Travels with Jim: Wit on Wheels
“ and dreamed of romance and big things off somewhere the way the railroad trains all ran” ˜˜Carl Sandburg in “Mamie” from Chicago Poems 1916.
A successful salesman has a soul full of humorous stories to share. He is always ready to transform strangers into friends and, ultimately, into customers. He has the gift of taking a mundane happenstance and turning it into a witty event. He is always at home, never foreign, no matter where in the world he takes himself. Jim Hoffert was no exception. Salesman Jim’s stories established valuable contacts and influenced customers to purchase his wares over those of others with comparable products to sell. His “confinement” to a wheelchair and my penchant for travel and penny-pinching filled the files of his humor catalogue with tale after tale. Not only did the creative nonfiction stories enrich his sales relationships, the experiences on which he based them added delight to our almost-42 years together. Some of his favorite sagas began with a chuckle, a big grin and, “Did I ever tell you about my wife and trains,” drawing his listener in with the absurd notion that I, an aviation employee for 35 years, had a particular fascination with planes on tracks.
In October of 2001, we traveled through Asia for a month, beginning in Beijing and ignoring the concern of those fearful of travel after 9-11. On the third day of the vacation, we were to board a ship in the port of Tanjin. Jim’s Chinese train story—as opposed to his DC train story or his Sacramento train story—began when we asked the hotel concierge about transportation to the port. We preferred not to pay the steep fee charged by the providers of the cruise line bus, knowing that we had hired private guides and drivers for less on previous trips in Asia. The concierge suggested a train and pointed “down there” when asked where to buy tickets. We maneuvered Jim’s wheelchair onto sidewalks under construction (typical in large Chinese cities preparing for the world to come to the 2008 Olympics), looking from one side of the street to the other, searching for something recognizable to us as a ticket seller. After forty-five minutes of futile exploration, once stopping to reattach a tire pulled off by uneven concrete, we went into a bookstore, knowing we would find an English speaker eager to practice his skills by assisting us. A young man walked us to a side street. I left Jim on the side of the road while I climbed steep steps to purchase the train tickets with the help of our new friend. Jim called every stranger in his stories “our friend” and made many while sitting, seemingly abandoned, by the roadside.
The following day, we needed additional friends. We were going on our first cruise and had packed more than the usual carry-on baggage. A size 44 long tuxedo and an accompanying shirt with 35 inch arms take up a lot of room; I wondered how we fit shoes and socks in the carry-on when he used to wear those (surely my gowns had not added to the luggage). Additionally, since our arrival we had purchased a “grow bag,” a wheeled tote that had miraculously grown to three feet in height after an evening of Beijing bargain-shopping (the grow bag would eventually take on a sibling in Thailand after Jim purchased his 23rd shirt of the vacation, but that is another of his comedies, filed under “shirt story”). The next miracle required the concierge to find a taxi large enough for two Americans, two cruise-goers’ suitcases, the grow bag, and a wheelchair. When we arrived at the curb of a traffic-choked street across from the train station, the driver motioned for us to get out of the taxi. We smilingly refused to exit the cab, motioning that we needed a drop-off at the door of the station. There was no way that we could maneuver a wheelchair and three large bags across that street, through the traffic, without some kind of a conveyance. The police arrived, summoned by the honking horns of angry drivers. Jim pointed to his empty trouser legs, to his wife and baggage in the backseat, and to the wheelchair held by our always-with-us-in-other-countries bungee cord on the back of the cab. When the policeman realized that we could not speak Mandarin, Cantonese, or any form of Chinese, and that we were just not going to get out of the cab on that side of the street, he directed the fuming driver to enter the commercial loading area at the station where two kind truck drivers came to our aid. One caring stranger pushed the wheelchair with the laughing Jim while the other pushed a small produce cart loaded with our baggage. I ran trustingly behind.
The next obstacle and need for trust came in the form of a three-story staircase to the platform. After much head scratching, consultation, and pointing, others in the station led us through a back way to the train. Before we could negotiate that, however, we had to find a wheelchair-access bathroom—more head scratching, consultation, and pointing. After the bathroom adventure, we boarded the train. Jim pulled himself up the steps on his fanny, a mode that stood him—one of Jim’s puns—well from Turkey to Thailand. This method always drew a crowd and Jim, the consummate salesman, held his long arms out and announced, “While I have you gathered here, let me show you my wares.” He knew that few would understand a word he was saying, but that his big voice and laughter would put them at ease about a “cripple” in snazzy clothes pulling himself up dirty stair steps. The train ride was to take thirty minutes—or so the hotel concierge told us.
After an hour, we arrived at Tanjin train station where the platform did not meet the train. Jim—always laughing with heart and arms opened wide—encouraged three small railroad employees to lift his large former football-playing frame and to swing him across the divide, his long arms reaching for the chair I steadied on the platform for him. Thus, Jim presented our friendly Chinese hosts with their own story to tell.
We continued to gather material for Jim’s personal Chinese train story, although he teasingly attributed the train adventures to me. We could see the front door of the station only yards away—for those who fly. The other passengers had walked up and down a tall flight of stairs that spanned the tracks. They were probably wondering how these silly Americans would cross with all of their wheels. Two workers loading cabbage seemed to have received a call from their counterparts in Beijing. They understood our situation and came to our rescue. With one pushing the chair, one running with his push cart piled high with our bags, and me running behind, we went this way and that, down a ramp, through the bowels of the station, dodging smelly trucks laden with poultry and produce, and up another ramp, searching for a way to the front door of the station, the four of us laughing uproariously as we ran. I do not know why we ran, but I am glad we did. It turned a frustrating situation into a Buster Keaton silent film romp.
Once we were in the lobby, a British family visiting their exchange-student daughter offered her translation services to locate a wheelchair access bathroom. We then had an entourage of two produce workers, a British family of five, and an assortment of railway workers looking after us. Maybe it was a Buster Keaton silent film romp.
When this large group exited the station, we drew the attention of an English-speaking taxi dispatcher. She put Jim and me in a cab to the port, which turned out to be another thirty minutes from the station. The proud driver pointed out the sights of his historical area. Although we could not understand his travelogue in Chinese, we appreciated his welcome and vowed to return some day to visit the things that this trip we could only see from a speeding taxi.
Our taxi driver/tour guide deposited us at the dock right on schedule (we did not know this from the Red watch Jim wore and had purchased on a trip to Shanghai the previous fall. The miniaturized Mao Zedong on the clock face had stopped waving to the crowd, but that is an episode for an entire book of Salesman Jim stories). As we went up the gangplank, Jim and I smiled to each other in a kind of shorthand that couples develop after decades in concert. We had ridden many boats and ferries in our travels and were both wondering whether our first real cruise could live up to the richness of the beginning of the trip—from finding the train ticket seller in Beijing to our drop off at the ship.
