tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52171816945324323172024-03-05T15:19:14.213-08:00Amerikai GulyásWelcome to Amerikai Gulyás (American Goulash). Here you'll find a stew of tales from a middle-aged American guy living abroad for five months in an even older than middle-aged country: Hungary. Please join me as I traipse around this enigmatic nation and the wider European continent as I discover my humility, and with it, season the pot.Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-44570947380295712172011-06-24T03:00:00.000-07:002011-06-24T03:23:23.123-07:00Lead With Love. Leave With Hope<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjI_Cx6bxfqfNh6QCHWOXa9hcIGoUW5VzjcxsRtZRCOUjPnhMMuBXy0t7aNL8AFkB89JyHm-pC93CS8jYRDbMnuf0vLG59sHrfEWkmlku39lkhvF89X_Ty3pf0NUpp-3KqHVvaLnKpNY/s1600/10-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjI_Cx6bxfqfNh6QCHWOXa9hcIGoUW5VzjcxsRtZRCOUjPnhMMuBXy0t7aNL8AFkB89JyHm-pC93CS8jYRDbMnuf0vLG59sHrfEWkmlku39lkhvF89X_Ty3pf0NUpp-3KqHVvaLnKpNY/s400/10-a.jpg" width="340" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">From the ceiling of The Prayer Room in the Terezin Ghetto</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Just try to lead with love." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Kenneth Cooper </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is my final post. Tuesday, I return to the States after five months in Europe, thereby closing the book on my Hungarian Fulbright experience. I am sorry to see it end. I am thankful to have had it.<br />
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Five months is a long time, to be away from home, but also to live as a guest in someone else's home. To my mind, Europe has been my guest home for this period, and the Hungarian town of Eger my room within that home. Always returning to my place here in Eger, I have traveled to Copenhagen, Berlin, Krakow, Venice, Oradea (Romania), </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Prague, Antwerp</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">, not to mention the Hungarian towns of P</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span>cs, Veszpr</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">m, Debrecen, Miskolc, and Budapest. Though not Europe, we can throw </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Tel Aviv and Jerusalem in there as well. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I use this metaphor of "home" because it is in the "home" that we come to know families, family traditions, family values -- complete with, as my Yiddish forebears would say, their <i>mishigas</i>. It's the traditions and such that make a stay informative; it's the mishigas that makes a stay interesting. Europe is very interesting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">As a house guest in Europe, I was a child. I had everything to learn and understand; I shied from being an American elder and teaching about American ways. If asked, I would answer, but I was more interested in observing and taking instruction. I tried to slip about the house quietly like an apprentice, not noisily like an apostle or apologist. I'm not sure how well I did, though I did my best.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">A return from this time spent overseas deserves, I think, some kind of written reflection, some kind of exit synthesis on this blog. I can't call it a summing up, because my response here, what I have chosen to reflect upon, does not and cannot address all that I've caught in the net of this Fulbright experience. Instead, I'll talk about just a few ideas high up on my retrospective food chain. Keep the keepers. Let the little fish, however striking, go.<br />
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To this end I have been thinking, <i>What can I say that I learned while here -- in Hungary, Europe, Israel --, and say in a cogent, focused way?</i> It is this: our species, <i>homo sapiens</i>, is immense. We are immense in number, and immense in imagination. This three-pound notebook on which I have been keeping this blog can store thousands of pages just like this one; complete in fractions of a second calculations that took the brightest mathematicians thousands of years to unlock; stream video of John Stewart sparring with Chris Wallace over political bias in the media. And it can do all this for nearly half a day with not an electrical outlet in sight. Tuesday I will board a jet that will cross the Atlantic in a handful of hours, at an altitude of three or four miles, at a speed of 500 or 600 miles per hour, delivering me and hundreds of other passengers and thousands of other pounds with pinpoint accuracy and infinitesimal risk. Notebook and jet, both of these machines are the culmination of millions of hours of research, design, mining, shaping, manufacturing, and so forth. This little laptop and that jumbojet are both products of and testimonials to our species' immense imagination.<br />
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So too was the Holocaust. It is only when one gets beneath the ghastly but incomprehensible abstraction, <i>six million</i>, that one learns, as I have begun to, the vast, complex interweave of imagination and invention that went into the round-up, transport, and industrial murder of countless human beings by a relative handful of other human beings. The detail, the precision, the constant innovation with which The Final Solution evolved from clumsy, labor intensive ditch-side executions to its Zyklon-B apogee at Auschwitz was, to be sure, a genius of imagination. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unfortunately, for the exterminated Jews and overwhelming majority of humans who have survived them, it was imagination gone tragically, criminally wrong. But for Topf & Sons, the company that designed for Aushcwitz II (Birkenau) the three-chamber crematoria that replaced the traditional two-chamber ovens at Auschwitz I which were unable to keep up with demand, and thereby dramatically increased </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">corpse disposal </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">efficiency at the new camp, there was likely much champagne clinking and back-slapping over the engineering feat. Had Hitler prevailed, and had he achieved his goal of cleansing Europe of its 11,000,000 Jews, Topf & Sons would likely have enjoyed prominent status as heroes of the Third Reich; would likely have been praised for their wartime contribution with gratitude and solemnity by the </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">F</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">ü</span>hrer. <br />
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Maybe Topf & Sons were monsters; I don't know. They were, at minimum, men whose imaginations were challenged by a vexing problem, and their imaginations rose to the challenge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Hitler, most agree, was a monster, but he too was a man whose imagination was challenged by a vexing problem, and his imagination, too, rose to that challenge. But if we think that Hitler is an aberration, we are mistaken. He is not; he is only the most extreme exponent of the urge to solve a problem through mass murder; he simply had the will and the means, particularly the means, to carry his plan to its most logical and logistically potent conclusion. </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the name of some self-proclaimed and self-justified "good", o</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ther people at other times, past and future, have been and will try to be Hitler in their own ways and to their own scale, given their imagination and conviction and resources at hand. Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol-pot, Rios-Mott -- the list goes on -- and will go on. <br />
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So we, humans, are capable of not only imagining immense murder of our own species but of perpetrating mass murder through technical and technological genius: Auschwitz and Birkenau; Hiroshima and Nagasaki; drones and germs. Is there a species more murderous of its own, more preoccupied with murdering its own? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <br />
That gloomy and hackneyed "discovery" about humans is not the thing I learned best here, though. Rather, I have learned its opposite. I have learned that if we are capable of immense cruelty and murder, we are also capable, and immensely more capable, of their opposite: immense love. If murder is the act of ending someone's life, love is the act of immortalizing the loved one's life in the moment, of wishing that life to last not only forever, but to last as the best, happiest, most contented and rewarding life possible. Murder ends; lover eternalizes.<br />
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Unscripted love here contradicted the barbarity of the genocidal blueprint here. I witnessed great love between paramours, between parents and children, between best (or maybe not even best) friends. For instance: Late last Sunday afternoon, as I wandered in the very quiet Czech town of Terezin, forty miles north of Prague, after having spent the previous five hours going from building to building learning about Terezin's function as a Jewish ghetto, concentration camp, and deportation center to Auschwitz during the Holocaust, which included time poring over the artwork of all those Terezin children that has survived while the children themselves have not, I passed a spit of a park empty but for two teenage girls sitting on a bench beneath windy trees, shrieking and laughing with each other as only teenage girls will do, as only the very best of teenage friends can do. Their love for each other at that moment was immense. It consumed the world, including Terezin, and me.<br />
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Or: Traveling by train from Prague back to Budapest in the late, sunny, morning I looked out the window at one point to see a young dark-haired father on a hill holding his pink bonneted toddler in his arms as she smiled and waved at the passing train, unaware of what it was or who was on it, but gleeful nonetheless; and her father who held her up and glowed with her and whose love for her was more immense at that moment than any he has ever known, or would know, until the next time they visited a passing train and he held her up to wave hello, goodbye. Or perhaps until the next time he looked at her, really looked at her. Who could not see that man and not understand his immense joy, and feel his immense joy? The absolute love of a parent?<br />
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Or: The young, Eger woman swimming coach whose charges were three year old bulbs of buoyancy, imps who didn't dive into the pool so much as they just squatted down, leaned forward over the water, crossed their hands over their heads, and waited for the Earth's vibrations to tip them in, and then once in, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">submerging their faces and stroking and stroking with great determination only to go mostly nowhere.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> To see this coach walk alongside the pool, to hear her talk to these tiny people, support them, encourage them, celebrate them for their progress -- discrete as it may have been -- and then to catch and wrap each one in a bath towel </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">they came out of the pool dripping and drooping in their swim caps and goggles, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">and hug them and kiss them, to see this coach make each child she embraced and petted feel like the most special, adored child in the world, to look down upon this wonderful person was to understand immense love, to understand it and to feel it. I mean, as I stood on the balcony overlooking Eger's municipal pool and watched these exchanges below, these gifts, I felt love. For her. For the children. For all of us. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> For me, having been a Jew in Europe these past five months was an immersion in immense sorrow. A whole people, gutted, gone forever, with only the husks of their fading synagogues and their stooped old weathered cemeteries as proof that they were ever here. In this sense, Europe is an immense, unfillable hole.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">But having been a simple human being in Europe, though perhaps owing to the immense sorrow I felt as a Jew, I have also come to know immense happiness, to see what we, people, are capable of in our best moments. In this sense, Europe, Earth, offers immense, quite fullfillable hope.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I return to the States I know I will never lose sight of the hurt. But as I return to the States, I am committed to setting my sights on the hope. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">To those of you who have read this far, I thank you, and wish you well. And I wish you love.</span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-35309992542144964362011-06-21T05:32:00.000-07:002011-06-21T05:32:27.200-07:00For The Good of Lobsters and Humankind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2cLENEvfBSYXDuNd3RJMxC9qV7iDyUqjgURDyWCL5yTaA9RnzldZtB69aDVQdSqJXgpPx0mGu3Wvqlgh869Rx04jz2mN9jWWEo31-ueTG6xbKjj0NXp1vQMfpNlCPewaDXV_lhwNX3A/s1600/rubber-bands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2cLENEvfBSYXDuNd3RJMxC9qV7iDyUqjgURDyWCL5yTaA9RnzldZtB69aDVQdSqJXgpPx0mGu3Wvqlgh869Rx04jz2mN9jWWEo31-ueTG6xbKjj0NXp1vQMfpNlCPewaDXV_lhwNX3A/s400/rubber-bands.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Two nights ago I had dinner in a swinging Cuban restaurant located in Prague's (former) Jewish Ghetto. I was first attracted to the restaurant earlier in the day when, passing by, and spotting a lively al fresco business, I plopped myself down at a table for a glass of wine, which turned into three. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Even if the music was Cuban and I didn't understand a word of it (some music is better left unintelligible anyway, like most opera),</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I was happy hearing something other than the typical Anglo-pop I'd been suffering through since I arrived in Europe. So I lingered over the Latin sounds. Of course, </span><span style="font-size: large;">in its own way, </span><span style="font-size: large;">the wine helped, too.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Somewhere between glasses one and three I learned that the restaurant offered live music each night and that, coupled with the Cuban menu item made of fried pork belly and rice I spotted on the menu, sealed it for me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I returned refreshed around 8:30 the place was not yet at capacity but getting close. As it was a Cuban restaurant and flaunted its Cuban roots and cliche of fine cigars, coronas and figurados were smoldering all around, left and right. I don't mind cigars (mostly it's the people who pose with them that irritate me), but I didn't want to eat in a fog, so when asked I opted for the non-smoking section, which, after following the host for about twenty minutes, I discovered to be way back in the restaurant's hinterlands, far removed from the music I'd come to hear. What the hell, I thought; I'll eat and then go catch the show.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was seated at a table opposite a fish tank, of what size I don't know -- 30, 45, 60 gallons -- whatever, it was plenty big enough to make a roomy home for the 6 lobsters whose final days, perhaps minutes, would be spent there. It was a very simple home, filled only with water and a large conch shell, dead center. The lobsters had a lot of room in which find their own quiet space, to be alone and contemplate their lives.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Soon after I sat down the live music began and was piped into the way back room. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It was an up-tempo Latin piece, obviously, and quite audible. Audible enough apparently</span><span style="font-size: large;"> for the lobsters to hear, because </span><span style="font-size: large;">with the onset of the music one of the lobsters began to raise and lower its eight spindly legs in a sort of tango or rumba or whatever the proper Cuban dance stepped the tune called for.