Lift Up Your Hearts!

Although we occasionally checked in with the home front while we were overseas, for three weeks we had very little exposure to news headlines and social media.  I'm not saying that was a bad thing, but it meant we were met with some surprises when we returned home.  One very encouraging surprise was that the Internet had been flooded with reports and stories from international visitors who had come to the United States on the occasion of the World Cup and had had their stereotypes of America and Americans overwhelmed by reality.

For the last 20 years or so I have experienced a lot more foreign travel than I ever imagined, and one thing I have noticed is that very few people have any idea of how vast and how diverse America is.  Looking at a map of Texas alone, superimposed on a map of Europe, I see that it covers all or part of Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, France, Switzerland, Italy, Liechtenstein, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Hungary, Slovakia, Czechia, and Poland!  That kind of vastness is hard for many Europeans to imagine.

As for culture, even Americans get their impressions of our country from Hollywood and whatever highly-curated news filters their way—how much more so those who don't live here?  I've learned the futility of trying to convince Europeans that their conception of America does not reflect the reality of America, but where I failed, the World Cup succeeded.  Visitor after visitor reported, with amazement, "Everything I was told about the United States was wrong!"  They were astounded by what they found, so different from what they had expected, everything from the flavor of ranch dressing to the kindness and warm welcome they experienced in the Deep South—from the people they had been taught to hate.  (Indeed, I had to unlearn that low opinion of the American South myself, having grown up in the Northeast.)  Americans, trapped in self-flagellation because we allow our flaws to mask our strengths, need to see our country through such eyes!

Why is this relevant to our trip?  Because these happy stories mirror ours, both on this trip and indeed on all the trips we've taken to foreign parts.  "Everyone said" that the French, especially Parisians, are rude and hate Americans, but our experience was exactly the opposite.  We met one, just one rude cab driver in Paris; everyone else was friendly and kind and patient with my very broken French.  In our experience—which can't be the same as someone else's but is the only experience by which we can truly judge—people in Europe, and Japan, and Brazil, and The Gambia are as kind and friendly as people anywhere, and do not universally hate Americans.  My greatest surprise on this trip was the respect and even admiration we heard expressed for American leadership; I had expected dismay and contempt.  Fear-mongering reports flow both ways across the Atlantic!

But we rarely talked politics, at least not directly; ordinary stories about our own lives and all that we have in common were what everyone delighted in sharing.  We spoke with people from all over the U.S., Canada, the U.K., Norway, Sweden, France, Portugal, Zimbabwe, South Africa, the Philippines, Indonesia, Vietnam, Germany, Turkey, and more—and found nearly everyone to be interesting, friendly, polite, kind, and sometimes above-and-beyond helpful.

Not everyone can, or should, take a Mediterranean cruise or travel far to see World Cup soccer in person, but surely the world would be better off if we spent less time listening to stories that make us angry and more time experiencing the humanity of our neighbors.

Now that we're back from three weeks in the Mediterranean region, people are wondering how we survived Europe's heat wave. The answer is simple: the same way we survive Florida's summers. Nowhere that we went did the temperatures exceed Florida's numbers: high 80's to low 90's were the worst we experienced. That's actual temperature. Having lived more than seven decades with that as my measure of ambient temperature, my brain rebels against the modern "feels like" idea, which always makes me feel more miserable than I am. For what it's worth, the UV Index at its highest in a day was generally 8—like a normal Connecticut summer. In Florida at this time of year that number is routinely 12. I was barely aware of the UV Index until I acquired the dminder app for my phone to help me keep track of the vitamin D my body is making. If I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt, a 10-minute walk in the midday sun at UVI 12 easily gets me 2000 IUs (and a warning that it's time to go inside). On the UV Index scale, 1-2 is considered Low, 3-5 Moderate, 6-7 High, 8-10 Very High, and 11+ Extreme.

Our first four days were in Florence, and were undeniably hot, because we wanted to make the most of our short time there. Our hotel was convenient to everything we wanted to see, so we walked everywhere and were on the go most of the time the sun was up. (Sane Floridians avoid the midday hours outside if possible. "Mad dogs and Englishmen," you know.) The Mediterranean sun was intense, the humidity was high, the cobbled sidewalks a challenge to walk on, and Florence's many staircases a trial for legs accustomed to flat surfaces. What made this only a minor inconvenience?