Later, we watched from the deck as the other passengers arrived in their boring, expensive, loaded-with-North Americans, air-conditioned bus. Surely if there were salesmen among them, they had not added another story, a Chinese anecdote, to their all-important repertoire. By relying on the assistance of strangers, we had turned ourselves from foreigners into friends. We had a grand experience to treasure and another story for the skilled salesman’s mental catalogue of humorous narratives. We contributed to our shared history, making sweet memories we hoped to savor in our old age. The bus riders, luggage neatly tagged for stateroom placement, may as well have motored from Vancouver to its suburbs. They would be able to talk about a 21-day cruise from Beijing to Bangkok with 1,590 English-speaking passengers; Jim Hoffert had that and so much more. And so did I.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Travels with Jim: This One Has a Score
"’Only connect!’ That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height." ˜E.M. Forster
The hours we spent in a London queue trying to see Miss Saigon when it first opened were the closest we had ever been to Vietnam. Then one day we were on the deck of the Regal Princess, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries" playing in our thoughts, as we slid by its mist-covered hills. Ask Americans who have never been to Vietnam about their impressions of that Southeast Asian country and, inevitably, they will think about this mist, the sound of chopper blades, and The Doors singing “Beautiful friend / This is the end /My only friend, the end.” Maybe some wisenstein will quote, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” or shout, “Goodmorningvietnam!” These are just movie memories, of wartime, of the 1960s and 70s. Although we heard so often that the U.S. involvement in Viet Nam defined our generation, Jim and I were there to make our own memories and write our own definition. Soon another song would replace Wagner, The Doors, and Chris and Kim’s laments in the movies of our minds. No film or theatre queue this time, we were sailing to the real Saigon, but they changed the name.
The ship docked about two hours from Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City. We took a tour bus into the town, horn honking all the way. We looked at each other and smiled, knowing that we shared the same thought: “In Viet Nam the horn is attached to the gas pedal.” We had studied the guidebooks to determine what we would like to see on our one day visit. We were told that no taxis would be available dockside so we chose a guided tour that covered all our preferred spots, seemed wheelchair accessible, and would leave us an afternoon to explore on our own.
Through movies and Graham Greene, we felt as if we had been in Saigon before, had sipped coffee in that corner outdoor café. We went inside the beautiful yellow French-inspired post office across from the compound-like former U.S. Embassy. We enjoyed the traditional water puppet show at the museum. We anticipated an afternoon watching the girls in their ao dais bicycle by us—masked white birds on wheels—as we strolled through the markets, experiencing the sounds, sights, and smells of Saigon. Jim thought maybe he would buy some shirts, but that is a story for another time, filed under “shirt story.”
The tour bus stopped at a hotel. The guide announced that we would have one hour to experience the city sans guide. “One hour!?!” “Yes. Sorry, Madame.” Jim asked about the market, thinking of shirts again: “Sorry, Gentleman. Today we no go.” We asked about shops and were told, “There.” “There” was across a traffic jam created by mopeds and bicycles—no cross walk, no lights, no crossing guard. Someone told us to traverse the street, going straight and not stopping until we reached the other side. That way, the vrooming mopeds and ding-a-ling bicycles could gauge our route and speed. We set out, wheelchair rolling perpendicular to the swans on two-wheelers.
The shops were small, the steps to them high, and we had already spent much of our hour deciding how to cross the road. I left Jim on the sidewalk where he could look at tables of merchandise outside the boutiques, having no time to lift his chair up each set of steps. I went from shop to shop, bargaining, piling packages on his lap, and hanging bags from the handles of his wheelchair. At one store, I bought our youngest child a beautiful wooden tam, a violin-like musical instrument. From the sidewalk, I heard another North American bargaining for the exquisite photo albums I wanted to take home for holiday gifts. When the shopper and the proprietor reached consensus, I handed the tam to Jim and told him to be very careful with the delicate instrument. I entered the shop, planning to piggy-back on the other shopper’s price for the lovely lacquer-cover books. While waiting for the clerk to wrap the twenty-five gifts, I heard the deep, loud, laughing voice of my husband outside the shop. He was singing, “I found my ta-a-am in South Vi-et Na-a-am” to the tune of “Blueberry Hill.” I went outside and there sat Jim, the double amputee in his preppie uniform of khakis and polo shirt, sitting in his wheelchair on a street in Saigon, surrounded by beggars. The beggars, too, were missing limbs, but they were dressed in dirty rags and pulling themselves along the ground. I asked Jim what he was doing. “You left me with all these packages and no money. I feel guilty because I am so much more fortunate than these guys.” I heard “the prose and the passion” in this man who could “only connect” with people. I saw his white straw hat on the ground, upside down and full of money. He was singing to raise funds from the other tourists for his new friends. I stopped shopping and put the rest of our cash in the hat. Jim handed the money to the princes of the sidewalk and rolled away, whistling a tune I would never forget from our visit to the “world that's far away /where life is not unkind /The movie in my mind.” *
The hours we spent in a London queue trying to see Miss Saigon when it first opened were the closest we had ever been to Vietnam. Then one day we were on the deck of the Regal Princess, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries" playing in our thoughts, as we slid by its mist-covered hills. Ask Americans who have never been to Vietnam about their impressions of that Southeast Asian country and, inevitably, they will think about this mist, the sound of chopper blades, and The Doors singing “Beautiful friend / This is the end /My only friend, the end.” Maybe some wisenstein will quote, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” or shout, “Goodmorningvietnam!” These are just movie memories, of wartime, of the 1960s and 70s. Although we heard so often that the U.S. involvement in Viet Nam defined our generation, Jim and I were there to make our own memories and write our own definition. Soon another song would replace Wagner, The Doors, and Chris and Kim’s laments in the movies of our minds. No film or theatre queue this time, we were sailing to the real Saigon, but they changed the name.
The ship docked about two hours from Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City. We took a tour bus into the town, horn honking all the way. We looked at each other and smiled, knowing that we shared the same thought: “In Viet Nam the horn is attached to the gas pedal.” We had studied the guidebooks to determine what we would like to see on our one day visit. We were told that no taxis would be available dockside so we chose a guided tour that covered all our preferred spots, seemed wheelchair accessible, and would leave us an afternoon to explore on our own.
Through movies and Graham Greene, we felt as if we had been in Saigon before, had sipped coffee in that corner outdoor café. We went inside the beautiful yellow French-inspired post office across from the compound-like former U.S. Embassy. We enjoyed the traditional water puppet show at the museum. We anticipated an afternoon watching the girls in their ao dais bicycle by us—masked white birds on wheels—as we strolled through the markets, experiencing the sounds, sights, and smells of Saigon. Jim thought maybe he would buy some shirts, but that is a story for another time, filed under “shirt story.”
The tour bus stopped at a hotel. The guide announced that we would have one hour to experience the city sans guide. “One hour!?!” “Yes. Sorry, Madame.” Jim asked about the market, thinking of shirts again: “Sorry, Gentleman. Today we no go.” We asked about shops and were told, “There.” “There” was across a traffic jam created by mopeds and bicycles—no cross walk, no lights, no crossing guard. Someone told us to traverse the street, going straight and not stopping until we reached the other side. That way, the vrooming mopeds and ding-a-ling bicycles could gauge our route and speed. We set out, wheelchair rolling perpendicular to the swans on two-wheelers.
The shops were small, the steps to them high, and we had already spent much of our hour deciding how to cross the road. I left Jim on the sidewalk where he could look at tables of merchandise outside the boutiques, having no time to lift his chair up each set of steps. I went from shop to shop, bargaining, piling packages on his lap, and hanging bags from the handles of his wheelchair. At one store, I bought our youngest child a beautiful wooden tam, a violin-like musical instrument. From the sidewalk, I heard another North American bargaining for the exquisite photo albums I wanted to take home for holiday gifts. When the shopper and the proprietor reached consensus, I handed the tam to Jim and told him to be very careful with the delicate instrument. I entered the shop, planning to piggy-back on the other shopper’s price for the lovely lacquer-cover books. While waiting for the clerk to wrap the twenty-five gifts, I heard the deep, loud, laughing voice of my husband outside the shop. He was singing, “I found my ta-a-am in South Vi-et Na-a-am” to the tune of “Blueberry Hill.” I went outside and there sat Jim, the double amputee in his preppie uniform of khakis and polo shirt, sitting in his wheelchair on a street in Saigon, surrounded by beggars. The beggars, too, were missing limbs, but they were dressed in dirty rags and pulling themselves along the ground. I asked Jim what he was doing. “You left me with all these packages and no money. I feel guilty because I am so much more fortunate than these guys.” I heard “the prose and the passion” in this man who could “only connect” with people. I saw his white straw hat on the ground, upside down and full of money. He was singing to raise funds from the other tourists for his new friends. I stopped shopping and put the rest of our cash in the hat. Jim handed the money to the princes of the sidewalk and rolled away, whistling a tune I would never forget from our visit to the “world that's far away /where life is not unkind /The movie in my mind.” *
Travel to the Mud
Nature Writing: Why a Girl Who Hid Books at the Neighbor’s for the Times Her Mother Made Her “Go Outside and Play” Should Take Oceanography and Marine Biology in College.