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Maybe the lobster was Cuban, a <i>langosta</i>, or maybe it simply liked salsa. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Either way, I was greatly impressed and amused by this dancing lobster, and watched it happily as I continued to go unnoticed by the wait staff. The lobsters 1-2-3,1-2-3 reminded me of the dancing cat in the old Purina Cat Chow, cha-cha-cha commercials, only better, because this wasn't staged as some kind of advertising gimmick, but was simply a lobster stepping to the beat, having a good time. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's possible that the lobster was trying to entice one of the other lobsters, or perhaps several, to join in a full-on fish tank conga, but none took the bait, so to speak, and the lobster was left dancing with itself, just like Billy Idol. After a while it stopped, maybe saying to itself "Oh what's the use."</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever the term is for people who study crustaceans, I am not one, and so I can observe lobster behavior only without actually knowing the behavior that I observe. That is, I can try to guess what a lobster might be doing in terms parallel to human behavior, though I am sure that kind of anthropomorphism will endow lobster behavior with meaning the lobster may never have intended, assuming lobsters intend their behaviors at all. In other words, maybe it's a fool's errand to try to penetrate the mind of a lobster.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, having no distractions or obstructions to get in the way, such as a service person offering me a menu or looking to take a drink or dinner order, </span><span style="font-size: large;">here is more of what I observed</span><span style="font-size: large;">:</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For a long while the lobsters seemed to be brooding despite the Ricky Ricardo music, when, out of the blue, and seemingly without provocation, another lobster suddenly gt all animated, not to rumba but to rumble, as in, it began acting very aggressively toward the no-longer-dancing lobster, and actually charged holding its big claws menacingly overhead, to which the dancing lobster reacted with an equally aggressive charge with equally menacing drawn claws. I don't know if perhaps the no-longer-dancing lobster had been harassing the other lobster, taunting it for not having gotten up to dance earlier, but in any event, they were now going at it.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">However, because their claws were rubber-banded, and therefore useless as weapons (the claws can crack, but they don't make for good bludgeons -- too much water resistance) -- the best they could do was slam into each other and try to out-muscle each other. Like sumo-lobsters, they pushed and pushed, giving ground, gaining ground, back and forth. From an outsider's perspective, the whole thing looked pretty futile, but I suppose the lobsters felt there was something to be gained by it, lobster honor, maybe. And so they kept at it, fiercely. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Again, not being a lobsterologist, the sudden antagonism perplexed me, and I had to assume it had to do not with dancing but with sex. I assumed that these two libidinous lobsters -- males? females? -- were fighting for sexual sovereignty over the four other lobsters who, unlike the lobster warriors, were kind of curled up in their own corner of the tank paying no mind to to the roughnecks, dreaming sweet lobster dreams of yummy starfish and tender clams (or perhaps having nightmares of boiling water and drawn butter).</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If any of the four <i>had </i>paid the slightest attention to the sparring lobsters they surely would have thought, "What idiots. What are they trying to prove?" Instead they slept, conserving energy and enjoying their remaining time on earth (at least in their current form).</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Watching the two disclawed lobsters in their futile attempts to hurt each other, I came upon a discovery. Well, </span><span style="font-size: large;">maybe </span><span style="font-size: large;">not a discover, but an insight of sorts; at the very least, a thought. It had to do with the rubber bands. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, I don't know what the crushing power is of a lobster's big gnarly claw, but it looks sizable. And, I suspect that the lobster that is able to get that claw clamped on to some part of an adversary can do some serious damage, break off and arm or a leg, snap antennae, pluck eyes. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Such dismemberment, obviously, would not be welcomed by the sudden amputee, but also, in a larger sense, it would not be welcomed for the lobster fisherman who caught the lobster, nor for the Cuban restaurant, both of whom want to keep their lobsters whole for their customers. No one wants to order pre-cracked lobsters or lobsters with missing parts.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the lobster world, the simple device of a rubber-band exerts extraordinary economic power, maintaining peace -- or at least preventing horrific violence -- between rumbling lobsters, thereby getting them to the market and platter as nature designed. The alternative would be costly, unchecked lobster carnage.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Granted, it does the lobsters no real good having their claws bound by rubber bands -- their fates were sealed once they got hauled up in the trap -- and so what difference does it make to them whether they tear or are torn to pieces? Might as well go out snapping. For everyone else, though, the simple disarmament is a marvel.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here then is the discovery/insight/thought: What we humans need then is to figure out some way to make rubber bands for our species that have the same restraining effect as rubber bands have on lobsters. To keep us from hurting ourselves, tearing each other to shreds. Somebody needs to play the part of the lobsterman, or the Cuban restaurant, and bind up our means of destruction so that if we humans cannot ever escape or evolve out of our urge to fight, at least we won't hurt each other. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm talking about rubber bands over missile silos, and rocket launchers, and armored tanks, etc. Imagine a war where tanks, with rubber bands restraining their cannons and their </span><span style="font-size: large;"> shell cracking powers neutralized, </span><span style="font-size: large;">met in battle like banded lobsters and simply charged at each other and ran into each other to see who could push who, where. A several thousand ton shoving match. No doubt, some headaches and whiplash would result, but eventually the tank's tanks would hit empty and their crews left wondering, "Now what do we do?" "I dunno. I guess maybe we just leave it here and walk home."</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If not rubber banded, lobster combat would be very costly, to the lobsterman, the restauranteur, and ultimately the customer. And if lobster combat would be costly, you can imagine how costly human combat is. We humans need someone to play the part of lobsterman and band our claws, and then someone to play the part of the restauranteur who will maintain those bands, for our own short-lived good, until, </span><span style="font-size: large;">our time being up,</span><span style="font-size: large;"> that celestial hand reaches into the tank and plucks us out, with luck to serve us up to some higher purpose, but more likely to drop us into a fiery cauldron.</span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-60716904714124217892011-06-15T02:52:00.000-07:002011-06-21T01:34:18.424-07:00Subhumans<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtoSpbQENSbEdfgEgwEfQ5-vglN1Da8UZi8DwnYRzTOKIJW__fFU_BbiuHeYGqCgxj4S_blQZbkCQcpup7zrKwBA5HshoSv7ZvGfmYZDK4J14vz83U8q_Nz_9WbQMEnRWbyyaatYOBZE/s1600/gypsey+childred.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtoSpbQENSbEdfgEgwEfQ5-vglN1Da8UZi8DwnYRzTOKIJW__fFU_BbiuHeYGqCgxj4S_blQZbkCQcpup7zrKwBA5HshoSv7ZvGfmYZDK4J14vz83U8q_Nz_9WbQMEnRWbyyaatYOBZE/s400/gypsey+childred.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
I shared a compartment for the first fifty miles or so of my train to Prague with one other person, a pleasant young Serbian woman. A high school German teacher in a northern town that begins with a V, she was on her way to a two-week workshop in Berlin. Though she was a little anxious about leaving her husband and four year old son for two weeks, she was also clearly excited by the prospect of leaving her husband and four year old son for two weeks, and of spending two weeks in Berlin, a city she likes but hasn't visited in eleven years. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Her English is far better than she knows, and we were -- from my perspective -- able to communicate remarkably well. Still, she became visibly frustrated when she looked for but couldn't find the English word to express herself, her thought. I am 56; I understand her frustration well.<br />
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I asked her if she liked living in Serbia (which, until the end of the First World War, when the Austro-Hungarian empire came out the loser, had been part of Hungary), and she said, yes, but quickly clarified, "northern Serbia, the northern part of the country."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Why the northern part?" I asked.<br />
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"The southern part, it is dirty," she said meekly.<br />
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"Dirty? What do you mean?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"It is, ... " she struggled, "Mmm. How do I say this without sounding bad?"<br />
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"What? Is it poor?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes! That is it! It is poor."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't need to wait for her to answer my next question. I had been in Hungary long enough to know. "Are they Roma living there?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">She frowned and nodded. "They are. They are...dirty." She wasn't comfortable saying this. <br />
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We talked some more about the Roma, about how they were beginning to move into the north, into her town that begins with a V. She said that during the war in the 90s, Serbians had fled their homes and never returned, and that the government has been opening those vacant homes to homeless Roma from all over Europe. On the surface the Serbian government settlement plan seems almost humanitarian, but the young schoolteacher offered a more cynical explanation. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She said that because ethnic Hungarians now make up about 70% of Serbia's population, the government has been luring Roma from all over Europe with free housing and government support. The government's strategy is to grow a population of grateful (and dependent) Roma who will eventually supercede the ethnic Hungarian majority and neuter its power. (The Hungarian government, some allege, has embarked on a similar strategy with its Roma. Obviously, while not looking to displace Hungarians in Hungary, the government seeks to build a loyal patronage in the Roma by providing government child support. Supposedly, this has spawned a population boom among the Roma. I have also heard it claimed that the government gives additional support for disabled children -- and that Roma women intentionally try to damage the fetus so that it will be born disabled.)<br />
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Since I arrived in Europe in late January, I have heard no one in Hungary, Germany, Poland, or Romania speak favorably of the Roma. Most don't speak of the Roma at all, as the word seemse to evoke continental squeemishness. It seems to be a subject very much on people's minds, but hardly ever on their tongues. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">When I have had a discussion about the Roma, "the Roma problem" as it is most often called, that is, when someone has broken the taboo against speaking aloud, the Roma have been described as dirty, lazy, ignorant, uneducable, unwilling to assimilate, irresponsible, welfare abusers, violent, thievish, etc. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what of this is true. I suspect some of it is true, but, having met no Roma (that I am aware of) I have not even the slightest experience with which to confirm or disconfirm what I have heard. I am a pupil of hearsay.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
I have to say that the stories I've heard about the Roma are pretty disturbing. And my encounters with Roma children begging in Berlin, or Roma mothers clutching toddlers in woeful still-lifes on Budapest's sidewalks angling for pity and pittance, made me angry. Even Gypsy Rose, that sweet Roma child I wrote about a few posts ago, she too, was, for lack of a better word, being pimped by somebody, somebody ruinous of that little girl and her future.<br />
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The question I am left asking: Is it possible that a whole people, a whole culture, can be as depraved as I have been told the Roma are?</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I come from a long line of subhumans: Jews. I have known this vaguely throughout my life but learned it clearly over the past five months as I've visited various Jewish museums around Europe (and Israel).</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> It seems that Jewish subhumanity was first recognized in Europe sometime in the late middle ages, when it was discovered that we Jews had, on special occasions, drawn the blood of Christian infants to mix with flour and bake into matzoh. Not a lot, mind you. Just enough to give the matzoh some zest and a tinge of color (matzoh on its own is very bland, both in flavor and visual appeal).</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> As Jews only eat matzoh once a year for eight days during Passover, I think the Christian alarm was a bit hysterical. It's not like Jews ate matzoh all the time back then. Nor do we today, and so while I cannot say definitively that that ritual baking has ceased among Jews, I can say that I have never seen it first hand. My mother's matzoh was store-bought, and unless Manischewitz of Streits engage in factory bloodletting, I think the recipe has faded from the Jewish cookbook. <br />