• This was early in our trip, when we were fresh and eager.
• Hats and sunglasses. Generally I hate wearing a hat, but keeping the sun off my face was a necessity.
• A Floridian's practiced eye for finding shade. Walk on the shady side of the street. Rest in a shady spot. It makes a significant difference, even when the humidity is high.
• Air-conditioned respites. This is huge. As with cold in the winter, one can stand a much greater intensity and duration of heat if one can occasionally retreat to a more comfortable situation. In our case, we spent much of our time walking from one museum to another, and generally recognize that great art survives better in a hospitable climate. So do people, but art refuses to be bullied. The museums were comfortably air conditioned—not the frigid situation one finds in Florida restaurants, for example, which is why I keep a sweatshirt in the car at all times and occasionally pull it out even during the hottest summer days.
• We didn't hesitate to adjust our schedule to accommodate our physical needs.
• Frequent gelato stops. Never underestimate the importance of this Italian staple.

For the remainder of our trip, we were on a Princess cruise, visiting Italy, Greece, Turkey, and Montenegro. The ship itself was over-airconditioned, but an occasional trip to the blistering sun of the top decks took care of that nicely. And the otherwise-excessive A/C was admittedly glorious upon returning from a long, midday excursion of hiking, under a cloudless sky, through ancient ruins.

Overall, to those who asked us how we managed in Europe's "terrible heat wave," my first thought was always, "What heat wave?"

But I do understand unrelenting heat, as I'll explain in my next post.

I've been out of the country for three weeks, and I never look at Tik Tok anyway, but I hear that it has been blowing up with European visitors to America (mostly thanks to the World Cup), expressing their pleasure, appreciation, and astonishment at how different their experiences were compared with all they had been told about the U.S. Some of those commentaries made it into Facebook Reels, and I enjoyed seeing them. Everything from the trivial (discovering ranch dressing) to the profoundly encouraging (finding that the Americans they met were friendly, helpful, and delightful—not at all they way we had been portrayed to them back home.

It works both ways, too. During our recent three weeks in Europe, we met many new people from many different countries, including England, Scotland, Canada, Norway, Sweden, Greece, Italy, Germany, Montenegro, Turkey, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Vietnam, Brazil, and the Philippines. We discovered that without exception they were interesting people, delightful to converse with, rational and reasonable, and that we held much in common. What's more, I saw no anti-American sentiment at all. I'm sure it exists, but in three weeks among ordinary folks, we met only friends.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Possibly I inherited my attitude toward dancing from my father. The following is taken from his write-up of his Elderhostel in Uruguay (emphasis mine).

The after-dinner event last night was tango lessons at the Alianza. I have failed to learn anything about dancing in the past 71 years, so I saw no reason to start now. But tonight they had a live orchestra playing tango music, so those who had learned their lessons could put it all into practice. I went, and although a few demonstrated their skills, I was content to listen to the music, which I enjoyed.

That said, several of my grandchildren greatly enjoy contra dancing, which is something like square dancing, and I think I would like it reasonably well if I were 30 years younger. As it is, I got too dizzy to find it pleasurable. Like my father, however, I enjoyed the music.

Here's another excerpt from my father's Elderhostel travels, this time to Uruguay in 1993.

The Mayor of Montevideo is the second most powerful political person in the country. In a recent election, the Communists brought in Uruguayans who were living in foreign countries, paying their way home so they could vote. The result was that a card-carrying, certified Communist was elected mayor. The first thing he did was to double taxes, and everyone paid them and settled back. No one worries about anything in Uruguay. Now they want to double taxes again, and people are beginning to object. The Uruguayan Communist Party no longer receives any money from Cuba or Russia, and it is suspected that any new taxes will end up in the Party treasury.

This may not be a case where history repeats itself, but it certainly rhymes.

In 2001, just a couple of days after September 11, we moved from Florida to near Boston, Massachusetts. What's one of the first things one must do after a move? Get a new driver's license.

After reading the following story of my adventures in doing just that, my father—who had himself lived in the Boston area for a while—responded,

Back in 1932 there was a general rule that said: "Don't drive in Boston." It is interesting to note that there really are some things that don't change.

Today's Travels

Technically speaking, I have driven in Boston and lived to tell about it. Okay, it was not the downtown Boston of infamy, but it was quite enough for me.

The closest Department of Motor Vehicle office to our house is in Roslindale, they told me. They even provided clear directions. At least, the directions LOOKED clear. Next time I think I'll try for an office a little further away.

