in Latin America, someone who was probably under-supervised in the first place, went missing and has never been found. At about the same time, President Bush appointed a former police officer as Peace Corps director. Subsequently the agency concentrated a huge amount of time and money on developing a safety and security group that has had no demonstrable effect on making volunteers safer or more secure. Why? Because the Peace Corps continues to send the wrong people to the wrong countries to do jobs that are ill-defined and under-supported. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sixth, put enough staff in the field to supervise and support volunteers. At the Peace Corps, for every ten volunteers out on the front lines there is maybe one person backing them up in the rear. In the military, the ratio is reversed. The Peace Corps's formula is beyond penny-wise, pound-foolish. Volunteers can be AWOL for weeks and no one in the office knows about it. Cell phones and emails only abet the absentee volunteer, because they can be anywhere and pretend to be at work. Nothing can replace face-to-face contact when it comes to supervision.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Seventh, accept that the world has been going urban for centuries and that more and more of the world's needy are living in urban squats, not in straw and mud shacks out in the bush. When, for safety and security reasons, the Peace Corps doesn't send volunteers into urban environments, it is neglecting a huge portion of its target population, rendering it more irrelevant in the fight against poverty and deprivation than it already is.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Finally, start matching applicants to specific jobs. The Peace Corps says that this is too difficult, so it continues to match applicants and jobs only in a general kind of way, like telling people they are under consideration for an "environmental education program in French-speaking Africa." Few trainees are told where they will be assigned until many weeks after their arrival overseas. No wonder so many volunteers wind up ill-suited for the jobs they are given, and that so many give up in frustration and leave their assignments early.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At the Peace Corps headquarters at the corner of 20th and L Streets in downtown Washington, DC, plans are already well underway to celebrate the agency's fiftieth anniversary in March 2011. At that time, we can expect to hear all kinds of anecdotal testimony about how the Peace Corps transformed lives that were otherwise headed down the road to nowhere in neglected and forlorn locations around the world. These stories will be moving and heartfelt. We can even expect to hear several current and former heads of state testify that, without the early intervention in their lives of an energetic Peace Corps volunteer, their professional trajectory might have taken a very different path.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, the sentimental, "we are the world" ethos likely to prevail at these events will testify to the exceptions rather than to the rule of the Peace Corps's effectiveness. The Peace Corps has lasted as long as it has because it is based on hope and faith — hope that someday, somehow, the policies, tactics and strategies that have failed it for so long will start working. I suppose this makes the Peace Corps one of the original faith-based organizations.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What the Peace Corps needs to do now is accept that its first five decades were a noble but largely failed experiment in good intentions. It needs to imagine what a "peace corps" being created for the first time today would look like, and re-invent itself in that image. The Peace Corps should never give up on hope. But it does need to learn to distinguish hope and dreams from facts and results, and it needs above all to turn the power of hope on itself.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">****</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Peace Corps at Fifty — </span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">KQED Forum</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> — February 25, 2011</span></i></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.kqed.org/a/forum/R201102251000"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">http://www.kqed.org/a/forum/R201102251000</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-14935047948153834712010-01-17T16:12:00.002+03:002010-01-27T07:23:30.195+03:00A Member of the Club<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For thirteen years I’d been waiting. For a word, a call, a sign. Any indication that there was still hope. Then, finally, a letter came.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It gave me two choices. I could pay all the money right away or over the next two or three years “in semi-annual installments.” Whichever I chose I’d have to come up with at least $53,000. Generally, I don’t keep that kind of cash lying around. I called my mother.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mom,” I said, “I need $50,000 right away."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What for?" she asked. "Are you buying a house? Do you need a down payment?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"No," I told her. “We still can’t afford a house.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Then what is it?” she asked. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“We’re all fine,” I reassured her. “It’s just that I’ve been offered membership at the Stanford Golf Course. And they’re not giving me much time."