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Speaking of cooking, while we Jews may be prohibited by kosher dietary laws from cooking or eating pork, apparently kosher does not rule out sucking on sow teets or tickling and licking pig anus, as medieval woodcuts of Jews prove.</span></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPKX-YOvPiUSH_LRjZ3VwcF39xHP_VFxO2Ul2nnfmv6QMkJVKi8dlMsh5AS7WzgQtdkcuX0s9mI_bD0cQFyxWAl6yVdTnAOxN10jNEWwAtEq_UvLN-j5nwThbbHrP7_qlhViTt7SdzO0/s1600/jews+and+sow.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPKX-YOvPiUSH_LRjZ3VwcF39xHP_VFxO2Ul2nnfmv6QMkJVKi8dlMsh5AS7WzgQtdkcuX0s9mI_bD0cQFyxWAl6yVdTnAOxN10jNEWwAtEq_UvLN-j5nwThbbHrP7_qlhViTt7SdzO0/s400/jews+and+sow.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"> Again, I don't know to what extent European Jews have carried the tasting of such delicacies forward into contemporary times, but in all my years as an American Jew I never once saw an American sow's teet sucked or her anus licked; perhaps I am simply a Jew in denial, or maybe it's because I grew up in the suburbs and we didn't keep sows (there). </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Certainly, there are other traits and indicators of our subhumanity that we Jews have learned to so well conceal (our tails, for instance) or simply exorcize, though at the moment I cannot recall what they all are. I do know that Hitler, in his Mein Kampf and elsewhere, is pretty clear about what Jews are and where Jews stand zoologically. That book still has a significant number of adherents, and is, I'm sure, quite instructive to its faithful.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I spent this past semester in Hungary teaching a course, the American Civil Rights Movement, which was really a truncated history of the civil rights movement. I mostly focused on the civil rights struggles of southern blacks during the 50s up to the mid-60s. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">That subset of the civil rights movement was the campaign (or more accurately, various campaigns) to strike down Jim Crow, the segregation system of laws and mores born of a racial ideology convinced that blacks were subhuman, that they were not fit to mingle with white society. By nature blacks were not fully human and could never become fully human. As such, they could only be human contaminants, and without strict segregation, racial mingling, Jim Crow taught, would lead to rape of white woman by black men, and seduction of white men by black women, yielding a race of mongrels. Therefore, the races had to be kept separate. And not simply separate -- the blacks had to be kept low as was fitting their status in the animal kingdom.</span></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjps64e99XU8CP27RsNO83NnOu5zTHhl3EQi18R2H9xyzJRlWLrTGrP4plhdI9qSJBZ7ihZoYVDpz8XDL5P-B7UEd30XGknDBM3iyGXo9OSoClwxjksBbWYJ5Q5nRqky5JA4SYXQxB22oA/s1600/human-evolution-from-ape-to-black-to-white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjps64e99XU8CP27RsNO83NnOu5zTHhl3EQi18R2H9xyzJRlWLrTGrP4plhdI9qSJBZ7ihZoYVDpz8XDL5P-B7UEd30XGknDBM3iyGXo9OSoClwxjksBbWYJ5Q5nRqky5JA4SYXQxB22oA/s400/human-evolution-from-ape-to-black-to-white.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Students in both sections of the course were appalled by the southern racism, and its castigation of an entire race. When I asked if there might be some parallels betweend Jim Crow perceptions of southern blacks and Hungarian perceptions of Roma, I was quickly told no, they were not at all similar. I was told that, because I am from the States and didn't live there, I simply couldn't understand. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder if a racist from the States might say the same to my students about their so-distant condemnation of Jim Crow.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbikoJovqW90jJa9cVRJa-Qi00quDcuBYHKh4MxnkkdnGOarK2mnc51znUjKRDFqg26Siv_wrZ-vq6SHDcOmERRz82LgKJQ8W7uumyt2vB6VcQbZwmf1wsjaof2MptfH8Ewyx-Rfxc6HM/s1600/prague+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbikoJovqW90jJa9cVRJa-Qi00quDcuBYHKh4MxnkkdnGOarK2mnc51znUjKRDFqg26Siv_wrZ-vq6SHDcOmERRz82LgKJQ8W7uumyt2vB6VcQbZwmf1wsjaof2MptfH8Ewyx-Rfxc6HM/s320/prague+004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">As part of the Jewish Museum in Prague I visited The Old Cemetary. Many of the tombstones date back to the 1500s and 1600s, just about the time Europe was learning the true nature of the Jew.<br />
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Now, countless pogroms and one Holocaust later, the Jewish tombstones still stand, or at least many of them. Over the centuries the ground has rippled and heaved beneath them, so that some lean to the right and some leand to the left; some pitch way forward, some tilt way back. There isn't a perfectly upright tombstone among them. <br />
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Each tombstones probably serves as a pretty good moral compass or epitaph for the life of the person buried beneath it. Some really tilted toward the good, some really tilted toward the bad, and most listed waveringly in between.<br />
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Old black cemeteries tell the same story.<br />
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And old Irish and Japanese cemeteries, too.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Do the Roma even bury their dead?</span></b><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Post Script: While wandering in Venice a few days ago I stumbled upon an exhibition devoted to the Roma and Roma art. Below is the website dedicated to that exhibition. Despite the its clumsy appearance, the website offers links to video remarks made by artists, writers, and others (most notably to me, author Salman Rushdie and philanthropist George Soros) on the plight of the Roma people. <a href="http://www.callthewitness.net/Main">Call The Witness</a></span></span></b></div><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-12959928621682980402011-06-10T04:31:00.000-07:002011-06-12T22:33:01.153-07:00Keeping Score<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqxnV1z60qYJlWcqLdS9Dxde-2Ajo-kDOuPRU4EY-zk38A56xenHHtncSlJNXBFslEzqMSHXu4PRoYWerisrjpnUzDgayYMwtkms4VETThatMdlaVPlWECJG_HzGg90_-hKuBGTVBzG4/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqxnV1z60qYJlWcqLdS9Dxde-2Ajo-kDOuPRU4EY-zk38A56xenHHtncSlJNXBFslEzqMSHXu4PRoYWerisrjpnUzDgayYMwtkms4VETThatMdlaVPlWECJG_HzGg90_-hKuBGTVBzG4/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">(That's me, second from the right. And no, I am not standing ten paces ahead.)</span></b></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I spotted this on a t-shirt in Israel and chuckled. At 5'8", and with all respect to the Japanese, I have long thought that I, too, would be big in Japan. At least among men my age.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I don't know that for certain. What I do know is that I'm massive in Manilla. Or was. Here's my story. It takes a while to develop. Please bear with me.</span></span></b><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b>***</b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So that blog authors have some sense what of their blog is being looked at and by whom, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Blogger.com, host of this blog, has a special feature/tab called Stats, which, as the name suggests, tracks a variety of blog site stats, all based upon Pageviews (when someone actually opens a blog page in a web browser).</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The stats don't get very specific; no individual names nor anything personally identifiable; I don't know who you are (though as a spin on Descartes: You read, therefore, I know <i>that </i>you are). </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The data breaks down into three categories and then some subcategories.</span></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1IFsTI2ObR2dMSlajUuDQsbQ69aphTr3bYwW_BQAgU-rJ30kXSk8Tp155nTPtP7l7LUXMTjuAzsHB-19gzOjBBg-Atv-o6_E0ERgZqsU3tpELp5aDZQELaY5debxXRvRfqtVUdEwxhg/s1600/overview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1IFsTI2ObR2dMSlajUuDQsbQ69aphTr3bYwW_BQAgU-rJ30kXSk8Tp155nTPtP7l7LUXMTjuAzsHB-19gzOjBBg-Atv-o6_E0ERgZqsU3tpELp5aDZQELaY5debxXRvRfqtVUdEwxhg/s400/overview.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">First, there is the category for Posts, which simply counts the number of times a specific blog post or entry has been opened -- not necessarily read, just opened. It's pretty straight forward, and lets the blogger know in relative terms what's hot, and what's not.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here, for instance, is the Posts data taken from my blog a second ago (covering the month 5/11-6/9):</span></b><br />
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</tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">As you can see, "Tall Tales From My REMoir is the runaway favorite, though it's good to see that "Where To Go And Make-out In Eger" is still getting some looks. I had great fun with that one, especially the Sarah Palin/Joker photo.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The second category is Traffic Sources which, if opened, details three sub-categories: Referring URLs, Referring Sites, and Search Keywords.</span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I do not know what a Referring URL is, or does, nor do I know what a Referring Site is, or does, nor do I know how knowing what those stats refer to would possibly increase my knowledge in any useful way.</span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">However, the last of the three, Search Keywords, is helpful. It tells me what it was people were looking for when they came upon my blog. (Search Keywords change all the time depending upon who's online when, looking for what, and some are pretty funny: "little sex eger" (Eger of eager?) and "</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">men of israel hot outtakes"</span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">(outtakes or latkes?) are two of my favorites. More on Search Keywords in a minute.)</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Finally, the third Stats category, Audience, is made up of the sub-categories Pageviews by Browsers, Pageviews by Operating Systems, and Pageviews by Countries.</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6v62eKCg4LwW6EfSKsEYtYtoRuPaUCnE2GTC5ZbTsxRBTPYPgz3N2Yp4aQnwAw0XQWEMupkM094D39dolvoHSd8zaUgvZi_V7jjNaLjG8KfRXwijT0MCzkO0Cgvl0vRBdK9VcvkmxWs/s1600/count.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="524" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6v62eKCg4LwW6EfSKsEYtYtoRuPaUCnE2GTC5ZbTsxRBTPYPgz3N2Yp4aQnwAw0XQWEMupkM094D39dolvoHSd8zaUgvZi_V7jjNaLjG8KfRXwijT0MCzkO0Cgvl0vRBdK9VcvkmxWs/s640/count.jpg" width="640" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first piechart shows my audience as orangey slices of various browsers, most of whom I've never heard of.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The second piechart shows my audience as orangey slices of operating systems, and surprise! -- Windows, looking a bit like Pac Man at 84% of the pie, is gobbling up all the other operating systems.</span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, what do those piecharts mean? Beats me. Nor do I know how they could be of any possible value (What could it possibly matter that someone using Rockmelt looked at the blog?). Except to affirm that while Microsoft still has an operating system monopoly, when people are given a browser option, 75% will choose a non-Microsoft product. But do I really need pies to tell me that? It's common knowledge, isn't it? Most of us are chained to Microsoft, but we don't like it.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The only stat that actually informs is Pageviews by Countries (though, as an English teacher I wonder if it shouldn't be Pageviews by <i>Country</i>. I am not certain, however; grammar is not my forte). Whatever its proper phrasing, this stat gives raw numbers of which country has viewed how many pages. It doesn't tell you what pages, just the aggregate number. So, for example, if someone within the U.S. looked at five different pages I've written for this blog, those five looks would show up in the total U.S. Pageviews.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can check all of the above stats by the current day, the current week, the current month, or all-time. For instance, as of right now, June 10, 4:54 a.m. EST, I have accumulated 3,159 Pageviews since I began this blog in January. I don't know if that total is good or bad. What I do know is that if I was a major league baseball player, and those page hits were base hits, I'd be #15 on baseball's exclusive 3000 hit club, just ahead of George Brett (3,154), just behind Cal Ripkin, Jr. (3,184), and only 1098 away from breaking all-time leader Pete Rose's record (4,256)</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">. If page hits were base hits I would be very cool.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Okay, so now that you have some sense of the Blogspot.com data, here comes the plot thickener, the statistical roux.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsy52u1dwya1NAWUTwrSLRjxRZmwhyphenhyphenvueT9s2PQfxqV5wHJWRHPUC4pGuB-VsXxBzPKjm0fyt6xPznqxIVlIUtqXvueopiQjUuhuphqjuQOmBP2yzHAsu8YaSE_ZKpUrAieV0iri8ZXY/s1600/chart.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsy52u1dwya1NAWUTwrSLRjxRZmwhyphenhyphenvueT9s2PQfxqV5wHJWRHPUC4pGuB-VsXxBzPKjm0fyt6xPznqxIVlIUtqXvueopiQjUuhuphqjuQOmBP2yzHAsu8YaSE_ZKpUrAieV0iri8ZXY/s640/chart.png" width="640" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the chart above, in mid-May, you can see that there was some kind of Pageview boom going on. Daily P</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ageviews, which had been hovering at 20 through March and April spiked during the May hitting streak, reaching a high of 66 on May 16. Even though the decline since the May 16 peak has been as precipitous as the rise to it, Pageviews are still coming in, although at a rate lower than their pre-climb average (It's just a slump; my blog will snap out of it).</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Surprisingly,</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the overwhelming majority of Pageviews (866) over this period were of my April 21 "Tall Tales From My REMoir," leading me to conclude, <i>Well, now this is fan-tastic, </i><i>The world is finally catching on. </i><i>REMoir: writer's field of the future!</i></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Flattered, though still humble (of course), I began looking more closely at the stats. To see what else I could learn about my wonderful readers around the world, and their thirst to know about REMoir. I wanted to know: where do they come from? What are their ways? Etc.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">For this, I had to go to the Pageviews by Countries/Country data. It turns out that for the past month the Philippines has been going crazy over my blog, outnumbering even the U.S. for Pageviews for the same period. In terms of my blog, during this boom I wasn't just big in the Philippines, I was massive. </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">(I have always liked the Philippines, their culture and ways. Smart people.)</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Placing the increase of Pageviews for "Tall Tales..." alongside the increase of Pageviews in the Philippines, I began to wonder: <i>What could account for the Philippine wave of interest in REMoir? What's behind the surge?</i></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I looked even closer at the stats, moving from Pageviews by Countries (Country) to Search Keywords.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here is what I saw:</span></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9Z3tOOUsFg3n4__4HK4qyB9sBwBUPAnC3U5A_COakzh6-d5jzoPxgmRel4Vc32SVRMAbaLdVKz6HAuP313u33meD806cLNKmmcEdtI5EYtet6qbZqps0MgUPU0izXCujum-PCDxD2IY/s1600/stats6.g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9Z3tOOUsFg3n4__4HK4qyB9sBwBUPAnC3U5A_COakzh6-d5jzoPxgmRel4Vc32SVRMAbaLdVKz6HAuP313u33meD806cLNKmmcEdtI5EYtet6qbZqps0MgUPU0izXCujum-PCDxD2IY/s640/stats6.g.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="left" style="vertical-align: top;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I am no master statistician, but even so basic a cross reference of Search Keywords to Pageviews by Countries (Country) indicates that the Filipinos/a were not really interested in the genius of REMoir but rather in the possible glamour or grotesqueness of braces. Of the 92 searches shown above, only 12 actually refer to this site. Everything else is braces, braces, braces.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>How then, did all those Filipinos/a end up here, or more specifically, at the "Tall Tales" post? Apparently, because in that "Tall Tales" entry I refer to my braces-wearing youth, and included a web-pirated photo of what braces might look like on teeth and gums whose lips had been retracted like Alex's eyelids in A Clockwork Orange.</b></span><br />
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<tr><td align="left" style="vertical-align: top;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgT_ShA0YNv5Wsp1epFChpon_vepKl3TZr9MqrulnOp7pn33CARoxrOTUm1waNE6nf7_lZfG94-LlN842YPBy-ZomUcn9PtxbwVuxDPNvz_4XrAlttBIZFiVsYbqbS0VaNOpbvfItoNuU/s1600/alex.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgT_ShA0YNv5Wsp1epFChpon_vepKl3TZr9MqrulnOp7pn33CARoxrOTUm1waNE6nf7_lZfG94-LlN842YPBy-ZomUcn9PtxbwVuxDPNvz_4XrAlttBIZFiVsYbqbS0VaNOpbvfItoNuU/s1600/alex.jpeg" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="vertical-align: top;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Search engines doing what search engines do, they delivered all those braces-seeking Filipinos/a to my door.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">All those Pageviews, all those 866 Pageviews, are, in the final analysis, all a mistake, a bunch of orthodontically obsessed Filipinos/a, guided by their crooked cuspids, simply stumbling onto this site. Had people in the Philippines been happier with their teeth, I never would have fallen into the trap of admiring my own popularity, or of believing that REMoir is catching fire in the world.</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">Still, though humble, I am not proud. I liked seeing the Pageviews spike, even if I know now that it was all an illusion.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">That is why, I am going to conclude this blog entry thus:</span></b><br />