Diablo Valley College offers courses in Oceanography and Biology that meet the requirements for those seeking an AA, transferring to a four-year college, or for proponents of life-long learning. The Oceanography professor has been teaching the subject for years and has groupies, most of them men in their forties to seventies, to help in the lab portion of the course. Over the hill of his life, the professor married a woman who is a retired marine biologist, formerly the only female and English-speaker on a Russian research ship. She joined him at DVC after a stint at USGS Science Center for Coastal and Marine Geology located in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Her biology class emphasizes the marine segment of biology. In addition to the course work, the Oceonography class requires field trips: one to the Martinez Marina during class time, one to the Marine Mammal Center north of Santa Cruz, another on the same Suisun Bay boat the elementary students in the area learn marine science, and a trip with a checklist to the aquarium at Golden Gate Park. Optional activities include the Coyote Point area by the San Mateo Bridge, the Bay Model in Sausalito, a whale-watching cruise from Moss Beach, and an optional weekend on the Sonoma County Coast. The marine biology class goes on the Suisun Bay cruise, and offers the optional Sonoma Coast trip, plus a trip to watch the elephant seals fornicate while you earn extra credit. The professors also hold a class at a marine center in the Caribbean for summer students. These classes impart information valuable to students in all majors because they not only broaden knowledge of environmental issues, they round out the education of those who do not concentrate on the sciences.
Students whose summer Olympic sport would be page-turning, whose idea of dirty is newspaper ink on their fingers, and whose idea of a hike is climbing the stacks at a many-storied library, may balk at the requirements of the classes, scoff at the optional trips, and search for alternative classes to fit the category. Fortunately, sometimes Oceanography is the only class that fits your schedule so you stumble onto it. Taking the class is a benefit to any citizen of the world. In addition to teaching important issues that affect our global environment, the classes are interesting in the variety of information studied, and the trips are fun, even though indoor people may expect otherwise. Professor Bill’s groupies from many walks of life go on the field trips, as well. One of them is a commercial airline pilot who takes his trailer on the Sonoma County outing. He has a plug on the side of the trailer dedicated to an electric blender for the best-doggone frozen strawberry daiquiris, or so he boasts.
Some of the outdoors-type people on the Sonoma trip camp in a cow field next to the pilot’s trailer. Others, uncomfortable with the smell of cow patties and the danger of stepping in one in the middle of the night, rent motel rooms. This weekend officially begins on a Saturday morning as dawn breaks in a tide pool. Fortunately, the groupies prepare you by suggesting that you bring a change of shoes to wear in the tide pool and a full rain suit for afternoon activities. The tide-pool awes visitors with its plethora of barnacles, anemones, snails, seastars and sea slugs. The air is fresh, the ocean salt blows in your face, and the excitement of new discoveries invigorates you. You have a checklist with pictures to aid you in cataloging your exciting finds. The professors have a license to borrow a few specimens that you will study under microscopes the groupies set up on tables at the campground. In the late morning, you go clamming. This means you walk for a mile through deep mud, carrying buckets and long contraptions made out of PVC. If you are a slow walker because mud-walking is not your forte and you happen to be there when the professors find a still-wet skull of a seal, you get to carry the bloody head for the day. The trudge through the mud rewards you with hard work to find dinner. You trade the business suit you wore to the office on Friday for a plastic suit on Saturday as you lay SPLAT! face-down in the mud, and force your manicured hand—all the way to the shoulder—down a deep hole to pull out clams—TA DA! Some students use the long homemade PVC invention to suck those critters to the surface. When you have collected enough clams for dinner, it is back through the ankle-deep mud to the campground. Some students shuck and wash clams while other slice and dice them to add to the broth and vegetables the professors compiled at home. While the stew simmers, you gather around the tables, looking through the microscopes identifying and cataloging the characteristics of the specimens you collected that day before returning them to their habitat. The sounds from the tables as the students uncover new knowledge on the slides are like the Fourth of July: “Oh! Wow! Look at that!”
Although some students do not opt to spend the weekends with the specimens in the mud, whale watching, studying the effect of rock music on migratory marine mammals, observing the seals’ attempts at procreation, or watching jelly fish move to classical music and artificial light, they benefit from the classes in other ways. Perhaps you wish to explain opposing forces in a business situation; you can compare the situation to plate tectonics because now you understand them. Suppose you, an indoor person, attend an important meeting to promote your corporation in the state. You go to the meeting, armed with statistics and reasons for the state senator to support your corporation; however, everyone is standing around trading personal fish stories. You did your corporate homework. You know the senator is on the committee that deals with the waterways; but, what does an indoor person like you know about fishing? It is not enough to share that your brother lives on, arguably, the best trout river in the world. If you took the Oceanography class, you could share what you found in the benthic samples you pulled from the Martinez Marina the night before or the threat of Asian copepods to the Delta. Or—suppose you are sitting in one of the giant leather chairs in Congressman George Miller’s office in the Rayburn Building, lobbying him to support your corporation’s expansion in Asia. You do not want to waste his time with small talk, but an informed constituent could mention the work he did with Representative Tauscher on the beneficial reuse of dredged material for habit restoration. Or—suppose you are a graduate student who has an assignment to write a creative non-fiction piece on nature. Enough said on taking marine classes even if you are a card-carrying indoor person?
Diablo Valley College offers courses in Oceanography and Biology that meet the requirements for those seeking an AA, transferring to a four-year college, or for proponents of life-long learning. The Oceanography professor has been teaching the subject for years and has groupies, most of them men in their forties to seventies, to help in the lab portion of the course. Over the hill of his life, the professor married a woman who is a retired marine biologist, formerly the only female and English-speaker on a Russian research ship. She joined him at DVC after a stint at USGS Science Center for Coastal and Marine Geology located in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Her biology class emphasizes the marine segment of biology. In addition to the course work, the Oceonography class requires field trips: one to the Martinez Marina during class time, one to the Marine Mammal Center north of Santa Cruz, another on the same Suisun Bay boat the elementary students in the area learn marine science, and a trip with a checklist to the aquarium at Golden Gate Park. Optional activities include the Coyote Point area by the San Mateo Bridge, the Bay Model in Sausalito, a whale-watching cruise from Moss Beach, and an optional weekend on the Sonoma County Coast. The marine biology class goes on the Suisun Bay cruise, and offers the optional Sonoma Coast trip, plus a trip to watch the elephant seals fornicate while you earn extra credit. The professors also hold a class at a marine center in the Caribbean for summer students. These classes impart information valuable to students in all majors because they not only broaden knowledge of environmental issues, they round out the education of those who do not concentrate on the sciences.