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Oh,” she said, “</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> sounds like a worthy cause."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"So,” I said, “Can I count on you?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Sure," she answered. "For golf balls."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The letter I had received from then Stanford Athletic Director Ted Leland urged me “to act quickly. If you do not accept this offer,” he wrote, “or fail to respond, we will assume that you are not interested and would like to be dropped from future consideration.” That didn’t quite describe my situation.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thirteen years earlier, when membership at Stanford cost $3,500, I put my name on the waiting list. Each year I dutifully sent in my check for five dollars (and later ten) to keep my name alive. When any of the course’s 400 members moved away, or gave up golf, or died, my name moved up a notch. Finally, after 13 years, I was one of 30 alumni invited to join.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Keeping my name on the waiting list over all those years was as much an expression of my interest in golf as a long-term bet on my financial future. After all, I have an MBA from Stanford. Certainly a decade or more after graduation, when so many of my classmates have become multi-millionaires, I, too, would be able to look at $3,500 - or $50,000 - as pocket change. It was not to be.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I called Stanford and asked if they could simply keep me at the top of the list. I would continue to pay my $10 a year and when my financial circumstances improved I would take them up on their offer. That, they told me, was not possible. When I suggested that $50,000 was still a large figure to some alumni I was informed that memberships at the nearby Los Altos Country Club had gone for as much as $290,000. Stanford, I was told, was a bargain.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When I was a student, a round of 18 holes at Stanford cost four bucks. That still represents the best value I got out of my education on </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Farm</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Although I played the course occasionally no one ever mistook me for Tom Watson, Tiger Woods, Notah Begay, or any of the other student-champions. Still I loved playing at Stanford. The first hole where you must drive over a road to reach the fairway. The twelfth where two well-placed trees make the second shot a risky gamble. Even if I couldn’t come up with the fifty grand (let alone the annual fee of $3,150) I wanted to play there once more. I called to reserve a tee time.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“No problem,” I was told over the phone. “Green fees are $100 for graduates. Just bring your alumni membership card.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I called the alumni association. Could they fax me a membership card? I asked. I wanted to play right away.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Sure,” a woman in the alumni office said. “It’s $750. Which credit card would you like to use?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“That must be for a lifetime membership,” I stammered. “How much does an annual membership cost?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“I’m sorry but annual members aren’t extended privileges at the course,” she explained.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I come from a long line of golfers, almost entirely undistinguished. My mother’s father twice made the front pages in Chicago for being the first golfer of the season to hit a hole-in-one. Since then it’s been all downhill. My father was blind in one eye. My mother had one of those pathetic half swings better suited to beating a dog than to playing golf. I grew up hacking away with her old Mickey Wright signature clubs at mangy public courses. I simply hadn’t been brought up to pay $850 for what was likely to be a single round of golf. I politely thanked the lady at Stanford for her time, knowing that I would never play the course again.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In fact, I hadn’t played in years. Not anywhere. I didn’t even own any clubs. Someone had broken into my car ten years earlier and stole my old, steel, impossible-to-hit-unless-you’re-a-pro-on-the-tour Wilson K-28s. (I was glad to be rid of them. I hope they made the person who stole them as miserable on the course as they had made me.)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But Ted Leland’s letter rekindled my interest in the game. I was determined to play again. I took a lesson at Silverado. I reread the only golf book I own; Arnold Palmer’s </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My Game and Yours,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> copyright 1963. Arnie titled his first chapter “Golf is Easier than You Think” and he stated that “Any man without a serious physical handicap can learn to shoot in the 70s.” Clearly, he never saw me play.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With a set of borrowed clubs in the trunk and a spring storm clearing the blustery skies above San Francisco, I headed to my favorite course. It may not present the challenge of Pebble Beach or Stanford, but it sits alongside the ocean, and its fairways are bordered with massive cypress and Monterey pine. At seven in the morning, I was among the first on the course.