<b> </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5Zu3Z2ybHi8qUox-sZHjeAT4juCK-VQKh6Xkp8iVZKuTKhGMZWQcJjC03gT-7oqB_5j6BpVFEIX-JN6xtmKgifIVM8kb51BKUXGD_5DKO1bHpa7f6r56_gfT3XF7RXZB5dU_gGpO7ug/s1600/orthodontics-braces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5Zu3Z2ybHi8qUox-sZHjeAT4juCK-VQKh6Xkp8iVZKuTKhGMZWQcJjC03gT-7oqB_5j6BpVFEIX-JN6xtmKgifIVM8kb51BKUXGD_5DKO1bHpa7f6r56_gfT3XF7RXZB5dU_gGpO7ug/s640/orthodontics-braces.jpg" width="640" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Braces!<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Braces! </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Braces!</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Aparatos</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">de ortodoncia! </span></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Aparatos</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">de ortodoncia!</span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td align="left" style="vertical-align: top;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete Rose -- I'm coming for <i>you</i>!</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-4497836546652900982011-06-07T02:02:00.000-07:002011-06-07T02:02:37.098-07:00Goodbye, Gypsy Rose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6BQARV8CtKwPtmxJBEiPXfjPRIB5BqgqnK3tsUHGv-ZC5TvrXRMxXs_8RDNAGqAa5jb6kWvooY3gjrPur0ZmVGVkxIkTBXxTdL3k6gFlbJoNibwi2Zyc0SsIzBMWs1fv6oA-a2xYFlI/s1600/tyrolean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6BQARV8CtKwPtmxJBEiPXfjPRIB5BqgqnK3tsUHGv-ZC5TvrXRMxXs_8RDNAGqAa5jb6kWvooY3gjrPur0ZmVGVkxIkTBXxTdL3k6gFlbJoNibwi2Zyc0SsIzBMWs1fv6oA-a2xYFlI/s400/tyrolean.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Buona Fortuna Restaurant was busy, and smokey. Romania doesn't have ordinances prohibiting smoking -- anywhere, from what I can tell. Hence, in what could only have been a long ago confluence of behaviors in the U.S., I watched a woman, thin, late thirties, fork in one hand, glowing cigarette (elbow on the table) in the other, alternately, casually, work both.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Smoke aside, the restaurant was pretty nice, located on the bank of the </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Crişul Repede</span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">River which cuts through Oradea. Like many of the restaurants in Eastern Europe, it plays maddeningly retarded American/English pop music. I am learning to tune it out, though apparently, not yet completely. I still scrape the soles of my shoes when I get home.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Judging from the well-dressed, youngish clientele, the </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Buona Fortuna</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> might be upscale for Romanian incomes, but as the Romanian leu is anemic against the U.S. dollar, I couldn't have eaten as cheaply if I had cooked ramen noodles at home.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had ordered, but the place was busy and my food was slow in coming. I waited, and watched. Facing the front door, I looked on as people came and went, came and went.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then, around 9:30 a pixie -- m</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">aybe 10, maybe 4'10", including the pink harlequin hat she sported squarely -- </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">charged (as much as a pixie can charge) through the front door. Wearing a white t-shirt, strapped into pink capri overalls and pink shoes, she came in selling red roses.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wasting no time, she moved with precision. Once inside she looked to see if anyone made eye contact with her, or smiled at her adorableness, and if so she made straight for the table. If a customer was reluctant, she would beg "Please" twice. But only twice. Sometimes she closed the deal, sometimes she didn't. Either way, she pushed on.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At those tables seemingly unaware of her, she would approach from an angle, tentatively, and, from a short distance, hence with a slight reach, she would place a rose stem in front of the person she sized up to be the best bet. Sometimes the rose got bought; sometimes it didn't. Regardless, she pushed on.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The restaurant was long, with many tables, all occupied. She had a lot of flowers to sell on short legs. Her pink hat darted and hovered from table to table like a dragonfly.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then there was the manager.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was in his thirties, clean white shirt and clearly a nice, likeable guy. Still, this little gypsy child was, in a sense, harassing his customers. And it is true: some cold-shouldered her with fear that this impish child might in some way cast a spell over them, entrance them into buying a rose which in their heart of hearts they did not want to buy. <i>Don't look at her! She's a Medusa! You're heart will turn from stone!</i></span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So the manager, doing what he needed to do, intercepted little Gypsy Rose and gently escorted her to the door through which she first burst. All the while walking her toward the door he spoke, smiled, sometimes shrugged, and occasionally laughed, but always keeping his fingertips pressed lightly to her back. She, for the length of her escort, turned, looked back up to him, pleaded her case, but to no avail. Out the door she and her flowers and her pink harlequin hat went.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back came the manager, triumphant but not gloating, shaking his head and laughing. And like that, the general chaos of the </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Buona Fortuna</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> reabsorbed him into his general managing duties. <i> </i></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Not thirty seconds later the front door opened when Gypsy Rose's pink hat poked inside to locate the manager, and, not seeing him, charged in as she had the first time, to finish what she had begun. <i> </i></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What pluck</i>, I thought, and fell in love with this little girl. She spotted me spotting her and zeroed in, aware her moments were numbered.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She said something to me in Romanian (I guess) in her puny little voice which I didn't understand, and I said something to her in English she didn't understand. Obviously it was all about flowers. She wanted to sell me one; I didn't want to buy one. Standoff. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Please?"</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"No."</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Please?" </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the end I gave her 5 leu for a flower I didn't take. She said "Thank you very much" in quite good English, and hurried to the next table.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My thinking was that, perhaps, she had to turn in a fixed amount for the flowers, and anything above that she could pocket.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever, it wasn't long before the manager caught on that Gypsy Rose was again working the room, and with the same gentle geniality he had shown the first time, he again escorted her out, this time for good.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>***</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was finally out the door myself around 11:00. Stuffed, I decided to walk off my full belly a little and have a nightcap.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Str Repbublicii-Corso is Oradea's half-mile long pedestrian mall. It is flanked by little shops selling jewelry and trinkets; ATMs; sweet shops; phone shops; and lots of cafes. With the nice weather having arrived, most cafes arranged lounge-like chairs and tables in tight clusters outside their regular shops, in what used to be the middle of the road before the street went pedestrian. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Running down the center of Str Repbublicii-Corso,</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">two or three cafes side by side will form a continuous archipelago of sovereign domains, each with distinctive tables and chairs underneath distinctive umbrellas.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was nothing special about the Cafe Ra apart from the fact that it had a free table, so I took it. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The night was warm, but breezy. The cafes were getting a bit boozy. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The waitress came around with a bowl of tiny pretzels and I ordered a Ciuc (Romanian beer). Then I settled into my faux-wicker chair and its all-weather cushions and proceeded to watch my young neighbors, the majority of whom were puffing away. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The beer arrived a few minutes later and so did Gypsy Rose, her pink hat glowing like a firefly. She appeared at my side, standing straight, smiling excitedly, holding roses in one hand and waving "hi" with the other. We were friends. Deep in my cushions, we saw each other eye to eye.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I asked her how it was going. She pursed her lips and shrugged. She counted the cut stems of the roses she had remaining, touching each one with her finger. One, two, three, four. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I thought, maybe, that Gypsy Rose had to sell the remaining flowers before she could go home for the night, that she had to keep hawking flowers until the very last one got sold. So I first confused her, and then surprised her, by purchasing the four remaining flowers for 40 leu.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She said, "Thank you very much," just as she had in the restaurant, and headed up the dark mall. I watched until her pink hat disappeared.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I laid the four flowers on the table. What was <i>I</i> going to do with them? Nothing. Not that they mattered. The point was not to purchase roses but to purchase some time for Gypsy Rose. I surmised from my restaurant experience of her that, so long as she had a flower to sell, she'd try to sell it. Buy them all, I thought, and send her home. I hoped that the waitress liked roses, as they would be hers once I left. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Moments later, on the far side of the tables, skipping down the mall, was Gypsy Rose, with a new fist full of roses. Now I understood.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was a bit crestfallen. Here I thought I was fulfilling the part of benevolent savior; instead, I was just a wallet. I did not blame her; that's just how things are. I still had genuine affection for her, because to see her is to instantly have affection for her.</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I drank my beer and wondered: what will become of that little girl. Whoever she is selling flowers for is banking on her sweetness and unaffected charm. I wondered: would it be better for Gypsy Rose to keep that sweetness and charm forever, or to lose it, perhaps outgrow it, and thereby lose her exploitability?</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And, as it was past 11:00 at night when she had just been issued a new round of roses, I wondered: who is looking out for her, and why isn't she home, asleep, like a child should be at that hour? If the cafes are open until 2:00 or 3:00, does Gypsy Rose have to work their customers until 2:00 or 3:00?</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In just the two minutes or less of our exchanges I saw something wonderful in that little girl, something worth nurturing. A light. A force. Would it survive? Would she escape? Would she ever be given the chance, or be challenged, to reach her potential? To rise above a rose peddler?</span></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The following night, Saturday, I walked </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Str Repbublicii-Corso on my way to a different part of town. It was about 8:30, though by the amount of daylight I never would have guessed.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There, up ahead, donning her trademark hat, was Gypsy Rose, flowers in hand, standing by a bench behind which stood an older woman and a younger child. Mother and sibling? </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We spotted each other, with, I'd like to believe, genuine mutual delight: I don't think a ten-year-old's enthusiastic wave can lie. </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I approached, aware of the woman behind the bench, wondering her role. </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I asked Gypsy Rose, "How's business?" not expecting that she'd understand, but thought that maybe, by also pointing to the roses, she might. She shrugged, and pursed her lips, and counted the tips. One, two, three, four. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes?" she said, looking up and smiling hopefully.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"No. Nem. Maybe on the way back."</span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Please?"</span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Maybe on the way back."</span></span></b><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Please?"</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I shook my head and smiled. My little friend smiled, too. </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I looked up to confirm to the woman I thought was with Gypsy Rose, <i>maybe on the way back</i>.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her thoughts had stopped earlier. "Business. That's all that it is," she said with resignation in an accent I could only guess to be Romanian. "That's the sadness of it all."</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Instantly, I realized that this woman knew more about Gypsy Rose, her brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, than I would ever know, and possibly more than most </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">on Str Repbublicii-Corso</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">would would ever know.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked back at Gypsy Rose from the woman diametrically unrelated to her, and said, "Maybe later."</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was no later that night. </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next night, Sunday, my last night in Oradea, </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Str Repbublicii-Corso at 8:00 p.m. was even busier than the two nights before.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wasn't so much interested in spending time on the mall, lounging around and being trendy, as I was in taking a picture of Gypsy Rose. My whole focus was to spot her -- or have her spot me -- while sitting there, and then to do what we do. But in addition, I was prepared to pay for a photograph of her. I wanted to share her with you. I wanted you to see her in her pink hat.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">After two hours outside Cafe Ra I had to acknowledge that I wasn't going to see Gypsy Rose that night, was not going to take her picture.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The good guy in me said with some optimism, <i>So</i> <i>maybe...</i>; the bad guy in me said, <i>Damn.</i></span></span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-86771078873349737782011-06-04T04:19:00.000-07:002011-06-05T02:40:27.491-07:00Outtakes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiFh4_-3ouN1b8Tsb0PoIfRAHJSGuYbD3MvDbew9jMalUhAq3Zb71RWLUTJpo8i5xBDIEJAcVfyLNDjEG4Pr-vVIckLBzgH_svx4B2im3FjmO9z_2uXcUIiiiwxKu8Uq29tFKhJhO-UI/s1600/passport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiFh4_-3ouN1b8Tsb0PoIfRAHJSGuYbD3MvDbew9jMalUhAq3Zb71RWLUTJpo8i5xBDIEJAcVfyLNDjEG4Pr-vVIckLBzgH_svx4B2im3FjmO9z_2uXcUIiiiwxKu8Uq29tFKhJhO-UI/s400/passport.