The driving wasn't so bad at first, though my heart did skip a beat when I saw the sign, "Welcome to Boston," and another as I crested a hill and saw the Boston skyline in front of me. Long before getting to that part of the city, however, I found the street I was looking for. I wanted the Municipal Building "across from Roslindale Square." When I'd read the directions, my suburbanite mind translated Roslindale Square as a shopping center or a park—at any rate, a place that would have parking. Wrong. I don't know what Roslindale Square IS, the only indication to that effect being at the post office parking lot, said parking lot being graced with a sign bearing the forbidding inscription, "Absolutely no parking at any time."

After some wandering around, made considerably more difficult by the presence of seemingly random one way streets, I found a parking place and was able to complete my business. The fact that the Municipal Building is labelled as a health center was only a minor hindrance.

In my meanderings, I had noticed that I would be unable to return home the way I'd come, as Washington Street had suddenly become one way at the point where I needed to turn left. Thanks to the help of the person ahead of me in line, I gained a general idea of what to do, and managed to get back onto Washington, going in the right direction, after not much more than a dozen twists, turns, reversals, and one-way streets.

City driving precludes the use of two of my most powerful navigating strategies: (1) When you realize you've gone the wrong way, turn around and go back to where you knew you were right. This works poorly when one-way streets are involved. (2) If you don't know what you're doing, pull off into a parking lot and study the map. This strategy requires the existence of a place to park.

I take great satisfaction in having succeeded in the adventure, and am grateful the trip was made in the rain rather than the snow.

In 1992 my father and one of my brothers made a trip to London to visit another brother who was living and working there.  When he returned, he wrote a detailed, 15-page report of their adventures.  As I was proofreading ChatGPT's transcription of my scanned pages, I came upon this gem:

From there we walked down to the area of Big Ben and the Parliament Buildings and then across the Westminster Bridge and down along the River to the Lambeth Bridge. As we were crossing the Lambeth Bridge I recalled that back in my high school days there had been a popular song called “Doing the Lambeth Walk”.

Later that day...

Since it seems to be an unwritten rule that everyone who goes to London has to see a show, we next went to the Adelphi Theater and bought tickets to “Me and My Girl”. This was a revival of an old show written during the Great Depression so it was not as costly as some of the new shows like “The Phantom of the Opera” which is sold out until who knows when. Still, we paid 17 pounds for second row in the balcony seats.

And after dinner....

We then went to the show which we all enjoyed. One of the main songs was “Doing the Lambeth Walk”. 

Neither the song nor the musical is one that I'd ever heard of. But I doubt I'll ever forget it now. Here you go.

When my father, an avid Elderhosteler, discovered a course with lots of outdoor activities intended for grandparents and their grandchildren, he promptly invited his oldest grandchild to accompany him to Vancouver Island in British Columbia. The year was 1990.

On their way, they stopped briefly to visit my father's cousin Sylvia, who lived in the Seattle area. I'd known that Sylvia was a remarkable woman, a world traveller who at the time of their visit had justreturned from trekking in Nepal—at nearly seventy years of age. Re-reading Dad's Elderhostel report, I realized something else remarkable that I'd missed before:

Sylvia seems very happy. She is very interested in acting and when I last saw her she was quite dejected as she had just been rejected for a part in "Harvey" because she was too old. She is now doing more acting in films, is a member of the Screen Actor's Guild, and was going to Portland tomorrow for a second audition for a minor part in a film.

A quick look at imdb.com reveals that the actress Sylvia Langdon played a townsperson in Season 1 (1990), Episode 5 of the TV series, Northern Exposure ("Russian Flu"). Was that our Cousin Sylvia? I think the odds are pretty good. The probability that I will have the opportunity to watch that show is very low, but if I do, I'll be scanning the townspeople for a familiar face.

When I read that Florida's legislature had voted to rename Palm Beach International Airport to "Donald J. Trump International Airport," it was not high on my list of things to be upset about. (Ditto the change from "Gulf of Mexico" to "Gulf of America." Around here it's simply called "The Gulf," anyway.)

But I'm not fond of naming things—airports, roads, college buildings—after people, especially living people. And I'm especially annoyed when good, solid workhorse names that have served for decades get replaced, benefitting no one but those who are paid to change all the signs. I remember when Idlewild Airport became JFK, and when Washington National acquired Ronald Reagan's name. When Central Florida's Bee Line Expressway to the coast became "Beach Line," I knew the authorities had more power than sense, as if tourists were too stupid to find their way eastward otherwise. (Even if they are, Google Maps makes up for a multitude of defects.)

Palm Beach County is both wealthy and liberal, and no doubt many of its citizens will cringe at President Trump's name on their airport. I feel their pain. We frequently travel up I-95 from Florida to Connecticut, and our favorite route crosses the Hudson River over the Tappan Zee Bridge. That is, the bridge that was subsequently renamed for former New York governor Mario Cuomo. I remember him all too well as governor, and cringe every time I see the renamed bridge signs.