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I teed up a ball, lined up my shot, and swung.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At that very moment what occurred to me was the infinite number of thoughts that can simultaneously pass through the human mind. Knees bent, left arm straight, head down, shift weight back, grip club as though holding a bird, shift weight forward, pick up groceries, cancel doctor’s appointment, head down, did I floss, follow-through, whatever-happened-to-Rachel (an old girlfriend I hadn’t seen in 20 years), did I lock the front door, call mom -- and the list goes on and on. If it’s true that during normal activity humans only use 10% of the brain’s capacity, then during the two seconds it takes to stroke a golf ball, 100% of the mind must be fully engaged -- though only a small fraction of it with the game of golf.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My next thought was of Longfellow’s poem </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Arrow and The Song</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I shot an arrow into the air,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It fell to earth, I knew not where...</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For like Longfellow’s archer, I had no idea where my projectile had flown -- until I heard the smart THWACK of Titleist hitting tree. Knowing myself to be a consistently inaccurate golfer, I teed up a second ball and watched it arch far to the left -- where I found my first ball nestled neatly in the rough. I felt lucky to escape with a quadruple bogey.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Still, with every hole I grew more and more at ease. Each swing became a two second game in which I challenged my body to relax completely while I tried to keep my mind fully concentrated. Like </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Little Engine Who Could </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I kept telling myself, “I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">can</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> play this game. I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">can</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> play this game. I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">can</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> play this game.” I double bogeyed the second and third holes and bogeyed the fourth.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With one hole left to play, I was 18 over par. Not bad I thought for not having played in a decade and then doing so with borrowed clubs.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Brimming with confidence I hit a colossal drive down the final fairway. The sun was now fully up and the course itself had begun to steam as the morning dew burned away. It was one of those transcendent golf moments that we all live for but don’t often talk about. Watching the ball complete its lovely arc felt so good I teed up a second ball and played them both out, the latter one giving me my only par of the day. More importantly I still had the ball with which I had begun the round. That alone felt like victory.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I retrieved both balls from the cup, I caught the sound of waves crashing on the shore. The brisk smell of eucalyptus filled the air. I could even see the arms of a windmill turning. It was a beautiful, beautiful morning. I thought, “How good to be alive, in California, and golfing again.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I finished the round with a 46, 19 over par. The windmill arms aren’t located on a miniature golf course. They are the ones that turn above the Queen Wilhelmina Tulip Gardens in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park. You see the nine holes out near the Pacific Ocean end of the park are my favorite course. Par is 27. At the time, green fees for San Francisco residents were six dollars.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Inspired, the next day I went out and bought a set of clubs. I used the stash I’d built up over the years by hoarding the check my mother sent me each year for my birthday.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My new clubs are like magic wands. Graphite shafts. Hollow-back, off-set irons. Sweet spots the size of tennis rackets. Maybe Arnie is right. Maybe I can learn to play in the 70s.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But it won’t be at Stanford or Pebble Beach or Los Altos. For the $53,150 Stanford would have cost me for the first year alone, I could play the course in Golden Gate Park eight thousand eight hundred fifty eight times. That’s once a day for the next 24 years. And I can finish my round before 8 AM. Even after all those years of waiting, passing on Stanford’s offer turned out not to be such a tough decision.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Still, I owe my alma mater a favor -- for bringing me back to the wonderful game that I abandoned so long ago. Perhaps it’s here that the closing stanza to Longfellow’s short poem best applies:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Long, long afterward, in an oak</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I found the arrow, still unbroke;</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the song, from beginning to end,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt 0.5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I found again in the heart of a friend.