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>BELOW ARE SOME LOOSE REFLECTIONS OF MY WEEK IN ISRAEL.</i> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">1. ISRAELI HORNINESS</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Israeli drivers -- bus drivers, cab drivers, truck drivers, soccer moms -- particularly in Jerusalem, are extremely horny. It is not an overstatement to say that Israel is a thoroughly horny culture. I have it on good authority that Israelis, by law, are prohibited from driving with two hands on the wheel, and can be ticketed if spotted driving so. Instead, they must steer with one hand on the wheel while keeping the heel of the other hand poised mere inches above the wheel, ready too strike, to be driven into the horn like a pile driver. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">This is because no driver ever knows when the traffic up ahead will so insult him or her with unwanted delay -- however brief -- that a good, long, angry <i>zetz </i>is the only appropriate response. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">What <i>audacity</i>, trying to parallel park when I am behind you so clearly on my way to something important<i>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</i> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">How <i>dare you </i>impede <i>my </i>progress simply because oncoming traffic prevents <i>you </i>from making a left-hand turn<i>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</i> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">What <i>chutzpah </i>you have keeping me waiting at this traffic light <i>one-na-no-sec-ond</i> now that it's turned green<i>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</i> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sorry to say, there are many bad drivers in Israel who simply don't understand the rules of the road and must be punished (the Israelis call it <i>hornished</i>) for their ignorance.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">2. BUS DRIVERS </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">It is also a little known fact that Israeli bus drivers, in addition to zetzing their horn when warranted, are trained to pump the brakes when passengers have become or are on the cusp of becoming a little too comfortable moving about the bus, heading fore to aft, for instance, after they have just paid the fare and are trying to find a seat while clutching shopping bags in each hand; or when they are 90 or 100 years old and moving just a tad too slowly getting to and/or lowering themselves into a seat. Or for those hot-shot dare-devils, full of pride and arrogance, who like to stand in the bus without holding on to a strap-hanger: <i>look ma, no hands!</i> There is nothing like a sudden tap on the breaks to popquiz the balance or agility of Israeli riders. This is Israel, after all; tossing passengers around on the bus is for their own good. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Why? Because comfort breeds contentment; contentment breeds unguardedness; and unguardedness is the terrorists' workshop. Bus drivers, as instructed by the Knesset (Israeli Parliament) and by the Israeli Defense Forces, pump their breaks then, not to toy with their helpless riders, but rather to keep Israelis on their toes, for their own good. The bus drivers' motto reflects their sense of purpose and commitment:</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="" id="result_box" lang="iw"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span><span class="" id="result_box" lang="iw"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">הסערה</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">טוב</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">השליך</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">על ידי</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">בנו</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">ואז</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">הסערה</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">השליך</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">על ידי</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">אותם</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">which translates roughly to, <i>better storm tossed by us than storm tossed by them. </i> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">All that vigilance, and while driving with only one hand, to boot. Incredible.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">3. MOTORSCOOTERISTS</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">If you ride a motorscooter in Israel, as many do, you are exempt from the one-hand rule. In fact, you are exempt from all rules. You can ride in whatever way you want so long as you don't get killed. If you do get killed, you will be ticketed. Severely. And hornished like you wouldn't believe (just imagine the delays a <i>geshtorben </i>scooterist layng in the middle of the street would cause!!!!!!!!!!) </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Wishing not to be fined nor hornished to high heaven, motorscooterists try to stay alive, and, for the short period I was in Israel, I didn't see one who didn't. Though I saw many w</span><span style="font-size: large;">ho came close to getting ticketed. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">But, the simple fact is that if you are on a scooter and you don't like the way traffic is moving, create whatever traffic path you like that will get <i>you </i>moving. Of course, you will get hornished for being an upstart. No matter. You have it coming to you. (That's because you are free in a way other motorists are not. And they know it and resent it.)</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Pass on the left in a no-passing zone, pass on the right without a passing shoulder; thread between two lanes of cars, bob and weave left and right in you onward progress. Anything is fine, except getting killed. Because if you do get killed you will tie up traffic, and you will get hornished with righteous fury miles long.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">4. PEDESTRIANS </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">What, you may be wondering, </span><span style="font-size: large;">are the rules regarding the pedestrian? Answer: to</span><span style="font-size: large;"> stay out of the way of the more important motorists and not muck up the works by trying to cross a street when there is traffic to be had. This means obeying crossing signs religiously. Because if a pedestrian crosses in traffic and causes a driver to apply the brakes -- or even just ease up on the gas -- the pedestrian will be severely hornished, and rightly so. If a cop is around, ticketing may ensue. And if a pedestrian crosses when he or she shouldn't, and gets hit and killed by a car, a ticket <i>will </i>ensue, plus the corpse will be hornished roundly. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Israeli motorists have a saying directed at pedestrians:</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="" id="result_box" lang="iw"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">אם אתם</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">רוצים</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">שאנחנו לא צריכים</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">לרוץ</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">לך</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">למטה</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">כמ</span><span title="Click for alternate translations">,</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">כבר</span></span></span><span class="" id="result_box" lang="iw"><span style="font-size: large;"><span title="Click for alternate translations">.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Roughly translated, it means, <i>If you want that we should not run you down like an animal, walk like a person, already. </i> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And Israelis pedestrians respect this: A pedestrian-crossing may be in its flashing red, no-cross mode, and Israelis on foot will wait patiently for the signal to change regardless of whether there is a car within twenty miles. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Israeli pedestrians, too, have a saying for this: <span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="iw"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> <span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="iw"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">סבלנות</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">עדיף</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">על המדרכה</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">מאשר</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">חולים</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">על אלונקה</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Better patience on a curb than patient on a gurney</i> </span></b></div><b><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">6. ORTHODOX MEN AND WOMEN </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Orthodox Jewish men look constantly harried, always holding onto their hats and running as if late (probably because they are). Most are bearded so it is difficult to see what's going on underneath all that hair, but it doesn't seem to be smiles. Perhaps this is due to the garb they wear: black shoes and socks, black pants, t-shirt (black?), white tafillit (prayer shawl), white shirt, black jacket, black overcoat (optional), yamulka (skullcap), black fedora (optional, but likely). </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The orthodox garb might have been great in icy Russia, from where many no doubt emigrated, but in Israel -- Jerusalem, where it's scorching hot, or in Tel Aviv, where it is only slightly less scorching hot but constantly humid -- such a get-up doesn't make sense. The orthodox must shvitz like crazy. </span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm not suggesting that they wear flip-flops, Speedos, and fishnet tanktops, but perhaps switching from heat (light)-absorbing black to heat (light)-reflecting white might help brighten their day, turn that Hasidic frown upside down.</span></b><br />
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On the flip side, not bound to the same color scheme as their husbands, the orthodox Jewish women struck me as serene, radiating with everpresent Mona Lisa smiles. Where their husbands are generally in a state of pronounced agitation, they remain ever placid, cool lakes without so much as a ripple crossing their surface. I don't know what might give them this sense of well-being, but if it is non-pharmaceutically induced I have the sense it is in part due to the simple satisfaction of not having been born an orthodox Jewish man.<br />
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7. ISRAELI MODESTY/IMMODESTY</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tel Aviv is very European and modern. It's a Mediteranean resort town, and comes with all that you might expect from such a place: lots of beaches and bathers; lots of bars; lots of chi-chi restaurants, lots of people walking around half (or less) clad. In Tel Aviv, the harried orthodox orthodox man clearly stands out.<br />
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In contrast, anyone not orthodox in Jerusalem stands out clearly, and my sense is that anyone half (or less) clad would not only stand out but get stoned (and I don't mean high). It took a while to sink in before I noticed the uniform, modest dress of the women, and I don't mean orthodox women (Jews and Muslims. That goes without saying). I'm talking about your regular woman on the street. I was in Jerusalem a few hours before it dawned on me that I hadn't seen a skirt above the knee, and very little decolatage -- not that I was looking; just observing -- even among non-orthodox cosmopolitans (or at least not ostensibly religious). There was something oddly refreshing about those hemlines, I must confess; there was something appealing in that modesty. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">8. ARAB/ISRAELI COMITY </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I expected to see Israeli-Jews and Israel-Arabs (Muslims) behaving like Jets and Sharks (minus the dancing), particularly in Jerusalem, but it seemed to me that they got along pretty well. I don't mean to imply that I saw Jews and Arabs yukking it up together (I don't think the orthodox Jews yuk it up too much to begin with, and when they do, it's with other orthodox Jews, likely cracking wise about lightweight Conservative/Reformed "Jews"). But no knifefights broke out on the buses I rode, no rumbles in the back alleys of Old Jerusalem. I didn't even see open snarling or growling. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jews and Arabs and everyone in between just seemed to do what all normal people do: go about their business. Call it benign neglect, maybe, but from this outsider's perspective it appeared as though Jews and Arabs were getting along, and could get along more if they had to.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">9. HOLY SITES </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">At the Jewish Diaspora Museum in Tel Aviv, the audioguide made the claim that the reason why Judaism was able to survive despite the expulsion of Jews from Babylon is that Judaism is tied to no place. It is a religion that resides in a system of ideas, housed in the mind, not in things external to the faithful. I believe this to be a sound accounting of all sound religions, Judaism, Islam, Christianity, etc. Reason: To claim a place is holy is to simultaneously claim that other places are not. That seems to be overreaching on the part of humans. If this whole shooting match -- Earth -- is god's creation (however you name god), how can anything or any part of it <i>not </i>be holy? If this computer at which I sit is no less the work of god than the First Temple, than why don't we treat <i>everything </i>as holy? That would certainly change our relationship with the world. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">That said, despite the fact that I claimed we should acknowledge holiness globally, I propose that to settle the issue of Jerusalem, the Dome of the Rock, the site of the First Temple, we (not quite sure who this "we" is yet) bulldoze the whole thing, all religious totems to which Judaism, Islam, Christianity lay claim. If the religions are strong, they will stand without them. Then, we should turn the empty lots upon which they stood into playgrounds where little Jews and little Muslims and little Christians can play, and learn the secular religion of fairness, cooperation, compromise, sharing -- all the things many of their parents never learned.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">10. Shalom. </span></b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-80947584828793114412011-06-01T02:12:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:10:05.985-07:00Omar<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVX7Vs1RFM3Xb6V1SkYP7e_Bh0LsmBrb2TIsejpV1aurzE1m2auOmw-9Pw2ibQMVuEQjjYQW-rjA9_wOKCyjaZayvMVX8pkMyCRCWQvqtY5O4wOFKEJ8jTB6ClBm6a5hLP4mt8TvRuGTs/s1600/IMG_1286_1125_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVX7Vs1RFM3Xb6V1SkYP7e_Bh0LsmBrb2TIsejpV1aurzE1m2auOmw-9Pw2ibQMVuEQjjYQW-rjA9_wOKCyjaZayvMVX8pkMyCRCWQvqtY5O4wOFKEJ8jTB6ClBm6a5hLP4mt8TvRuGTs/s640/IMG_1286_1125_edited-1.jpg" width="420" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">T-Shirts for sale in The Old City</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Omar is dark skinned, a little portly, early fifties, with trim black hair and salt and pepper stubble a few days older than my own. He smiles easily, despite the fact that he is missing most of the teeth on the left side of his mouth. The teeth he still owns look to be in good shape. As far as half-smiles go, Omar has a good one.<br />