Students whose summer Olympic sport would be page-turning, whose idea of dirty is newspaper ink on their fingers, and whose idea of a hike is climbing the stacks at a many-storied library, may balk at the requirements of the classes, scoff at the optional trips, and search for alternative classes to fit the category. Fortunately, sometimes Oceanography is the only class that fits your schedule so you stumble onto it. Taking the class is a benefit to any citizen of the world. In addition to teaching important issues that affect our global environment, the classes are interesting in the variety of information studied, and the trips are fun, even though indoor people may expect otherwise. Professor Bill’s groupies from many walks of life go on the field trips, as well. One of them is a commercial airline pilot who takes his trailer on the Sonoma County outing. He has a plug on the side of the trailer dedicated to an electric blender for the best-doggone frozen strawberry daiquiris, or so he boasts.
Some of the outdoors-type people on the Sonoma trip camp in a cow field next to the pilot’s trailer. Others, uncomfortable with the smell of cow patties and the danger of stepping in one in the middle of the night, rent motel rooms. This weekend officially begins on a Saturday morning as dawn breaks in a tide pool. Fortunately, the groupies prepare you by suggesting that you bring a change of shoes to wear in the tide pool and a full rain suit for afternoon activities. The tide-pool awes visitors with its plethora of barnacles, anemones, snails, seastars and sea slugs. The air is fresh, the ocean salt blows in your face, and the excitement of new discoveries invigorates you. You have a checklist with pictures to aid you in cataloging your exciting finds. The professors have a license to borrow a few specimens that you will study under microscopes the groupies set up on tables at the campground. In the late morning, you go clamming. This means you walk for a mile through deep mud, carrying buckets and long contraptions made out of PVC. If you are a slow walker because mud-walking is not your forte and you happen to be there when the professors find a still-wet skull of a seal, you get to carry the bloody head for the day. The trudge through the mud rewards you with hard work to find dinner. You trade the business suit you wore to the office on Friday for a plastic suit on Saturday as you lay SPLAT! face-down in the mud, and force your manicured hand—all the way to the shoulder—down a deep hole to pull out clams—TA DA! Some students use the long homemade PVC invention to suck those critters to the surface. When you have collected enough clams for dinner, it is back through the ankle-deep mud to the campground. Some students shuck and wash clams while other slice and dice them to add to the broth and vegetables the professors compiled at home. While the stew simmers, you gather around the tables, looking through the microscopes identifying and cataloging the characteristics of the specimens you collected that day before returning them to their habitat. The sounds from the tables as the students uncover new knowledge on the slides are like the Fourth of July: “Oh! Wow! Look at that!”
Although some students do not opt to spend the weekends with the specimens in the mud, whale watching, studying the effect of rock music on migratory marine mammals, observing the seals’ attempts at procreation, or watching jelly fish move to classical music and artificial light, they benefit from the classes in other ways. Perhaps you wish to explain opposing forces in a business situation; you can compare the situation to plate tectonics because now you understand them. Suppose you, an indoor person, attend an important meeting to promote your corporation in the state. You go to the meeting, armed with statistics and reasons for the state senator to support your corporation; however, everyone is standing around trading personal fish stories. You did your corporate homework. You know the senator is on the committee that deals with the waterways; but, what does an indoor person like you know about fishing? It is not enough to share that your brother lives on, arguably, the best trout river in the world. If you took the Oceanography class, you could share what you found in the benthic samples you pulled from the Martinez Marina the night before or the threat of Asian copepods to the Delta. Or—suppose you are sitting in one of the giant leather chairs in Congressman George Miller’s office in the Rayburn Building, lobbying him to support your corporation’s expansion in Asia. You do not want to waste his time with small talk, but an informed constituent could mention the work he did with Representative Tauscher on the beneficial reuse of dredged material for habit restoration. Or—suppose you are a graduate student who has an assignment to write a creative non-fiction piece on nature. Enough said on taking marine classes even if you are a card-carrying indoor person?
Pomegranates with the People
As you sit back, relax, and enjoy the service and movies on your nonstop United Airlines flight from San Francisco to Beijing, you can congratulate yourself on arranging to travel the Three Gorges before they are flooded. You will also spend a couple of days in Beijing taking the Huatong tour, seeing Tianamen Square and the Forbidden City (the Western-style toilets are on the right as you enter), seeing the Summer Palace, shopping, and climbing the Great Wall. You will spend another couple of days in Shanghai visiting one of the most incredible cultural museums in the world, attending an acrobatic performance, visiting the traditional gardens, shopping at the outdoor market near the former US embassy, and avoiding the Jazz band at the Peace Hotel that only plays if you pay for a specific song from the stained list provided. The next logical stop on the itinerary is Xi’an and the Terra Cotta Warriors located about one-half hour away from the very polluted city.
Before you leave the United States or as soon as you arrive in the PRC, contact Clarence Guo. Everyone will take you to the Qin tomb, the amazing Terra Warriors, and to the Eight Immortals Temple. Clarence will offer you more on the same daytrip. In his air-conditioned mini-van, he will drive you into the mountains where you will walk about a quarter mile to visit cave dwellers who will welcome you into their lives. The six-meter deep caves are home to multi-generational families who raise produce and fowl to sell in the city markets. Single light bulbs suspended from the ceiling light the cave homes. Newspapers taped to the walls keep in the heat in the winter and the cool in the summer. Clarence interprets for English speaking visitors who sit on short stools and eat pomegranates while marveling at the unique experience to meet with the cave dwellers. As you leave the rural villagers, you will toss the peelings from your fruit into the animal pen for feed, and marvel that you not only traveled twenty-some jet hours from SFO, but that you traveled centuries in time to meet people who think you are crazy to think that their way of life is intriguing. To contact Clarence Guo, e-mail him at clarenceguo@yahoo.com. The website for his taxi and tour service is http://www.taxitour.com. Mr. Guo—who speaks excellent English so do not hesitate to call his mobile (029 7791323; 0 13519197819)—will arrange transportation, tours, and hotels for you. By the time you call, he may have already opened his cave hotel for you to experience. For another perspective on his service, use the link from his website to the Time and National Geographic magazine stories that refer to Clarence Guo.
Before you leave the United States or as soon as you arrive in the PRC, contact Clarence Guo. Everyone will take you to the Qin tomb, the amazing Terra Warriors, and to the Eight Immortals Temple. Clarence will offer you more on the same daytrip. In his air-conditioned mini-van, he will drive you into the mountains where you will walk about a quarter mile to visit cave dwellers who will welcome you into their lives. The six-meter deep caves are home to multi-generational families who raise produce and fowl to sell in the city markets. Single light bulbs suspended from the ceiling light the cave homes. Newspapers taped to the walls keep in the heat in the winter and the cool in the summer. Clarence interprets for English speaking visitors who sit on short stools and eat pomegranates while marveling at the unique experience to meet with the cave dwellers. As you leave the rural villagers, you will toss the peelings from your fruit into the animal pen for feed, and marvel that you not only traveled twenty-some jet hours from SFO, but that you traveled centuries in time to meet people who think you are crazy to think that their way of life is intriguing. To contact Clarence Guo, e-mail him at clarenceguo@yahoo.com. The website for his taxi and tour service is http://www.taxitour.com. Mr. Guo—who speaks excellent English so do not hesitate to call his mobile (029 7791323; 0 13519197819)—will arrange transportation, tours, and hotels for you. By the time you call, he may have already opened his cave hotel for you to experience. For another perspective on his service, use the link from his website to the Time and National Geographic magazine stories that refer to Clarence Guo.