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So if there’s no fog tomorrow morning, look for me out in Golden Gate Park, out near the windmill, just as the sun is coming up. I’ll be the one on the first tee -- looking for a song, and for poetry, in a small white ball.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 14pt 12pt 0.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A version of this story originally appeared in the June 4, 2000 edition of the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">San Francisco Sunday Examiner Magazine.</span></span></i><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298666877006943103.post-92033297862839612832010-01-09T20:34:00.005+03:002010-01-27T07:53:58.169+03:00Once Upon a Time - in Cuba<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; line-height: 18pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana,serif;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana,serif;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“I don’t feel good,” our then two-year old daughter said as the bus approached the colonial city of Trinidad on Cuba’s southern shore.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Our four-hour trip from Havana, over empty super-highways and meandering two lane roads, was nearly finished. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll be there soon.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“But I don’t </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">feel</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> good,” Allegra murmured weakly -- just before throwing up all over one of the two pairs of pants I had with me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My wife likes to travel to places she thinks are about to change. She wanted to see Cuba while Castro was still in charge, and while the US embargo made McDonalds, Burger King, and the Gap illegal aliens. A week before our daughter turned two, the moment when she would evolve from a free-flying “lap-child” into a fare-paying passenger, we boarded a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grupo Taca </span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">flight from Toronto to Havana. As I swabbed my pants with a disposable wipe it occurred to me that a Gap or two in Cuba might not be such a bad thing.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had gotten our first taste of Castro’s communism five days earlier at Havana’s gleaming, new Jose Marti International Airport. Half an hour after touching down we found ourselves watching David Copperfield on an overhead monitor, waiting, hoping, that he or some other higher power could magically make Allegra’s missing stroller appear on the empty baggage carousel -- which continued to rotate even though all the passengers had long departed, together with their luggage. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We needed Allegra’s stroller not only to transport her but also to carry the heavy shoulder bag of children’s books, the camera bag, diaper bag, laptop computer, briefcase, purse, video camera, and 120 disposable diapers we had brought to Cuba -- in addition to our two suitcases. Without her stroller we would be like Bedouins stranded in the desert with a dead camel. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the baggage counter I explained that our </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">cochecito</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> had not arrived. An enormous Cuban woman took down our particulars while her colleagues began a well-practiced tirade about the Toronto-based Salvadoranean Mafia who they said regularly steals Cuba-bound luggage. The next </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grupo Taca</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> flight wouldn’t arrive for two days. In the unlikely event that the stroller had not been stolen by the Salvadoranean crooks - but simply mishandled - we could pick it up then.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“¿Y yo?”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I said gesturing to the archipelago of luggage that surrounded me. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“¿Que voy a hacer?”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (“And me?” I asked. “What am I going to do?”)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A man came out from behind the counter. With the elegance of a toreador sweeping his cape away from the bull’s charge he threw open a set of double doors -- revealing what must have been several years of unclaimed luggage. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Por favor,”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> he said as he handed me a stroller -- with someone else’s name on the tag. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“What if the owner shows up?” I asked. “We’ll need it for three weeks.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“No te preocupes,”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> he said as gestured toward the treasure trove of unclaimed bags and tore off the old tags. “We have others.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We arrived in Cuba on New Year’s Eve 1999 and quickly learned that it is among the loudest and most vibrant countries on earth. Music blasted from every window, every club, every doorstep, every car and pedicab. Our third night in town we stayed inside a former convent in old Havana with adobe walls three feet thick. Despite the sturdy construction, had Gloria Estefan and the entire Miami Sound Machine suddenly appeared in our room it could not have gotten any louder. When the music stopped around four in the morning, garbage collection began. In the streets of old Havana this was not a neat tidy process that lasted just a few minutes but some type of medieval enterprise that entailed not only lifting and dumping but various forms of pounding, smashing, and metal-working. Little did we suspect that this would count as one of our better nights of sleep in Cuba.