But the bridge still gets me across the Hudson, and whether our grandson flies into Palm Beach or Donald J. Trump Airport, it won't affect my prayers for his safe landing.

Working my way through my father's vast collection of writings, I occasionally find a gem I wish to share.

(Okay, so "vast" is a relative adjective, and perhaps an exaggeration—it's not as if I'm working through the letters of C. S. Lewis or something—but in personal terms it's accurate.)

This came from Dad's 1987 journal documenting his Elderhostel experience at Ferrum College, in Ferrum, Virginia. The program is now called Road Scholar, and no longer has the age restriction, but at that time it was primarily for those over 65, that being the age at which most people retired and could go on such adventures.

Also at the college were a group of gifted 6th graders from nearby Martinsville. They also were at the ice cream social and were told by their teachers to mix with the old folks, so it turned out to be a pleasant evening. I think the future governor of Virginia may have been amongst them. One of the women asked the boy about what they were doing, and then said, "I'll bet you didn't expect to see so many old folks here."

He replied, "I don't know, I haven't seen any yet."

Smart and wise.  I could envision voting for him.

Okay, so there's a lot I could post (and plan to) that's more important than this, but having visited New Zealand and our lovely Kiwi friends (nearly 25 years ago now) the country, and the Maori, have a special place in my heart. Said heart was especially warmed today when I saw this video of a group of Maori performing a Haka dance at a London vigil for Charlie Kirk. I'm sorry I can't embed it here; I hope you can see it. Not that it will mean much if you haven't been to New Zealand, but maybe you can appreciate the tribute, anyway.

You can learn a bit more about Haka from the Wikipedia article.

Haka includes various forms serving different ceremonial purposes. These functions include: [emphasis mine]

• welcoming guests (haka pōwhiri)
• fare-welling and mourning the deceased (waiata tangi)
• giving advice or instructions (waiata tohutohu)
• restoring self-respect (pātere)
• intimidating adversaries (peruperu – war dance)
• and transmitting social and political messages (haka taparahi, ngeri)

I hear that the CDC is recommending that anyone travelling abroad get vaccinated for measles.  No matter where they're going.

"Never had it, never will." (Are you old enough to remember that 7-Up commercial?)

If my doctor recommended testing as part of my annual blood draw, and Medicare would pay for it, I might consider checking to see if my antibody response is still robust after all this time. After all, it has been a few years since I had the measles.

As it turns out, the CDC is okay with that.  If you dig down just a little from the scary news stories and read what the CDC actually says, they acknowledge that if you've had measles in the past, you're good to go.

This week, we combined a number of objectives into one visit to Florida's St. Augustine: Showing Noah the sights of America's oldest city, giving him the final "cross-country" trip needed for his IFR license, and using a free Marriott stay that was threatening to expire. It was not the cheapest way to see the city, but it sure was fun.

We left early Monday morning, Noah and I flying in a Cessna 182Q Skylane, and Porter driving our car so that we would have transportation at our destination. Despite a last-minute warning of violent storms that could have scuttled the whole trip, the weather could not have been more beautiful.

I began the journey with an amusing (in hindsight) incident. As I was climbing up into the plane, the seat back that I was holding onto shifted, I lost my grip, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground, looking up at the sky. I did better on the second attempt, no worse for wear except for having pulled a muscle in my left arm. That's well on its way back to health, but I'll admit I did entertain thoughts of visiting Centra Care just so that when they asked me what my problem was, I could reply, "I fell out of an airplane."

Thanks to heavy traffic at the Sanford Airport, plane and car arrived at the Northeast Florida Regional Airport at about the same time, and our Saint Augustine adventure began.

One place I have not yet tired of visiting is the Castillo de San Marcos. After that, we walked down St. George Street, and ate lunch at Mimi's Famous Crepes, another St. Augustine must-see ... er, must-eat.

Thus fortified, we spent quite a while in the Lightner Museum, followed by the Villa Zorayda Museum. We crossed the Bridge of Lions at just the right time to get stranded on the far side when the drawbridge opened, but not for long. Dinner we enjoyed on the balcony of O. C. White's Seafood restaurant; it was a bit windy, but pleasant with a nice view.

Porter and I had visited the Spanish Military Hospital many years ago, but this time found it changed considerably, being more of a lecture than a tour, and with less that we could see on our own. (Not that we can rely on our own memories for that, having recently proven that we can watch a Poirot mystery multiple times and be surprised by the identity of the murderer each time.) Nonetheless, we found it worthwhile.