More Travels with Jim: Longboats and Dragons
We did not know it then, but it was the last family vacation for two sons, their dad, and me, the mom/wife. We have so many memories from that trip—heat prostration in Bangkok; night markets, tuk-tuks; cooking school in Chiang Mai, the Golden Triangle; daring to step on the bridge to Burma; sons creating a Bildungsroman in a cabaret, one singing onstage, one behind the bar concocting drinks, both playing Connect Four with Madame; elephant rides in the mountains and through the jungle; a snake show; showing off soccer moves for tribal kids who live in packing-box shacks with tin roofs; luxury hotels; the orchid farm; bartering for a teapot from the old woman who tried to sell her opium pipe, too; eating street food; dinner at Cabbages and Condoms, and shopping for shirts for Dad (but that is a tale for another time, filed under “Jim’s shirt story”).
There was the two-day period when we hired a guide and a driver in Chiang-Mai to take us to the Golden Triangle, the point where Thailand, Burma/Myanmar, and Laos bow to each other. The boys wanted a little adventure—as much adventure as you can have when your father is in a wheelchair and your mother’s sport is turning pages of a book. The guide set an itinerary that began with a longboat up the Maekok River to visit a mountain tribal village. The driver, whose most recent job was driving Danny Glover while he filmed, pulled the air-conditioned mini-van to the side of the road—no day with the stars today. Our sons carried Dad’s wheelchair down the precipitous hill—laughing, always ebullient—and then across the precarious bamboo bridge—long poles crossed with short poles, sheets of bamboo shades draped across the whole, as if that made the whole sturdier. The Thai boatman waited at the bottom of the hill, on the river, leaning on his pole outside his longboat, watching and wondering. With the wheelchair as ballast, we settled in, passionate to begin the phantasmagoric adventure. Though the water level was low, the ride was smooth. As we sailed in our canopied conveyance, we watched the grandmother farmers on the hills and the multi-generations of fishermen trawling in the water. We imagined ourselves as explorers. We saw another boat stuck on a sandbar, the travelers getting in the water to free themselves. It all seemed so exotic. Then BUMP! We hit the sandbar, too. The boys jumped out of the boat and told me to stay with Dad. That did it; I summarily entered the Maekok—sandals, ankle-length skirt, and all. Dad sat next to his wheelchair in the boat, wishing he could help, but laughing at Mom disobeying the kids. The Thai boatman leaned on his pole in his longboat watching the enigma of the graying American lady, skirt dragging from the river water, mud exuding from between her toes. We negotiated the boat into deeper water and hopped back in to continue the exploits. This was cool. We were in northern Thailand, had maneuvered down a steep hill and across a rickety bridge to a waiting long-boat, had rescued ourselves from a river mishap, and were on our way with two Thai guides to meet mountain tribes. This was way cool—until we looked beyond the newly-planted trees on the riverbank. Through the trees we could see what seemed to be a caravan of huge, air-conditioned motor coaches. NO! “What is that,” we asked the guide. “Oh, that’s the new highway. The busses are taking tourists up to visit the mountain tribes.” BUMP! Was the scene on the sandbar just a show for the unsavvy, too? No aphorisms came to mind, only a whispered epithet. Was I disappointing my cubs? No. They laughed; Mom is fallible.
Of the many adventures during that trip, one dear to us is the visit to the umbrella factory. When the guide suggested it, I could see a not-for-us-look on the boys’ faces. This was no one’s bailiwick, but we went anyway. When we entered the thatched-roofed factory, the guide handed my camera case to one of the exhibitors. Within minutes, it was hand-painted with golden elephants and palm trees. After watching the artists decorate the beautiful bamboo bumpershoots, the boys and I went to the gift shop to find more prizes to become the artists’ palettes. I bought a dark wood bowl for an employee planning a Hawaiian-themed wedding. A young woman painted orchids in several shades of purple outlined in gold on the bottom of the inside, adding the names of the bride and groom and their wedding date—so lovely. The boys bought wooden wine bottle holders, handing them over to become chef d’oeuvres for special friends. Dad, in his wheelchair, joined the group around the umbrella painters, awed at their skill. One of the artists who appreciated the attention added elephants and palm trees to Dad’s shirtsleeve.
Dad was feeling good modeling the artwork on his sleeve. But the chair … At home, he had two sporty wheelchairs, the low, sleek purple one specially made for the man they said never saw a basketball shot he did not like. The chair with which he traveled, however, was an old-fashioned sturdy model like you still see in the hospitals and airports. It was easier for us to push because it was taller and it was strong enough to withstand cobble-stoned streets and being strapped in small other-country taxi trunks. Dad really disliked that chair. It was more difficult for him to maneuver. It was uglier than a rhinoceros at the three point line. He called it his old man’s chair. Dad was usually the first one with a joke about his physical condition, but that chair made him cranky. Knowing this, one of our sons assumed the role of deus ex machina. He and his brother conferred with the artist who painted elephants on Dad’s shirtsleeve, pushed their father over to the station, and admonished him to sit still for a small decoration on the back of the chair. At the end of the exercise, that wheelchair had a huge, fierce, gold and red dragon with white fangs and white claws on the back. Signed “Nid. Chiang Mai Thailand 3.4.2002” by the artist, it was no standard issue navy blue old man chair anymore. Dad never complained about that wheelchair again.
Although we did not know it was to be the last family vacation for two sons, their dad, and me, the mom/wife, we made memories in Thailand as if this were an itinerary planned by Make-a-Wish.
There was the two-day period when we hired a guide and a driver in Chiang-Mai to take us to the Golden Triangle, the point where Thailand, Burma/Myanmar, and Laos bow to each other. The boys wanted a little adventure—as much adventure as you can have when your father is in a wheelchair and your mother’s sport is turning pages of a book. The guide set an itinerary that began with a longboat up the Maekok River to visit a mountain tribal village. The driver, whose most recent job was driving Danny Glover while he filmed, pulled the air-conditioned mini-van to the side of the road—no day with the stars today. Our sons carried Dad’s wheelchair down the precipitous hill—laughing, always ebullient—and then across the precarious bamboo bridge—long poles crossed with short poles, sheets of bamboo shades draped across the whole, as if that made the whole sturdier. The Thai boatman waited at the bottom of the hill, on the river, leaning on his pole outside his longboat, watching and wondering. With the wheelchair as ballast, we settled in, passionate to begin the phantasmagoric adventure. Though the water level was low, the ride was smooth. As we sailed in our canopied conveyance, we watched the grandmother farmers on the hills and the multi-generations of fishermen trawling in the water. We imagined ourselves as explorers. We saw another boat stuck on a sandbar, the travelers getting in the water to free themselves. It all seemed so exotic. Then BUMP! We hit the sandbar, too. The boys jumped out of the boat and told me to stay with Dad. That did it; I summarily entered the Maekok—sandals, ankle-length skirt, and all. Dad sat next to his wheelchair in the boat, wishing he could help, but laughing at Mom disobeying the kids. The Thai boatman leaned on his pole in his longboat watching the enigma of the graying American lady, skirt dragging from the river water, mud exuding from between her toes. We negotiated the boat into deeper water and hopped back in to continue the exploits. This was cool. We were in northern Thailand, had maneuvered down a steep hill and across a rickety bridge to a waiting long-boat, had rescued ourselves from a river mishap, and were on our way with two Thai guides to meet mountain tribes. This was way cool—until we looked beyond the newly-planted trees on the riverbank. Through the trees we could see what seemed to be a caravan of huge, air-conditioned motor coaches. NO! “What is that,” we asked the guide. “Oh, that’s the new highway. The busses are taking tourists up to visit the mountain tribes.” BUMP! Was the scene on the sandbar just a show for the unsavvy, too? No aphorisms came to mind, only a whispered epithet. Was I disappointing my cubs? No. They laughed; Mom is fallible.