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Like all first-time visitors to Havana we toured the city in complete awe of its former beauty and malignant decrepitude. Several blocks of old Havana had been beautifully restored, but much of the city was literally falling down. Buildings regularly were collapsing under their own corroding weight. Water of questionable origin ran in the streets. It dawned on us that bringing a two-year old thumb sucker to Castro’s island paradise was not among the best of our parental decisions. Every time we caught Allegra reaching down to inspect some particularly filthy curiosity on the street we swabbed her hands with a disposable, sterilizing wipe. After going through a dozen the first day, we realized that the 100 we brought to Cuba might not be enough.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Following the collapse of the Soviet Union and the amputation of Cuba’s economic lifeline, Castro declared a “special economic period.” Homeowners were allowed to take foreigners into their homes and receive foreign currency in exchange. After we arrived in Trinidad it took the bus station manager 15 minutes to get through to the four-digit telephone number of the family guest house that had been recommended to us in Havana. Another ten minutes later, Rosa, Rogelio and their friend Tomás showed up in a two-car caravan consisting of a bright orange Soviet-made Fiat and a ‘57 Chevrolet. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Traveling as we usually do, without an itinerary or reservations, we had no idea that we had arrived in otherwise tranquil Trinidad during its annual music festival. Big bands --with large, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">loud</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> brass sections -- were playing on many, many corners of the quaint sixteenth century colonial town. The music continued throughout the day and long, long into the night. There were so many musicians in Trinidad that frequently their audiences were far smaller than the bands themselves. On the deafeningly loud main stage next to the town square a continuous stream of women, none of whom showed any sign of caloric deprivation, shook their primary assets with a speed that I had previously associated only with industrial paint mixers. The entire scene was mesmerizing.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sandwich vendors carved their way through stacks of whole roasted pigs. Soft ice cream sold for four cents a cone (vanilla only). Behind lop-sided Soviet built trucks long lines of men waited for lukewarm draft beer dispensed at five cents a mug. Around the corner kids raced antique toy cars at three cents a spin. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Allegra wanted a turn on a merry-go-round of the twirling spaceship type. There was no warning, no orange </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">peligroso</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (danger) sign, next to the exposed 220-volt control panel. Nor was there a cutout cartoon character with an outstretched arm declaring that riders needed to be “this high.” We plopped Allegra in one of the rocket pods with a six-year old Cuban girl, paid the ten cents for both of them, and hoped they wouldn’t be electrocuted or launched into space. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All around the square drunken cowboys raced their horses over wet cobblestone streets from the 1500s. And not ten feet away from Allegra, sober and not so sober men and boys tested their aim at the shooting gallery. Throughout Trinidad there appeared to be nothing that, in United States, would not violate FDA, OSHA or ASPCA regulations, possibly all at the same time.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Roaming the streets of town, Allegra, chatting aimlessly in English, and with her conspicuous blonde hair, was our open sesame to every home. One stranger after another invited us in, showed us their homes (some of them beautifully preserved with interior courtyards, outdoor kitchens and fountains), and gave us coffee, tea, and cakes. Every household had a relative somewhere in the United States.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After a few hours of this Allegra grew tired, especially of being told not to suck her thumb. In Cuba, where medical care is the responsibility of the government, Allegra’s implanted digit evidently represented some type of crime against the state - or at least a challenge to Castro’s authority. Virtually every Cuban woman eventually got around to chastising Allegra (and, indirectly, us) by shaking her head and making beaver-like smacking sounds in our direction.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Back at Rosa and Rogelio’s house, Rosa, a dentist, pulled Allegra’s thumb from her mouth. Instantly Allegra fell to the floor. Holding her upper arm, she screamed inconsolably, “My arm, my arm, my arm.” For six hours she lay in bed refusing to move, saying her arm was broken. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Finally Rogelio, a neck and face surgeon, and parent of two grown children, quietly asked Allegra if he could examine her arm after which he concluded </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Es psicologico Roberto.”