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We met outside a tiny Arab coffee shop within the cobbled maze of stone streets, bazaars, religions, languages, nationalities, attitudes, suspicions, fraternities, polarities, and animosities </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">which make up Jerusalem's Old City.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had spent the better part of Saturday morning milling around the Western Wall watching devout Jewish men shrouded in prayer shawls (<i>tallit</i>) pray and sing. After a spell of <i>Should I?/Shouldn't I? </i>I placed my hand on the Western Wall hoping to feel a jolt. I didn't. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When the Sabbath morning prayer service broke and its congregants scattered, I wandered around Old Jerusalem's truly ancienct streets about an hour before spotting the </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">little cafe/</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">oasis, which stoked in me a craving for coffee and a seat. That the building cast a shadow under which I could hide from the blazing sun was also inviting. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stepped up to the counter and ordered my coffee unaware of Omar. But from wherever he was he noticed my cafe Americano, and, as having ordered it was a dead giveaway that I wasn't from around those parts, Omar sat with his espresso at a table across from mine and set about discovering just what parts I was from.<br />
<br />
The ease with which he pulled up a chair and spoke put me on guard. But he sounded and looked genial enough that I soon tossed out the idea that he was after something. Omar was just being friendly. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Omar, it turns out, is pals with the cafe's owner, and he likes hanging around the cafe to chew the fat with his Arabic friends and to chat up foreigners, or at stand-out foreigners who order cafe Americanos. Though Arabic was clearly his mother tongue, he spoke English well enough that we were able, with give and take, to communicate -- for the most part.<br />
<br />
Out of the merciless Jerusalem sun, within the cafe's not a whole-lot-cooler shade, he began by asking me about the shuttle, and if there was any new news. I didn't know what he was talking about, and so he informed me that the U.S. had launched a shuttle, but that it had lost communication. Hadn't I heard?<br />
<br />
I hadn't. I told him I hadn't picked up a newspaper recently. He chided me mildly for not knowing about my own country's shuttle, and then told me he has been saying prayers for it. <br />
<br />
After my scolding, we exchanged background info. I told him I was a professor at UMass Dartmouth, that I had been in Hungary on a Fulbright since the end of January, and that soon I would be returning back to the States.<br />
<br />
When I mentioned that I was a teacher, Omar reached across to shake my hand. "You have my very great respect." Apparently teaching means something in these parts that it doesn't mean in mine.<br />
<br />
He told me he grew up in a small village not far from Jerusalem, that he had lived in England for 17 years, where he had met and fallen in love with an English woman. Though never married, they had lived together and had a child, a girl, Tahirah, who was born severely brain-damaged and disabled. I didn't push for details, but I gathered that her mother -- still in England -- who took care of Tahirah, did so pretty much around the clock. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tahirah is now 18, and Omar said he loves her very much, even though he hardly sees her anymore, in part because he has diabetes and can't do the long flight. It was three years ago that he last visited her. But he speaks with her everyday, and he is thankful for that.<br />
<br />
He told me he is very religious, tries very hard to be a good man. He said that he hasn't always prayed as he should, that he let many, many prayers lapse, and that he is trying to make up for them now. "But Jerry:" -- every time he said my name it came with a colon -- "But Jerry: Isn't it a great thing that god can be so forgiving? That I could have ignored my prayers for so long, but just like that, god is ready to forgive me and take me back? Isn't that a great gift, Jerry:?" He smiled.<br />
<br />
I smiled back, aware of having all my teeth (if crowns can be included as teeth). "You sound like you believe you're a fortunate man. Are you?"<br />
<br />
"Jerry: Yes, fortunate. Very fortunate. God has given me my beautiful daughter, and now my faith. I could wish for things, of course, but what I have is very good. I put my trust god."<br />
<br />
I didn't have to be a genius to infer that one of the things Omar wished for was that Tahirah's mother would love him. He told me that she just didn't find him appealing, sexually, and so their relationship went flat not long after Tahirah was born. In time, he drifted back to his home outside of Jerusalem. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Though it still pains him to worship the woman he finds so very beautiful, he is thankful that, owing to Tahirah, they are still very close, very good friends. She is such a wonderful mother to Tahirah, he told me. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Eventually the door slammed shut. The woman he loved married another man. A good man, Omar said. He helps Tahira's mother very much in the care of their daughter, and Omar is grateful for that. <br />
<br />
Because Omar is an Arab, and because I am trying to get a handle on this taut knot called Israel, I asked if he supported Hamas. Instantly, it was clear he had anticipated that the question would come up sooner or later. No doubt I was not the first to ask it. <br />
<br />
He lit a cigarette and stared down between his spread knees, for what to say. Then he looked up. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As for supporting Hamas, he told me that he had to. Hamas was elected by his people, and whether he liked Hamas or not, his people have spoken, democratically, and he must respect their decision. It is my duty, he told me. It is the will of my people.<br />
<br />
He may have heard that question before, but I had never asked it before, or any like it, so I was a bit tentative about the next one. What about violence? I asked. What about terrorism?<br />
<br />
He was not surprised by this question, either. His answer was immediate. He told me that no, he couldn't support that. That his faith in god wouldn't permit it. That he thought about all the times that he and Tahirah had been out in England, in public places, and how vulnerable he now realized they were. It was because of Tahirah that he couldn't support terrorism.<br />
<br />
But doesn't Hamas support terrorism? I asked. Haven't they called for Jihad against Israel? How can you support Hamas when you don't support terrorism?<br />
<br />
"Jerry: Hamas is my government. The government of my people, my country. I must support them." In Omar's boxed reply I heard echoes of the "My country, right or wrong" mantra from the Vietnam era.<br />
</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Feeling a bit awkward, we switched topics. He asked me about teaching, what I taught, and was it hard work.<br />
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I answered that it was hard work, but gratifying hard work. I asked about his own education, for it seemed to me that he had some. He said he reads a lot at home, on his own.<br />
<br />
"And formal schooling?"<br />
<br />
He chuckeld. "Jerry: I have been educated in three places. On the streets here; in England; and in prison."<br />
</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I paused for a split second at the sudden fork in the road: "Prison? Can I ask: what did you do?"<br />
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Omar then told me that during the 80s he became fed up with the way he was being treated, humiliated and abused by Israeli security forces. Tired of being kicked. Tired of having his hair pulled. He wanted to fight back, to strike back. He wanted to become active in the PLO. So he went into Syria, to some kind of PLO headquarters, knocked on the door, and told whoever he met there that he wanted to join. At first they were suspicious, but then they weren't, and they sent him into the forest to a PLO training camp, to learn about explosives.<br />
<br />
His story about what happened from there isn't clear to me, except for the fact that upon his return, or perhaps once back inside Israel, he was interrogated and arrested by the Israeli intelligence. He spent three and half years in jail. He told this all matter of factly, without bitterness or outrage. Perhaps he accepted his punishment as fitting. Perhaps it was simply long ago.<br />
<br />
I did not have the chutzpah to ask if he had ever triggered his new-found knowledge in explosives. My sense was that he hadn't. It sounded as though the Israelis arrested him before he had the chance to, otherwise, I imagine, his sentence would have been much longer. But if he had had the chance, would he have followed through?<br />
<br />
I believed Omar when he renounced terror. Yet, I didn't hear him renounce violence. And I wouldn't.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He told me that three years ago he had gone to England to visit his daughter. Upon his return to Israel, he was stopped by Israeli security and refused re-entry into the country. He was forced back to England. </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know how he managed to get back inside Israel, but he did, and since that time, he has been bitter, bitter not toward Jews -- he had no change in disposition once he learned I was a Jew --, but toward Israelis. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I then wondered if his diabetes was the only reason he hadn't returned to England in three years to visit Tahirah.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Jerry: I must be truthful, even if it hurts our friendship. I must say what is in my heart. I hope you will forgive me. But I cannot respect Israelis," he said, "the way they treat us." He shook his head and sneered, "I hate Israelis. I hate the government and those who act on their behalf." </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I knew then that even if he might not carry out acts of violence himself against Israelis, he would not condemn those acts if carried out by others. </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">What then of his renunciation of terror? Would he draw the line for violence somewhere short of civilians, fathers and their daughters, Israeli Omars and Tahirahs? </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't ask.</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Jerry:" he said, "I apologize but I must leave you now. I must go pray. I have enjoyed our discussion. If you will be here when I return, perhaps we can resume our conversation."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I've got to get going too, Omar."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We rose, wished each other well, and shook hands.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the course of an hour I shook hands with Omar twice. Once before I knew that he had been a member of the PLO, and once after. </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is not lost on me that some could find that second handshake </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">offensive, even traitorous, and condemn me for it.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But: Seated at the cafe with his espresso and willingness to talk, Omar was, to me, less a PLO fighter of the 80s than a man today who, on top of the hardships and even cruelties life itself has handed him, has suffered systematic indignity and humiliation at the hands of his overlords. For their part, I am sure that Israelis have stories of their own to tell about Palestinian transgressions. Palestinians, Israelis. Israelis, Palestinians. Tit for tat, and sometimes rat-tat-tat.</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I must say what is in my heart; I must be truthful. </span></span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I shook hands with Omar, the second time, I shook hands as one man to another, as one who has lived with pain and loss acknowledging the pain and loss of another. He was neither Arab nor Palestinian nor PLO. He was just a man, like me, struggling to come to terms with his world. It was as such a man that I took his hand.</span></span></b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-12004772162917427732011-05-28T09:36:00.000-07:002011-05-28T09:39:50.363-07:00The Way of The World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCdmop2bopznSz2Crn6QwTWNYO6mszZUYl37_Uqnui_QT9-xSAxijytfjg33eAMCgnr3YSn0UYfKTGYTBjKP-QvM82uNwXJEAbV7-dAIuavu3JR-etv3_-jGuLUsXNHK6ToPqSqYph9E/s1600/04s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCdmop2bopznSz2Crn6QwTWNYO6mszZUYl37_Uqnui_QT9-xSAxijytfjg33eAMCgnr3YSn0UYfKTGYTBjKP-QvM82uNwXJEAbV7-dAIuavu3JR-etv3_-jGuLUsXNHK6ToPqSqYph9E/s400/04s.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Hall of Names</i>, Yad Vashem</span></b> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have figured out the ways of the world: a few people (good or bad) do or try to do things (good or bad) which are either supported or opposed by a few people (good or bad). The rest of the people, as the phrase goes, look on. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And "few" is a matter of scale. Good few or bad few, few can be as simple as a handful of individuals, or as simple as a handful of nations made up of millions of individuals. As for those who look on, that too, is simple. That is, all those who remain inert, be they a couple looking on or a couple billion looking on. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I learned this over the past two days while visiting Vad Yashem, Israel's memorial to the Holocaust. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yad Vashem is an excellent complex of museums, research centers, and architectural and fine art sculptures. Its focal point is the The Holocaust Museum. The museum consists of a single, straight, triangular hall of poured concrete, whose base is broad, walls pitch, and peak high, from which eight galleries radiate. Made of glass, the hall's apex allows for its natural lighting. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Running the hall's length, zig-zags connect the museum's eight galleries, with each beveled zig or zag creating an unbridgeable gully of several feet in the concrete floor. You can look past them, even see the museums triangular glass exit, but you cannot cross over them. Instead, containing mini-exhibits of their own, each serves as an introduction to the the gallery you are about to enter.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The path to the museum's end is direct, but not straight. You can not get to any gallery without walking through the gallery preceding it. In order to move forward, you must follow the path. Yet, within each gallery, you find that there are no clear signs conveying you along. Each gallery moves you obliquely through acute angles and around hair-pin turns. Sometimes you arrive at a spot you've already visited. You may become disoriented by the maze, but you follow the flow of human traffic, when, eventually you see some of the light from the hallway spilling in and you follow it out.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Zig-zags within a zig-zag. Nothing is straight. The history of the holocaust was not straight. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Each gallery its own chapter, </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">the museum tells a story, a crooked story (<a href="http://www1.yadvashem.org/yv/en/museum/galleries.asp">The Galleries</a>). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's a very detailed story, told through curator's paragraphs; photographs; hand written family letters and typed bureaucrats' letters; physical artifacts as small a tiny charm made by a ghetto boy for his mother and as large as a cattle car for the deportation; video recordings, sound recordings, posters, street signs, trolly rails, cobblestones, streetlamps, and anything else which either informs or authenticates. To read every word, to pore over every photo or artifact, to watch every video, to listen to every audio, would take many days. The documentation is overwhelming. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">All of which kept me occupied for 9 hours yesterday and 3 today (because I only got half-way through the sixth gallery yesterday before getting tossed at closing time, and so I returned to finish today). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The ways of the world became most clear to me in the fifth gallery, <i>Mass Murder. </i>In it, I learned of the <i>Einsatzgruppen</i>. The </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Einsatzgruppen were German units that followed the advances of the regular German army as it tore eastward toward Russia (after Hitler broke his treaty with Stalin). Their sole mission was to flush out the Jews in whatever community they came across and shoot them. Often, they would have the Jewish men dig a big pit first, then have them stand on the edge and shoot them, so that the corpses would topple into the pit. Occasionally they toppled as not-yet corpses. Then the </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Einsatzgruppen would</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> gather the women and children and shoot them as well, in the same manner, at the edge of the pit. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, however, the </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Einsatzgruppen </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">skipped the pit and just shot. And sometimes they would allow eager local Jew-haters to do the shooting for them. There were lots of willing trigger fingers when the </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Einsatzgruppen</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> pulled into town.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here, though, is how I learned the ways of the world. As you can imagine, many tour groups visit Yad Vashem and the Holocaust Museum, in-tow to a free-lance museum guide. If you move slowly enough through any gallery, as I did, several of these groups will pass you. And if their guides speak in a language you understand, you can pirate the lectures, as I did with those who spoke English. Hence, several times, when the tour guides spoke of the </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Einsatzgruppen</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">, and the pits, and the shootings, the consistent refrain was, "And the townspeople just stood by and watched," or, "The townspeople simply looked on."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I detected something barbed in these statements about the townspeople, though I am not sure of the source. I couldn't tell if the guides intended to convey that there was complicity among the townspeople, that their onlooking was a form of voting with their eyes, that inaction indicated implicit approval. Or, it could have been more that the guides were alleging mass moral collapse among the townspeople, that in the face of atrocities they watched and did nothing. Wholesale cowardice.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I began to wonder about these townspeople, these onlookers, and the judgments of the museum guides toward them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For the sake of humanity, I hope that the majority of townspeople didn't look on and do nothing because they approved of what was being done. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If, then, people looked on because they didn't know what to do, or were too afraid in the face of men with guns to do what they knew they should, I wonder what, we, history's jurors, really might have expected of them. Not to diminish the enormity of the mass murders, nor to condone moral inertia, we have seen -- and likely participated -- in onlooking elsewhere. From the lynching ropes in the U.S. south, to the machetes in Rwanda, people, in general, acquiesce in the presence of brutality, not because people are bad, or even weak, but rather because we are uneducated. We have never been taught or trained to act on our principles and moral values, or even to articulate for ourselves what they are. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is always assumed that we will, or at least that we should, stand-up, do the right thing, when virtue calls, but when the decisive moment arrives, what can we point to in our past as having readied us for that moment? If anything, in the absence of any positive preparation to act as moral beings, we are, gradually, conditioned not to act. I don't know about you, but -- and obviously I am not proud to admit it -- I suspect that had I been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I, too, would have been one of those townspeople who looked on. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's the way of the world, isn't it? And the evil of the world know it. Nothing breeds evil, feeds evil, as the way of the world.</span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-51461160611762682012011-05-25T06:34:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:09:37.910-07:00State Security<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkxABEKgpFqI0IIjDI5kgMAjYc3uEH90qvPy4vSC9_6AWqv48tYJ_Io2KL4tcnFRi8FOWxAXgNhSLDeeKvZc3fFdTTHnJNAxPD7yFyCnywLHIoRXYKOiu6nLdwHYz31lRDCD_W1eOoks/s1600/up+north+with+aaron+244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkxABEKgpFqI0IIjDI5kgMAjYc3uEH90qvPy4vSC9_6AWqv48tYJ_Io2KL4tcnFRi8FOWxAXgNhSLDeeKvZc3fFdTTHnJNAxPD7yFyCnywLHIoRXYKOiu6nLdwHYz31lRDCD_W1eOoks/s400/up+north+with+aaron+244.JPG" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"The People of Israel Live"</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">After 24 hours here, Tel Aviv feels more European to me than Middle-Eastern. And in spots more American than European. Last night I had a beer in a joint called "Mike's Place", facing the Mediterranean. (Mike's Place made the news in 2003 when a suicide bomber blew himself up at its entrance. Three people plus the suicide bomber were killed; 50 were wounded.) </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Inside Mike's Place, American music blared; the bartender, speaking perfect English, spoke above the blare to an American customer who worked for Intel and drank German beer. All the waitstaff spoke English to their customers, who also spoke English, and to each other, who also spoke Hebrew. And from what I could tell, every plate that came out of the kitchen was piled high with French fries. I began to wonder who precisely was the bomber's target. <br />
<br />
I had a conversation with the guy from Intel. His name is Paul. He told me that he's been coming to Israel for years to do Intel installations for customers. He told me the Intel office in Tel Aviv has a bomb shelter for employees. Imagine hearing that as one of the company perks: "We offer a great 401-K plan, full-medical benefits, <i>and</i> -- we have our own bomb shelter." </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Paul has a friend who works some kind of U.S. intelligence, and who gives him a scouting report of the place he's heading toward before he actually heads toward it. Paul said one time he was scheduled to go to the Mediteranean port city of Ashdod, about twenty miles south of Tel Aviv, and about 20 miles north of the Gaza strip. Paul's intelligence friend made some calls and told him to steer clear of Ashdod, that he heard through channels things were going to happen there. Trusting his friend, Paul convinced his supervisor to let him work in Tel Aviv instead, and he agreed. Paul then told me that Ashdod was rocketed 400 times or something like that during the period he was originally scheduled to be there. He chuckled as he recounted all this. </span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">People who explode bombs have to get very close to be affective; no one would lift a finger against suicide bombers who walk into the desert and push the plunger. To deny bombers access to crowded places, guards and gates abound in Tel Aviv, and, I suspect, throughout Israel. In order to access the bus station yesterday, I had to permit the guard to stick his nicotine-stained hand inside my backpack and fish around for anything that might have felt like a bomb. He then did the wand thing. This to get on a city bus.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">To gain access to Tel Aviv University's campus from where I began writing this, I had to pass a checkpoint where the guard looked in my laptop case. Earlier today, I saw a busload of seniors waiting to board, being guided in part by a young guy in a green t-shirt with a semi-automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Not the driver; he was riding shotgun. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And then there are the soldiers, who walk the streets, get on buses, sit in cafes, with this weapon that looks to be a cross between Rambo and paintball. The soldiers aren't menacing or the slightest bit Stallonish. They're mostly scrawny kids, seemingly carrying their weapon barely aware of its potential. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">With all this security, I wonder if Israelis feel more safe, or less safe. In other words, the omnipresence of security indicates the omnipresence of threat. Which prevails in the psyche of the average Israeli?</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">*** </span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Late yesterday afternoon I had a beer with a woman named Liv. A mutual friend put us in contact with each other, so that we could have a discussion about Israel. I wanted to know things only an Israeli could tell me. <br />
<br />
Liv has a PhD in Argumentation and works with a research group out of Tel Aviv University. Her current project analyzes the de-legitimization of Israel in the French media (her focus is websites). She was born and raised in Paris, and speaks with an Israeli-French blend.<br />
<br />
I asked her how long she's been living in Israel, and she told me moved here at 24, which I guessed to be about 24 years ago. I asked her why she moved here, and I thought she said "sciencism," something to do with her research, but in fact she said "scionism", that is, Zionism. We had a good chuckle once we got that sorted out. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Liv came here, to Israel, as a young Zionist. She moved here from Paris because she believed in the state of Israel, and wanted to contribute to its building and future. She sighed when she told me that Zionism today isn't what it was when she came here at 24. I didn't need to ask why. As I write this, the answer is being provided, among other ways, by the crusading Zionist settlers on the West Bank. And then there's Netanyahu.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Liv has two kids, a daughter and a son. Her daughter is just now finishing up her military service. Every Israeli citizen is required to fulfill military service (two years for girls; three years for boys). Liv told me that when her daughter expressed to the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) no interest in combat duty and no interest in officer-training -- meaning committing to more than the minimum two-year period -- she was given a hum-drum assignment. Liv was fine with that. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Liv's son is only 16, and he has already expressed interest in volunteering for combat duty once he enters the army. This worries her. There are many flashpoints in and around Israel. When I asked her about the likelihood of danger she gave me to believe that it wouldn't be unusual at all for her son to engage in some fighting. The risks for her are too real. Liv wished that in this respect, her son had been more like her daughter.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Liv, like most people, would like to live a peaceful life. Would like not to see her son go into combat, or see Israel under such constant military lockdown. But she is also a realist. When I asked her if Israel hasn't swung too far militarily, and hasn't hurt its image abroad, she struggled for an answer. "Well of course it's not good. Am I happy about it? Obviously, no. But people want to kill us. Hamas fires rockets at us? What are we to do?"</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Earlier tonight just before sundown I went for my first ever swim in the Mediterranean. The beach around Tel Aviv slopes very gradually, almost imperceptibly. You can walk out from shore a good ways before the water gets even waste high.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The sand is soft, but packed very hard. The slight waves above doesn't stir it. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The water is surprisingly clear, and very salty. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">With the sun about a two feet off of the horizon, I toweled off and sat down to watch the sun set in a beach chair outside the Banana Cafe. A guy who'd been standing close to the water and just gazing out turned around and approached. It so happened that he was my waiter. Perhaps not the most attentive waiter, ever, but a very nice fellow. He asked what would I like, and smiled.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I requested my beer choices and settled on a Tuborg. He asked where I was from, and when I told him New York, he smiled broadly and slapped my hand. "Very cool! Right on." He then went to get my beer.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">When he returned, he told me that he had just gotten back from New York two weeks ago, somewhere in Brooklyn, and that he returned to Tel Aviv to attend his cousin's wedding. He'd only been in New York a couple of weeks, but he'd like to go back. Before New York he'd been in Ecuador. And before that Hawaii. And Brazil. He said that whenever he made some money, he'd go travel with it. In all, he'd been traveling three years.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"So, now that you're back in Tel Aviv, are you going to stay here a while?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Me?! No way, man. I'm going to make a little more money and go away someplace."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Why, you don't like it here?"</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"No. Too much stress."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">He works sunsets on the Mediterranean: stress?</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Look," he said, pointing over the water. Two helicopters were buzzing south. I'd seen others like them off and on throughout the afternoon. "Army helicopters. All day. Every day. It never ends. No. Too much stress here. It's not for me."</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-22926074016819243622011-05-23T22:31:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:08:57.602-07:00Aliyah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDIFOh-tEpVjo73sl3lTx1xbxM0auEjabJRAdQPcY3kLxAoZOXROpIvhu-Z8sM-5_9d5svgGXF-3j7TNCw0wuWLXH7-1gDcJK47nA98QbkQ8W5ppQfdyaNBa4Eik1d_cIwM6VbhH_xmY/s1600/israel+1949.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDIFOh-tEpVjo73sl3lTx1xbxM0auEjabJRAdQPcY3kLxAoZOXROpIvhu-Z8sM-5_9d5svgGXF-3j7TNCw0wuWLXH7-1gDcJK47nA98QbkQ8W5ppQfdyaNBa4Eik1d_cIwM6VbhH_xmY/s400/israel+1949.jpeg" width="206" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">WAITING<br />
In 1972 my father sent my then much younger older sisters to Israel for a few months to live and work on a kibbutz. I don't recall why I didn't go along. Perhaps it was because I was still in high school. More likely, I didn't go for the simple reason that my father wanted me to go. In any event, they went, and I didn't.<br />
<br />
Now, nearly forty years later, I am in Budapest's Liszt Ferenc airport waiting to board Hungarian Airlines flight 210 to Tel Aviv.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Four months ago when I alighted in Hungary and passed through this airport for the first time to begin my Fulbright I had no thought of traveling to Israel. Now, four months later, having been to Budapest, Berlin, Krakow; having visited the synagogues emptied by the Nazis and Arrow Cross; having read the travails of the Hungarian Jewish survivors George Konrad and Imre Kertesz; deeply regretting the loss of the superb Hungarian novelist Antal Szerb, who was beaten to death in a concentration camp at age 43, a career ended at three titles; I have an interest in Israel I never had before and never would have anticipated.<br />
<br />
For the record: I have not kept a close watch on Israeli politics during my lifetime. For the record: That which I have paid attention to has distressed me. <br />
<br />