Of the many adventures during that trip, one dear to us is the visit to the umbrella factory. When the guide suggested it, I could see a not-for-us-look on the boys’ faces. This was no one’s bailiwick, but we went anyway. When we entered the thatched-roofed factory, the guide handed my camera case to one of the exhibitors. Within minutes, it was hand-painted with golden elephants and palm trees. After watching the artists decorate the beautiful bamboo bumpershoots, the boys and I went to the gift shop to find more prizes to become the artists’ palettes. I bought a dark wood bowl for an employee planning a Hawaiian-themed wedding. A young woman painted orchids in several shades of purple outlined in gold on the bottom of the inside, adding the names of the bride and groom and their wedding date—so lovely. The boys bought wooden wine bottle holders, handing them over to become chef d’oeuvres for special friends. Dad, in his wheelchair, joined the group around the umbrella painters, awed at their skill. One of the artists who appreciated the attention added elephants and palm trees to Dad’s shirtsleeve.
Dad was feeling good modeling the artwork on his sleeve. But the chair … At home, he had two sporty wheelchairs, the low, sleek purple one specially made for the man they said never saw a basketball shot he did not like. The chair with which he traveled, however, was an old-fashioned sturdy model like you still see in the hospitals and airports. It was easier for us to push because it was taller and it was strong enough to withstand cobble-stoned streets and being strapped in small other-country taxi trunks. Dad really disliked that chair. It was more difficult for him to maneuver. It was uglier than a rhinoceros at the three point line. He called it his old man’s chair. Dad was usually the first one with a joke about his physical condition, but that chair made him cranky. Knowing this, one of our sons assumed the role of deus ex machina. He and his brother conferred with the artist who painted elephants on Dad’s shirtsleeve, pushed their father over to the station, and admonished him to sit still for a small decoration on the back of the chair. At the end of the exercise, that wheelchair had a huge, fierce, gold and red dragon with white fangs and white claws on the back. Signed “Nid. Chiang Mai Thailand 3.4.2002” by the artist, it was no standard issue navy blue old man chair anymore. Dad never complained about that wheelchair again.
Although we did not know it was to be the last family vacation for two sons, their dad, and me, the mom/wife, we made memories in Thailand as if this were an itinerary planned by Make-a-Wish.
Travels with Jim: I Was Never the Same after [My Life Journey with Him] as I Was Before
Travels with Jim: I Was Never the Same after [My Life Journey with Him] as I Was BeforeAKA: Segmented Essays are Addicting and I Prefer Single-Spaced Long Quotes
Dear Jim,
You were not a John Denver phan but I bet that if he stops by your basketball court in heaven with his gee-tar, you will laugh and think of me because of the words he sings. I am just back from class and waiting for Charlie Rose. Denver is on KQED right now; that is what made me think of it.
So. Did you and your brother happen to stop bouncing your bucket balls, look down, and watch me writing that story about
Waiting for a trainA thousand miles away from home
I think it was a three-point from mid-court. I wrote about the tam and sailing into Vietnam, too. Oh. Did you notice that you are wearing that sailing shirt from Hong Kong that you—well—we will file that under “shirt story” for another time.
I caught a ride on the dreamland express last night
I was sailing on an ocean of blueAnd right there by my side, much to my surprise, was you
--
I’d like to send you a ticket on the dreamland expressAnd take you far away with meI’ve got a vision of heaven, you livin’ there with me
One of these days I will write about the crossing guard who kept pointing to your empty trouser legs when we were trying to traverse to hear that awful jazz band at the Peace Hotel. We had no
idea what she was saying, but you answered her anyway: “Yeah. I know. I don’t have legs. But,
wait. You know, I actually do have some. They’re at home in the closet. My wife would rather push me around. You know wives.” It is a good thing that nobody who spoke English was around to hear you.
Shanghai breezes, cool and clearing, evening's sweet caress.Shanghai breezes, soft and gentle, remind me of your tenderness.And the moon and the stars are the same ones you see, it's the same old sun up in the sky.And your love in my life is like heaven to me, like the breezes here in old Shanghai.And the moon and the stars are the same ones you see, it's the same old sun up in the sky.And your love in my life is like heaven to me, like the breezes here in old Shanghai.
I know the kids are talking to you, but it’s my turn. Just like before. Middle of the night. My night classes energize me, allowing no one in this room to sleep.
But now it’s four in the mornin’, I can’t sleepI can’t get you out of my mindI keep tossin’ and turnin’, I’m yearnin’ for the sun to shine
Jim. I have to call the funeral home tomorrow to get some kind of form that will certify that you are in that, well, whatever you are in. Remember the first time you flew to SFO to see me and got off the plane with your clothes in a grocery bag? You told me it was Polish luggage. Yesterday was your mom’s birthday. Tell her the one about the Polish luggage; she always liked jokes about her birthplace. And remember how you used to have me bring home the blue velveteen Royal Crown drawstring bags from the plane so the kids could carry marbles and stuff? Remember that you told me that when you went to that basketball court in the sky I was supposed to ask the funeral home people if they could put you in a Safeway bag or a cardboard box? Well, they almost choked when I told them but they offered me “an alternative casket” for the crematorium. Hello, it’s a cardboard box, people (What is that, Seinfeld? Friends? Some other-generation thing). Jim. Remember how you would not move to Antioch because the traffic on 4 is so bad? Guess what crematorium they used? You were right; traffic on 4 IS bad. I could not take you home that day—what? did they forget to preheat?—but a couple of days later I went to get you. Did you guess? Omygawd, Jim! They put you in a marble bag! I think that they think that it’s a tasteful, discreet, maroon velvet bag with a golden cord. But, Jim! Omygawd! I had to run out of there with you in my arms so that I did not wake the dead in the viewing rooms:LOL! Jim! Omygod! You are in a marble bag! There is something heavy in the marble bag, maybe a metal box. Knowing you, it’s probably some kind of bowling ball, another Polish joke. It has been almost a year, but I cannot undo the draw string. But, Jim! Omygawd! You are in a marble bag! I taped a newspaper cartoon to the outside. You will like this: “A life-long practical joker’s last request was to have a pressure activated voice message installed in his grave site-‘OW! GET OFF! GET OFF ME!’” Must have been a salesman like you. Someday we will go to Laguna and scatter you off the coast of that basketball court you love on the beach, but right now, your sister wants you to go to Michigan for a memorial. I think she wants you to stay there. Don’t worry; I know you hate winter. But, anyway, that’s why I have to get the note from the funeral parlor to certify that you are in, well, Omygawd, Jim! You are in a marble bag and I have to take you through security!
By the way, you know how you used to call your Mustang your horsey? Well, I watched the Reagan funeral. I had forgotten about the riderless horse with the backwards boot in the stirrup at presidential funerals. I got the giggles. His riding boot was pretty tall in that stirrup, Jim. Yep. You guessed it. It looked like your artificial leg. So. I got one of your legs out of the closet, put it on the driveway next to your Mustang—backwards—and took a picture. I picked up the developed film today. I forgot that Michael’s old Bronco was in the driveway next to your horsey. Wow! What a presidential procession you had.
I want to go simply when I goThey’ll give me a simple funeral there I knowI’ll lie beneath the sandWith piped in tapes of billy grahamOh take me when I’m gone to forest lawnAmen
Now, look. We are going to rush you to Michigan for your memorial and rush you back again because I am taking two undergrad classes that have finals and papers due for all four classes starting that Monday.