The next day, we partook of our free Fairfield Inn breakfast, and then drove to the Saint Augustine Lighthouse and Maritime Museum. That, too, has changed a lot (and for the better—more to see) since we were there last. Fortunately, they still allow you to climb the 219 steps to the top. (Photo of me at the top courtesy Noah Daley.)

From there, we visited the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum. I know we have one of our own in Orlando, but St. Augustine's is the original. If the Lightner Museum is the collection of the eclectic accumulations of a very wealthy man, Ripley's is the version for the hoi polloi, grotesque rather than elegant. Worth visiting every dozen years or so.

For lunch we returned to Mimi's, this time for savory rather than sweet crepes—the Bacon & Brie crepe is well worth returning for—supplemented by Ben's Soft Pretzels next door. After that it was time for the final leg of the adventure, and here we are approaching the runway at Sanford. (As with most photos here, click to enlarge.) An accident on I-95 caused us to beat Porter home, but not by much. We knew he would be late, because we saw the traffic jam as we flew over it.

Back in December, I wrote about the time Noah took his little sister flying.

Today was our turn.

We flew to Ocala and back in a Piper Cherokee Archer.

Not only was the flying fun, but so was seeing (and hearing) an international airport from the "inside." Thanks, Noah!

This is a partial post that I began in December 2016, and have neglected ever since. Whatever other commentary I was going to add is lost, but this much I believe worth preserving, particularly because we were visiting a major Northeastern city (the major Northeastern city) less than two weeks after Donald Trump was elected president of the United States.

Porter extended our usual family Thanksgiving get-together in Pennsylvania by arranging a five-day visit beforehand to New York City. It was an awesome visit. First of all, for the people. Coming so soon after the election, it was delightful to find everyone so polite, considerate, and going out of their way to be helpful. Yes, this was New York City! Having had our stereotypes of Venice shattered, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Even a multi-racial discussion about the election itself, which we overheard in a local restaurant was calm, reasoned, and willing to give others the benefit of the doubt. Willing to give Donald Trump a chance.

We stayed in three different hotels during our stay. This was for financial reasons, but also gave us the opportunity to experience different parts of the city. Our first hotel was the most interesting, being located in the middle of an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood, where almost all signs were in Hebrew, and we stood out as much as we had among the Gambians during our visit to that country earlier this year. I think we were the only non-Jewish guests in the wonderful little hotel. From that Jewish neighborhood we easily walked to our dinner at a Muslim restaurant: Senegalese, where the food is similar to Gambian food. When we arrived, it was just closing for a private party, but the owner kept a section open for us when he learned why we wanted to eat there.

No one understands genealogists. People get all excited when I say we saw Hamilton, but their faces fall when I pull out my photos of his grave. A visit to NYC would be incomplete without a spot of research at the NY Public Library, and if the time was too short (as always), it was productive.

Except for that, strolling through Central Park, and a moving walk around the 9/11 Memorial, our visit was focused on museums—and on eating our way around the world. In addition to Senegal, our culinary travels included Indonesia, Japan, Thailand, and India. Sadly, our favorite Korean restaurant had closed. In Chinatown we ate French pastries—and visited a Jewish museum and active synagogue. New York is amazing. Our only disappointment came from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where the artwork is stunning, but the docent was ignorant and some of the curatorial decisions appalling. Our experience with the Museum’s branch at the Cloisters, however, was outstanding. Two other gems that aren’t on every tourist’s list are the Morgan Library and Museum, and the Frick Collection. I was reminded of the importance of the very wealthy to the world of culture. Not only do they commission art, they preserve it.

Even though incomplete, I think I've covered most of our New York City adventures for that trip. As when Porter was working at NYU back in 2010—and unlike my memories from the 1970's—I felt safe, even on the subway. I'm happy to have visited the city during the few, anomalous years when efforts to keep public spaces safe were largely successful. My friend who lives there paints a different picture now—though as one of New York City's Finest, and a top-notch detective, he might have a somewhat jaded view.

My own view of very wealthy people has also become jaded since 2016. I still think they have done immeasurable good in preserving culture that would otherwise have been lost, and arranging for it to be made available to the common people. But I'm not so sure about the super-rich today; it's one thing to create a museum, and quite another to fund bioweapons labs. But that's another story. I'm okay with building electric cars, developing a space program, and fighting for freedom of speech. I guess it all depends on the person—wealthy or not.