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Tapping his head he said, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Ella esta muy intelligente.”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (“It’s psychological Robert. She’s very clever.”) Sure enough, the next morning she had miraculously recovered. Faking a broken arm was our two year old’s way of saying she had heard enough already about </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">chupar su dedo</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> -- sucking her thumb.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Compared to many Cubans, Rosa and Rogelio were quite well off. Their extended family owned a number of houses in Trinidad and family members were moved around like checkers to free up bedrooms for foreign guests. We quickly became immersed in the constant comings and goings. Dozens of friends and relatives dropped by at all hours. In our first 24 hours with them, Rosa and Rogelio had more visitors than we have in a year. Even more incredible was that as soon as anyone stopped by they would pick up a broom, start washing dishes, or help out with whatever housekeeping had not yet been attended to. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Our second day in Trinidad we hired Tomás to take us to the nearby beach. His ‘57 Chevy was pieced together from parts that clearly were not “genuine GMC.” Negotiating the slightest bends in the road had him spinning the wheel round and round, as though he were standing duty on the helm of the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Bounty. </span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Under the hood he had a special one-gallon gas tank mounted right next to the engine. Gas in Cuba was sometimes so hard to come by that if Tomás could only scavenge a gallon or two this was how he made sure it would reach the engine and not just slosh around in the bottom of the main tank. When I asked him what parts he could use if I were able to send some from the US he said anything from any General Motors car made anytime in the 1950s would be a big help. Anything at all.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The beach outside Trinidad was a long, pristine, and deserted expanse of soft white sand unadorned except by two large East German-style hotels. Old Chevies, Desotos, and Studebackers lazed under palm trees until the foreigners who had rented them were ready to return to town. Just as we arrived, two young boys walked out of the water. In each hand each held a freshly caught lobster. Incredibly, Tomás told us this was hardly one of Cuba’s finer beaches. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Moments after we stretched out on the sand Allegra said, “I don’t feel good.” Not wanting to push her after the bus and thumb-sucking episodes, we decided to head back to town. But not soon enough. Moments after getting in the car, she threw up all over Tomás’ lovingly maintained backseat. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That evening she continued to throw up and had the runs as well. All night long, as a dozen different big bands blasted our bedroom from every direction, her temperature fluctuated between 102° and 104°. Nothing we did would console her. Every hour someone from the family came in to ask if he or she could help us. They never made us feel as though we were a bother, that we were keeping them awake. Instead, they made our fears and concerns their own. At three in the morning Rosa’s sister, a psychiatrist visiting from Havana, came in and held Allegra for an hour.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“What are we going to do?” Nina whispered to me. Allegra continued to refuse the oral rehydration solution we had mixed up. When we tried to force it in her with a medicine dropper, she only screamed louder. Even though we had brought disposable needles and syringes with us, the last thing we wanted to think about was having to give her an IV. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“I don’t know,” I said to Nina while the drums and horns of the music festival raged around us and we were near to tears from worry and exhaustion. We were at least four hours by car from Havana. It was the height of the holiday season. Flights in and out of Cuba were completely booked. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“They must think we’re insane,” Nina whispered that night as we silently prayed and willed Allegra to recover. The following morning I told Rogelio that we thought maybe we were crazy to bring a two-year old to Cuba. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Si,”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> he replied.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Rogelio, who knew plenty about the consequences of dehydration from having served with the Cuban army in Africa, calmly told us to wait. Allegra would eat and drink when she was ready, he said. But the next morning, while Nina slept, he told me that for a tiny, 20 pound two-year old like Allegra, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“tres vomitos y tanta diarrea es una cosa muy severa.”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> He’d already asked the intensive care pediatrician from the hospital to come over. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cuba has long had a tradition of well-trained doctors. But since the Soviet collapse, medicine, even ordinary things like pediatric aspirin, had been in short supply. Idiotically, we bought only two packets of rehydration solution at REI before leaving, put off by the $4.50 price. By morning Allegra had begun taking it in little sips. But we had only enough to make up two quarts -- probably less fluid than she had lost. We never imagined that even this primary care basic -- one of the first things dispensed in any UNICEF emergency kit -- would be hard to find in Cuba. (At the time we didn’t know there was a special, foreigners-only pharmacy in Trinidad where hard to come-by medicines were sold for hard currency.) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Shortly after the doctor left Allegra had another explosive bout of diarrhea. We didn’t know what to do. If we left immediately for Havana we might not get a flight out for days. In Trinidad we were in a house with two doctors who were caring for Allegra -- and us -- like we hope our own parents would in similar circumstances. Rogelio gathered up Allegra’s overfilling diaper and left for the hospital lab. Ten minutes later he was back.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">¿Que pasó?</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> he asked, holding out the extra absorbent Huggie in wonderment. In the few minutes it took him to drive over to the hospital, the diaper’s space age chemicals had sucked up every drop of Allegra’s massive poop. Rogelio, never having seen a disposable diaper before, was completely mystified. Soon the entire household had gathered. Rosa wanted to know how we washed the Huggies. Several times I had to explain that they were disposable, that we used them only once and then threw them away. They couldn’t believe it. In resource-strapped Cuba, where almost every household had a long line of cotton diapers drying on the line, disposable diapers were simply incomprehensible.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The following day Allegra said she felt better and we again planned to go to the beach. Tomás wasn’t sure he could take us. Fidel, as everyone in Cuba calls Castro, had declared that only specially designated taxis would be allowed to carry foreigners.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">More out of friendship than for the $10 we were paying him did Tomás agree to take us to the beach. Not wanting to draw any attention to himself, Tomás told me to take off my hat. He asked Nina to cover Allegra’s blonde hair. When we arrived the beach that had been crowded with foreigners a few days before was completely deserted. Tomás dropped us and parked half a mile away, well out of sight. It was a chilling testimony to Castro’s power.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“I’m hungry, daddy,” Allegra said soon after we had spread out on the sand. She hadn’t eaten for more than two days. We immediately headed up the beach to one of the hotel restaurants where we ordered pizza and finally felt some relief as Allegra ate slice after slice.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Back at Rosa and Rogelio’s that evening Allegra sat quietly on my lap as we watched television. At 8 o’clock every evening a cartoon in which two children are sprinkled with fairy dust and swept off to bed signals that it’s time for Cuba’s kids to go to sleep. Just at that moment, Allegra threw up all over my lap. Too stunned to move, I yelled out for Nina, “Mayday. Mayday.” As I turned Allegra around she spewed a pipeline of semi-digested pizza across my chest and down the inside of my shirt.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“What did you give her to eat?” Rogelio asked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Pizza,” I told him.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“¿Pizza? ¿Pizza?”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> he repeated. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“⁄¿En que estabas pensando?!”</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> - What were you thinking?! - he asked me before going on to say that cheese was among the worst thing we could have given her. It was about this time that both Nina and I began to wonder if we were not only idiots for bringing a two-year old to Cuba but if we were fit to be parents at all. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">While Nina tended to Allegra I stepped, fully clothed, into the shower, looking more like Pizzaman, a revoltingly disfigured cartoon character who miraculously survived an explosion in Chef Boyardee’s kitchen, than anyone’s father. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Of course, taking a shower in Cuba is not like slipping into a warm Jacuzzi at some five-star spa. Residential hot water heaters appeared to be an unknown in Castro’s fiefdom. Most of the Cuban showers we used were equipped with instantaneous, electric heating elements -- kind of like attaching the innards of a steam iron to the water line. Each time I set the showerhead to 1200 watts and heard a thick bolt of current snap across the contacts I fully expected to be either scalded to death or electrocuted -- or maybe both.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Two days later, with Allegra gradually getting better but the music festival still blaring through the night, we decided to relocate to the hotel. We’d been in Cuba nearly two weeks and had yet to have a solid night’s sleep. At the hotel, thankfully, we all slept through the night two days running. The morning before we left I made a scuba dive in absolutely crystalline water a quarter mile off shore. Later Nina and I rented two horses for five bucks each. I plopped Allegra in the saddle in front of me and we went riding for an hour, across the dunes and through the surf -- just like in the travel ads that promote experiences one can never actually have. On our way back to the corral, we interrupted two lovers on an isolated stretch of sand. We saw no one else the entire time except a lone crab that must have been 14 inches across.