Fly away, fly away, fly away
After finals, I will leave to meet Joani. Jim D. will be in the left seat on 940 on the second so Joani wrote, “I just happen to be intimately acquainted with the Captain. I’ll ‘shack up’ with him in Frankfurt and meet you there on the fourth for the connection to Madrid.” Shack up? Can you imagine a wife talking so disrespectfully about her husband?
All my bags are packedI’m ready to goI’m standin’ here outside your doorI hate to wake you up to say goodbyeBut the dawn is breakin’It’s early mornThe taxi’s waitin’He’s blowin’ his hornAlready I’m so lonesomeI could die
Well, Jim, here’s the thing. This is the trip that I tell myself you would have taken me on as a graduation present. Joani is going with me instead. We are not taking you to Europe and Africa even though I know you would provide me with more stories (I never did get that picture of you on a camel). No. You are staying here, though Ken says you are urning to go. Don’t make an ash of yourself while I am gone.
Dear Jim,
You were not a John Denver phan but I bet that if he stops by your basketball court in heaven with his gee-tar, you will laugh and think of me because of the words he sings. I am just back from class and waiting for Charlie Rose. Denver is on KQED right now; that is what made me think of it.
So. Did you and your brother happen to stop bouncing your bucket balls, look down, and watch me writing that story about
Waiting for a trainA thousand miles away from home
I think it was a three-point from mid-court. I wrote about the tam and sailing into Vietnam, too. Oh. Did you notice that you are wearing that sailing shirt from Hong Kong that you—well—we will file that under “shirt story” for another time.
I caught a ride on the dreamland express last night
I was sailing on an ocean of blueAnd right there by my side, much to my surprise, was you
--
I’d like to send you a ticket on the dreamland expressAnd take you far away with meI’ve got a vision of heaven, you livin’ there with me
One of these days I will write about the crossing guard who kept pointing to your empty trouser legs when we were trying to traverse to hear that awful jazz band at the Peace Hotel. We had no
idea what she was saying, but you answered her anyway: “Yeah. I know. I don’t have legs. But,
wait. You know, I actually do have some. They’re at home in the closet. My wife would rather push me around. You know wives.” It is a good thing that nobody who spoke English was around to hear you.
Shanghai breezes, cool and clearing, evening's sweet caress.Shanghai breezes, soft and gentle, remind me of your tenderness.And the moon and the stars are the same ones you see, it's the same old sun up in the sky.And your love in my life is like heaven to me, like the breezes here in old Shanghai.And the moon and the stars are the same ones you see, it's the same old sun up in the sky.And your love in my life is like heaven to me, like the breezes here in old Shanghai.
I know the kids are talking to you, but it’s my turn. Just like before. Middle of the night. My night classes energize me, allowing no one in this room to sleep.
But now it’s four in the mornin’, I can’t sleepI can’t get you out of my mindI keep tossin’ and turnin’, I’m yearnin’ for the sun to shine
Jim. I have to call the funeral home tomorrow to get some kind of form that will certify that you are in that, well, whatever you are in. Remember the first time you flew to SFO to see me and got off the plane with your clothes in a grocery bag? You told me it was Polish luggage. Yesterday was your mom’s birthday. Tell her the one about the Polish luggage; she always liked jokes about her birthplace. And remember how you used to have me bring home the blue velveteen Royal Crown drawstring bags from the plane so the kids could carry marbles and stuff? Remember that you told me that when you went to that basketball court in the sky I was supposed to ask the funeral home people if they could put you in a Safeway bag or a cardboard box? Well, they almost choked when I told them but they offered me “an alternative casket” for the crematorium. Hello, it’s a cardboard box, people (What is that, Seinfeld? Friends? Some other-generation thing). Jim. Remember how you would not move to Antioch because the traffic on 4 is so bad? Guess what crematorium they used? You were right; traffic on 4 IS bad. I could not take you home that day—what? did they forget to preheat?—but a couple of days later I went to get you. Did you guess? Omygawd, Jim! They put you in a marble bag! I think that they think that it’s a tasteful, discreet, maroon velvet bag with a golden cord. But, Jim! Omygawd! I had to run out of there with you in my arms so that I did not wake the dead in the viewing rooms:LOL! Jim! Omygod! You are in a marble bag! There is something heavy in the marble bag, maybe a metal box. Knowing you, it’s probably some kind of bowling ball, another Polish joke. It has been almost a year, but I cannot undo the draw string. But, Jim! Omygawd! You are in a marble bag! I taped a newspaper cartoon to the outside. You will like this: “A life-long practical joker’s last request was to have a pressure activated voice message installed in his grave site-‘OW! GET OFF! GET OFF ME!’” Must have been a salesman like you. Someday we will go to Laguna and scatter you off the coast of that basketball court you love on the beach, but right now, your sister wants you to go to Michigan for a memorial. I think she wants you to stay there. Don’t worry; I know you hate winter. But, anyway, that’s why I have to get the note from the funeral parlor to certify that you are in, well, Omygawd, Jim! You are in a marble bag and I have to take you through security!
By the way, you know how you used to call your Mustang your horsey? Well, I watched the Reagan funeral. I had forgotten about the riderless horse with the backwards boot in the stirrup at presidential funerals. I got the giggles. His riding boot was pretty tall in that stirrup, Jim. Yep. You guessed it. It looked like your artificial leg. So. I got one of your legs out of the closet, put it on the driveway next to your Mustang—backwards—and took a picture. I picked up the developed film today. I forgot that Michael’s old Bronco was in the driveway next to your horsey. Wow! What a presidential procession you had.
I want to go simply when I goThey’ll give me a simple funeral there I knowI’ll lie beneath the sandWith piped in tapes of billy grahamOh take me when I’m gone to forest lawnAmen
Now, look. We are going to rush you to Michigan for your memorial and rush you back again because I am taking two undergrad classes that have finals and papers due for all four classes starting that Monday.
Fly away, fly away, fly away
After finals, I will leave to meet Joani. Jim D. will be in the left seat on 940 on the second so Joani wrote, “I just happen to be intimately acquainted with the Captain. I’ll ‘shack up’ with him in Frankfurt and meet you there on the fourth for the connection to Madrid.” Shack up? Can you imagine a wife talking so disrespectfully about her husband?
All my bags are packedI’m ready to goI’m standin’ here outside your doorI hate to wake you up to say goodbyeBut the dawn is breakin’It’s early mornThe taxi’s waitin’He’s blowin’ his hornAlready I’m so lonesomeI could die
Well, Jim, here’s the thing. This is the trip that I tell myself you would have taken me on as a graduation present. Joani is going with me instead. We are not taking you to Europe and Africa even though I know you would provide me with more stories (I never did get that picture of you on a camel). No. You are staying here, though Ken says you are urning to go. Don’t make an ash of yourself while I am gone.
Gift for Two: The Search for Souvenir Soccer Shorts
Soccer shorts. This was the simple suggestion from my son Michael for his 25th birthday gift. I was on my way to Spain, Morocco, and Portugal. How hard could it be to fulfill his request in countries where futbol is a religion? HARD! I made the mistake of booking myself on a sixteen day bus tour of the three countries—that grand goof is a story for another time. Suffice to say that touring with a group does not leave much time for shopping for atypical souvenirs—castanets, jewelry, rugs, yes—but not soccer shorts. As in the US, jerseys hang in many store windows, but sports bottoms do not. I tried to find the gift at every pre-arranged stop in our first country, Spain, with no success.
We went on to Morocco. One night, the local guide pointed to a sports shop from the tour bus, assuring me they would have the shorts: “I don’t see it. Is it near Air Moroc?” “Yes,” he said confidently. A taxi driver took me to the shop the following morning. The windows were painted white; the store was closed forever. The driver took me to another venue but they had only jerseys. Understanding my disappointment, the driver suggested that he drive slowly down the original street while he watched one side and I the other for another sports shop. Ignoring that the tour bus could leave Marrakech without me, I agreed with his plan. Success! I had green Team Moroc shorts and met my tour group before they departed for Casablanca. The cab driver helped me out of his car, gave me a hug, a kiss on each cheek, and an invitation to return to Marrakech. I accept!
A few days later we were back in Spain. I not only looked forward to enjoying Seville, it was another opportunity to find official Spanish soccer shorts. Unfortunately, I had another souvenir of Morocco besides the green shorts. I found out later that the consequence of poorly handled chicken or bad water is called campylobacter. I spent the time in Seville between the bed and the toilet with a wastebasket at my feet. This is not what they mean when they say, “Bend it like Beckham!” When we departed for Portugal, I had not added Spanish shorts to my carry-on (though I had thrown out a few pairs of my own knickers).
The next stop, Lisboa, Portugal, was beautiful. I tried to tour and shop on arrival, but had to spend too much time in the castle bathroom at the top of the Jewish Quarter. No soccer shorts that day. At the end of a subsequent day of touring the country-side, we had three hours before a scheduled Fado dinner. The young concierge said that sport shops in one of two malls fifteen minutes from our hotel would carry Team Portugal shorts. Although I was unwell, red-faced, and dripping wet from the humidity and my fever, I grabbed a cab. I toured both centers (and their bathrooms); neither had official shorts. One clerk suggested I go to Sports Zone, a store in the Colombo Mall on the other side of town. Columbus discovered the riches of America; surely his mall would reward me with a pair of soccer shorts. With time running out to meet my tour, I took two metro trains, visiting the bathroom between lines. Upon arrival, it took about 45 minutes of climbing stairs and making enquiries in fashionable shops to find Sports Zone. I visited the bathrooms often, hoping to find Michael’s shorts before having an accident in my own. In the sports store, I found souvenirs from Eurocup 2004—cereal bowls and jerseys—but no national team soccer shorts. Hoping that flattery would produce a miracle, I approached a young sales clerk: “I am sorry that I do not speak Portuguese. I would like to buy futbol shorts from the team that did so well at Eurocup. Where may I find Portugal?” “No more,” he said. “What do you mean no more? Luis Figo! Nuno Gomes! You came in second but the team still exists! I saw the stadium! I saw the telephone booths shaped like soccer balls!” The young man explained that Eurocup fans had bought all the shorts and socks in the country. Only jerseys (and cereal bowls) remained. I went back to the mall bathroom and fought with a cleaner who tried to close it. Maybe there were no official national team soccer shorts in Portugal, but I could act like a European futbol fan when called upon to protect my own shorts!
That following Saturday, we pulled into Madrid. The tour bus passed the stadium for Real Madrid and the guide made a joke about David Beckham cutting his pony tail to garner a contract with Gillette. Don’t tease! The guide said that those who did not want to take the optional tour to the Valley of the Kings could get off at the Prado. I wanted to see the Valley of the Kings but I wanted those soccer shorts more. The guide dropped us off at noon, mentioning as we disembarked, “By the way, the stores closed for the weekend at noon.” Caca! I have campylobacter and shorts from Morocco, but no futbol briefs from Portugal and Spain for my son’s 25th birthday.
I told Michael the story when he picked me up from the airport in San Francisco. He apologized that I went to so much trouble for something he could have ordered from the Internet—who knew?—but I think he enjoyed the narrative almost as much as he would have enjoyed showing off the shorts when coaching his soccer teams. He also knows that he gave me the gift of another humorous travel story to relate, something I thought I might never have again after the death of my usual travel companion, his very funny father.
We went on to Morocco. One night, the local guide pointed to a sports shop from the tour bus, assuring me they would have the shorts: “I don’t see it. Is it near Air Moroc?” “Yes,” he said confidently. A taxi driver took me to the shop the following morning. The windows were painted white; the store was closed forever. The driver took me to another venue but they had only jerseys. Understanding my disappointment, the driver suggested that he drive slowly down the original street while he watched one side and I the other for another sports shop. Ignoring that the tour bus could leave Marrakech without me, I agreed with his plan. Success! I had green Team Moroc shorts and met my tour group before they departed for Casablanca. The cab driver helped me out of his car, gave me a hug, a kiss on each cheek, and an invitation to return to Marrakech. I accept!
A few days later we were back in Spain. I not only looked forward to enjoying Seville, it was another opportunity to find official Spanish soccer shorts. Unfortunately, I had another souvenir of Morocco besides the green shorts. I found out later that the consequence of poorly handled chicken or bad water is called campylobacter. I spent the time in Seville between the bed and the toilet with a wastebasket at my feet. This is not what they mean when they say, “Bend it like Beckham!” When we departed for Portugal, I had not added Spanish shorts to my carry-on (though I had thrown out a few pairs of my own knickers).
The next stop, Lisboa, Portugal, was beautiful. I tried to tour and shop on arrival, but had to spend too much time in the castle bathroom at the top of the Jewish Quarter. No soccer shorts that day. At the end of a subsequent day of touring the country-side, we had three hours before a scheduled Fado dinner. The young concierge said that sport shops in one of two malls fifteen minutes from our hotel would carry Team Portugal shorts. Although I was unwell, red-faced, and dripping wet from the humidity and my fever, I grabbed a cab. I toured both centers (and their bathrooms); neither had official shorts. One clerk suggested I go to Sports Zone, a store in the Colombo Mall on the other side of town. Columbus discovered the riches of America; surely his mall would reward me with a pair of soccer shorts. With time running out to meet my tour, I took two metro trains, visiting the bathroom between lines. Upon arrival, it took about 45 minutes of climbing stairs and making enquiries in fashionable shops to find Sports Zone. I visited the bathrooms often, hoping to find Michael’s shorts before having an accident in my own. In the sports store, I found souvenirs from Eurocup 2004—cereal bowls and jerseys—but no national team soccer shorts. Hoping that flattery would produce a miracle, I approached a young sales clerk: “I am sorry that I do not speak Portuguese. I would like to buy futbol shorts from the team that did so well at Eurocup. Where may I find Portugal?” “No more,” he said. “What do you mean no more? Luis Figo! Nuno Gomes! You came in second but the team still exists! I saw the stadium! I saw the telephone booths shaped like soccer balls!” The young man explained that Eurocup fans had bought all the shorts and socks in the country. Only jerseys (and cereal bowls) remained. I went back to the mall bathroom and fought with a cleaner who tried to close it. Maybe there were no official national team soccer shorts in Portugal, but I could act like a European futbol fan when called upon to protect my own shorts!
That following Saturday, we pulled into Madrid. The tour bus passed the stadium for Real Madrid and the guide made a joke about David Beckham cutting his pony tail to garner a contract with Gillette. Don’t tease! The guide said that those who did not want to take the optional tour to the Valley of the Kings could get off at the Prado. I wanted to see the Valley of the Kings but I wanted those soccer shorts more. The guide dropped us off at noon, mentioning as we disembarked, “By the way, the stores closed for the weekend at noon.” Caca! I have campylobacter and shorts from Morocco, but no futbol briefs from Portugal and Spain for my son’s 25th birthday.
I told Michael the story when he picked me up from the airport in San Francisco. He apologized that I went to so much trouble for something he could have ordered from the Internet—who knew?—but I think he enjoyed the narrative almost as much as he would have enjoyed showing off the shorts when coaching his soccer teams. He also knows that he gave me the gift of another humorous travel story to relate, something I thought I might never have again after the death of my usual travel companion, his very funny father.
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