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was a tearful farewell when we stopped back at Rosa and Rogelio’s before returning to Havana. As much as anyone they turned a potential nightmare into a situation that we now look back on with tremendous fondness. During the week it took Allegra to get recover, we talked politics and culture and religion and grew very close over Rosa’s wonderful dinners of black beans, shrimp, and lobster -- all served on the “Made in Occupied Japan” china that Rosa used for everyday tableware. Rogelio and I smoked countless cigarettes, sipped dozens of cups of Cuban rum and coffee, and checked in daily on his fighting cocks, which he loved perhaps only slightly less than his children and Allegra.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before leaving Cuba altogether we visited the beaches on the island’s northern shore. Two hundred yards out the tepid water held me only shoulder high. While men in white singlets slapped dominoes on card tables set up in the streets, we played mini-golf at a course where the only clubs they had were drivers. Back in Havana we took Allegra to an overcrowded, throbbing sweatbox of a jazz club coffee house where braided Rastafarians danced with her on top of the tables. We walked the streets of Havana until late, late at night, not once worried about being pick-pocketed or harassed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“You know what’s too bad?” I said to Nina as we walked along the Malecón, the embankment that looks north, over the Caribbean, from Havana toward Key West.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“What?” she said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“If the embargo ever ends, we’re going to ruin this place.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“We who?” she asked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“We Americans,” I answered.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the airport the man who loaned us the stroller three weeks earlier was orchestrating the check-in. He had long forgotten us but when we reminded him he quickly exchanged the borrowed stroller for our own -- which had not fallen prey to the Salvadoranean Mafia after all.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">On our way back to California, we stopped in Syracuse, New York, my hometown, to see my mother, and then again in Newark, New Jersey, to see where my father-in-law was born and raised. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A block and a half from my mother’s house, the five and dime where I bought comic books 35 years ago is boarded up. So is the barber shop, the delicatessen, and the butcher shop. The supermarket that I walked to alone as a kid was burned down more than 25 years ago. Dozens of young men, unemployed refugees of a large public housing complex built in the 1950s, loitered on the corners, dealing dope in front of the now shuttered stores of my youth.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In Newark it wasn’t much better. My father-in-law’s boyhood home together with his entire block had been bulldozed for a ten-lane, below-grade super-highway that bisects his old neighborhood. Like in Syracuse, lots of homes were boarded up, burned out, or simply abandoned. The streets, once teaming with first generation immigrants, were now home to nothing but idle inner-city men and boys who no one seemed to be offering anything better. When we came home to San Francisco, to North Beach, no one had proposed a new solution for the homeless despite the new billions that wash through City Hall. And, even after ten years in the same neighborhood, unlike everyone we met in Cuba, we hardly knew our neighbors.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lately there’s been a lot of hoopla about Cuba and parenting, about family ties and material well-being, about Castro’s and our differing ideas of freedom. Well, for a short time I was a parent, a very worried and nervous parent, in Cuba. It was no picnic in a worker’s paradise. For a week we were worried sick and sleepless about our daughter’s health. But we were never once worried about our own safety. Never once worried about being shot by some fanatic overburdened with guns. Never once confronted by an incessant materialism that makes keeping up with the Jones’s the watchword of modern American faith.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cuba is far from perfect. A lot of the place is falling apart. But unlike what we used to see in Syracuse or Newark or even parts of San Francisco there is a communal will to make the best of a difficult situation. The truth is that there are a lot worse places to raise a child than in Castro’s Cuba. And to what should be our enduring, common shame, some of them are just around the corner.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A version of this story originally appeared in the October 8, 2000 issue of the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">San Francisco Sunday Examiner</span></span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> magazine. It was subsequently recognized by the Society of American Traveler Writers Foundation with the Lowell Thomas Gold award as one of the best travel stories of the year</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robert L. Strausshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13250563333105923113noreply@blogger.com0