From my perspective way across the Atlantic, Israel has too often been governed by muscle-bound hawks, Zionist zealots who have engaged in oppression and babarity unconscionable for a people who have suffered oppression and barbarity so intensely themselves. I read with shame about General Ariel Sharon's Lebanese concentration camps in the 80s, no less despicable in their way than were Hitler's in the 40s and Stalin's in the 50s. He should have been tried rather than elected Prime Minister. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">First with Sharon, then with Netanyahu, and now again with Netanyahu, if Israel had a moral compass, it has lost it; if Israel had moral authority, it has ceded it. I hope in time Israel can find them again. Being Jewish, acting on behalf of, or in defense of, the Jewish state excuses nothing. If anything it should carry greater responsibility.<br />
<br />
What's more, Israeli politics regarding its Arab neighbor states is suicidal. For how long can Israel keep the Palestinians under "control"? For how long can it continue to support the vast military apparatus it (and the U.S.) has built in the name of defense, when, in the end, such defense will only lead to increased tension and inevitable war? <br />
</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am naive. And I am self-righteous. I have not been to Israel. I have never lived there, never seen it from the inside looking out. I don't know if a week's time there will give me a better perspective, but I hope so. <br />
_________________________________________________</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">SEAT 5A<br />
I am now cruising at 41,000 feet, somewhere above the clouds and Bulgaria. An inflight video boosting Hungary just showed some of the country's inventors and inventions: Leo Szilard; soft-contact lenses; light-emitting concrete; color TV; Excel; phonograph recording; something to do with virtual reality; and more. Pretty impressive, actually.<br />
<br />
It's hard not to think about what, perhaps, will not be invented, or invented later rather than sooner, owing to the holocaust. Some of it we probably wouldn't have wanted. But who knows what future goods were undone when the children were marched to the gas chambers? What might Antal Szerb have lived to write had he even reached my age?<br />
<br />
Such questions can be asked of all deaths, everywhere and for all times. Still, the genocide of Europe's Jews is different, a half-million of whom were Hungarian. Whole generations of a people never to be born.<br />
<br />
But I follow the nose of this plane; I look ahead to Israel. Imperfect as it is, I will try to understand it, try to love it. Born of so much hate, I must try to love it</span>.</b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-24057972767606536192011-05-21T09:52:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:08:31.493-07:00Christiania<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7xPdhqjrBAbIU-IKuXAzxHLg8t0IYhZpmxbyChpJ0vCwfHJQfmoFWD9hqb2KZr7Wq6PIM9AH_SmU_VcHIGJR_tfHhRgFJPxXOjiV1MgLb8dpLXPsb5B8LHv4AaE-C9z48sTdigGT3q6E/s1600/i+support+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7xPdhqjrBAbIU-IKuXAzxHLg8t0IYhZpmxbyChpJ0vCwfHJQfmoFWD9hqb2KZr7Wq6PIM9AH_SmU_VcHIGJR_tfHhRgFJPxXOjiV1MgLb8dpLXPsb5B8LHv4AaE-C9z48sTdigGT3q6E/s640/i+support+copy.jpg" width="480" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I first came to Copenhagen in 2004. It was then that I learned of Christiania (<i>kris-tain-ya</i>). I learned of its laid-back counter-culture and its dogged resistance to conformity. I learned of its compound, outpost mentality, and how for decades it has had to fend off all sorts of barbarians at its gates, from real estate developers to biker gangs to police enforcers to right wing politicians. For forty years Christiania has fought off all who sought to own it or control it.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Having returned to Copenhagen earlier this week to give a lecture, I also returned to Christiania. I find it immensley interesting.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Christiania, or Freetown Christiania as it's formally known, occupies approximately 85 acres on an isthmus between two of Copenhagen's canals. It is an accidental-turned-intentional community of squatters and others who annexed buildings and barracks left empty there by the closing of the Danish Army base on Christianhavn in 1971. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">In 1971, amidst a housing crisis in Copenhagen, in which the army base </span><span style="font-size: large;">squarely </span><span style="font-size: large;">sat</span><span style="font-size: large;">, hippies, other cultural misfits, and those simply needing shelter, moved into the leafy </span><span style="font-size: large;">abandoned </span><span style="font-size: large;">area abutting the pristine Stradgraven canal. Many have been here since, still clinging to their hippie and culturally misfit ways. </span></b><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNn6-zbhF-n16X32W9qjUGKllmq83CeC7ihCib4vL3jJEQWSISgbYPFCwakZrNTGv3lkQd89UQvriinbjNSRdPjz74ABrP-60muuzyeYr86mRxXAHgtO_Ij039LVeHez4-pOPIiKa7c8o/s1600/map+of+christiania.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNn6-zbhF-n16X32W9qjUGKllmq83CeC7ihCib4vL3jJEQWSISgbYPFCwakZrNTGv3lkQd89UQvriinbjNSRdPjz74ABrP-60muuzyeYr86mRxXAHgtO_Ij039LVeHez4-pOPIiKa7c8o/s320/map+of+christiania.JPG" width="320" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Christiania, highlighted in dark green</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span style="font-size: large;">And since then, Christiania and Christianites have gone through lots and lots of growing pains. Aiming to structure a culture of inclusion and tolerance, Christiania has taken a public stand to remain open to those at society's margins. As a community, whose residents now number around 900, but whose commuter population </span><span style="font-size: large;">and yearly visitors number 500 or 600 times that residential number, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Christiania seeks not to judge nor to impose. It is a society and a state with few creeds, and fewer strictures.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">This becomes apparent </span><span style="font-size: large;">physically </span><span style="font-size: large;">while walking its windy, narrow, overgrown gravel roads, and looking at the houses close-by on either side. In many instances, they appear designed by Rube Goldberg. To put it bluntly, Christiania's architectural and structural chaos would send any municipal building inspector into fits. There is no code. People simply do what they want, and what they can, regardless of whether they have the requisite trade skill or eye to do it "right." Which is not to say the homes are ugly (though some are) or unsafe (though some seem shaky) but only to say that for the most part, they are consciously unconventional and occasionally appear a little spontaneous and sudden, or perhaps simply tentative.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZBzFvrzgc2eJc8FYCqFw0dpbuML34bkb4oGHX6TZKzAM0ppE-1BMNqV6V059VlbyOYNiCLtaUxF5jKw5rqiobiMZZCEUfmTc9E93ubwjXxBIc80wUm8mHXl2WJmnR1KGQha6070-2Bw/s1600/house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZBzFvrzgc2eJc8FYCqFw0dpbuML34bkb4oGHX6TZKzAM0ppE-1BMNqV6V059VlbyOYNiCLtaUxF5jKw5rqiobiMZZCEUfmTc9E93ubwjXxBIc80wUm8mHXl2WJmnR1KGQha6070-2Bw/s320/house.JPG" width="240" /></a></b></div></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">*** </span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">If the houses display an uncertain, informal architecture or design, that is how one might see the politics of Christiania as well. There is no complex structure to its deliberative process -- no hierarchy of governance or procedure. Instead, Christiania operates as a direct</span><span style="font-size: large;">, completely horizontal</span><span style="font-size: large;"> democracy, with each community member holding no more nor no less power than their fellow community members. Each participates to the extent that he or she can, or cares to. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Proposals for community consideration are presented en masse, in general meetings open to all Christianites. Decisions, however, can be carried by the simplest of majorities. As there is no time limit for pressing one's case, nor no time limit for opposing that case; and as in Christiania, no proposal goes forward in the face of <i>any </i>opposition (even with overwhelming support), stiff standoffs can lead to marathon meetings. For it is not until all opposition has either been persuaded or simply left the meeting room that a proposal carries. A single advocate or opponent willing to stick it out to the bitter end to be the last man or woman standing will win the day (or day turned into night turned into day). It is a democratic process built not on brute force or power blocs but on sheer conviction and stamina. With victory comes the responsibility to turn off the lights and close the door behind you.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">*** </span></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQo6YHddD6DDASeEUnaNPpBINTdWs_eih37IiTUkUblRjxA5C1yZYDORtRVokPMFTj2UVrL9EUIQ7WZwULinPy85G0owd1tx6WYMmOLpRXtZzeYbHRV1VpDjuzHNcm0S5_U3J1avsWDq0/s1600/bylaws.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQo6YHddD6DDASeEUnaNPpBINTdWs_eih37IiTUkUblRjxA5C1yZYDORtRVokPMFTj2UVrL9EUIQ7WZwULinPy85G0owd1tx6WYMmOLpRXtZzeYbHRV1VpDjuzHNcm0S5_U3J1avsWDq0/s320/bylaws.JPG" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Christiania does not have its own police force though it does have its own "laws, as you can see from the poster above. Hardly draconian, even if a little baffling: what's the story behind no bullet-proof vests? I do know the history of the ban on hard drugs and biker colors. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">From the beginning, as the Copenhagen and Danish authorities in general have maintained a grudging hands-off policy toward Christiania, Christiania developed an open drug culture. Buying pot, selling pot, and smoking pot were activities carried out in the light of day, no differently than going to the market or sipping a can of beer (legal on the streets of Copenhagen). The cops, under orders, tolerated Christiania from outside its borders. They rarely entered the former military base, but if they did, they observed but did not touch. Obviously, having their hands tied in the face of laws being broken right in front of them did not leave the cops pleased with the arrangement</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Others more scheming were. In time, hard drug peddlers took advantage of Christiania's legal refuge to test whether the sale of hard drugs could be carried out with such impunity, and for a while they were. But, as as hard drug dealers began to infiltrate so too did the problems associated with hard drugs. Heroin use lead to addictions and several overdoses resulting in death. After a failed collaboration with the police to rid Christiania of the hard drug pushers, Christianites took it upon themselves to exile the pushers and offer rehab for their victims. They succeeded, and have banned hard drugs since. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">In the 80's a Danish biker gang called Bullshit invaded to muscle in on the pot market. Their intimidating presence rankled the live and let live Christianites, and the biker gang was tossed out. The effectiveness of their conviction was apparently bolstered by the Hell's Angels, who got into a "war" with Bullshit. The Hell's Angels won. Since the expulsion of Bullshit, Christiania has imposed a no bike colors rule.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Christiania is reputed to be Copenhagen's second largest tourist destination, though it is not the kind of place which would be on the itinerary of most bus tours. Instead, it seems, that people go to Christiania for two reasons: to gawk, stealthily and a bit frightfully, as if in a wild animal preserve with the windows partially open, at its freaky-deaky circa 70s culture; and to smoke weed. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-kz8QxdfwVNzE4gMYId8v0yzxrCG8mREcoCTZY_ctKUJ4M_6eFtV0EtUK6Zg3v5ulwajDQTa-EdKRxn4b98GlJdjm8hEsQvAmvERy3hlYCthY3q6WJtpCo7v20-hiY3n3Ys64A-nOsc/s1600/PUSHER+st+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-kz8QxdfwVNzE4gMYId8v0yzxrCG8mREcoCTZY_ctKUJ4M_6eFtV0EtUK6Zg3v5ulwajDQTa-EdKRxn4b98GlJdjm8hEsQvAmvERy3hlYCthY3q6WJtpCo7v20-hiY3n3Ys64A-nOsc/s320/PUSHER+st+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Pusher Street</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span style="font-size: large;">Because of Christiania's avowed tolerance, the enclave has become an internationally visited haven for pot smokers and pot dealers. On the main thoroughfare known as Pusher Street -- I will have to check if this was the Danish Army's name for it, perhaps named after some famous general, Pusher --, either side will be lined with dealers having set up makeshift stands or booths selling a various types of weed and chunks of hash. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-V9UHT_H7wZTflpgRa0U2Q6i8vRIH7rUGrNz8OXGsJwGLpEycIoWjJZoRLsMo1PP6HhdFlxWQQsJ_d6SfNrV-GpK0o9sTtSvttjBItoorJ3zgnwl4UIizDBbVRE0H3_YBpLTq6D8PKQ/s1600/hash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-V9UHT_H7wZTflpgRa0U2Q6i8vRIH7rUGrNz8OXGsJwGLpEycIoWjJZoRLsMo1PP6HhdFlxWQQsJ_d6SfNrV-GpK0o9sTtSvttjBItoorJ3zgnwl4UIizDBbVRE0H3_YBpLTq6D8PKQ/s320/hash.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Buyers participate in the process like connoisseurs, sniffing, fingering, looking for tell-tale signs of this or that. With lots of people selling the same product -- assuming that it doesn't all come from a single source dressed up as choice -- likely there are </span><span style="font-size: large;">distinctive </span><span style="font-size: large;">characteristics to choose from. In between these stands or stalls, seated on benches with their backs against a building, customers or hangers-around puff away, some clearly having puffed their way into another dimension. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">From what I could tell on my recent visit, all the dealers were male, and seemed to have a coterie of other males hanging around, perhaps for protection, perhaps for crumbs. They didn't strike me as the kind of people who'd live in Christiania. Most of the guys tried to look hard, thuggish, as much of a <i>gangsta</i> as you can be selling pot to a bunch of high school kids and middle-aged, middle-class people who might have swung by Pusher Street during their lunch break or for a quick blast at the end of a long day. Still, the dealers and their crews have watched the movies; they've taken their cues. Despite the fact that they fly against much of what Christiania stands for. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">***<br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-s2ifpA4Xy_68dNSyjXUyL8FMlGXqmO8U1Vbs_cR6uKNU0R5Trzz40vXW1krNyhFfJ-uLEAf64k3cNZPT2JtgpxFKmOtd5bwCDtkYOw9i7DYsNZXkTb5hSbS0z0QMY42xBD9NPAKgrk/s1600/Caf_liv_i_K_benhavn_456686k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-s2ifpA4Xy_68dNSyjXUyL8FMlGXqmO8U1Vbs_cR6uKNU0R5Trzz40vXW1krNyhFfJ-uLEAf64k3cNZPT2JtgpxFKmOtd5bwCDtkYOw9i7DYsNZXkTb5hSbS0z0QMY42xBD9NPAKgrk/s1600/Caf_liv_i_K_benhavn_456686k.jpg" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Nemoland</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span style="font-size: large;">If Pusher Street is the artery of Christiania, Nemoland is its heart. Nemoland is made up of an indoor cafe, outdoor Thai food stand, semi-outdoor bar, and several acres of gravel and path hemmed all around by a natural boundary of berms, trees, and rock outcrops. Scattered in the midst of Nemoland, underneath Denmark's fickle skies, sit fifty or so blue and red painted picnic tables at which, throughout the day and night, people will park themselves in ones, twos, threes, and fours, prepare a spleet, and light up. Some all-weather tables have tent-like awnings. Beyond the tables stands the pretty professional looking Nemoland concert stage, where Cafe Nemoland</span><span style="font-size: large;"> frequently puts on free shows</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't track anyone, but I suppose that purchases on Pusher Street get consumed in Nemoland. Nemoland, like most of Christiania, is entirely hands-off. As long as one doesn't engage in violence or the use or selling of hard-drugs, no one is going to play the heavy.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">In nice weather, Nemoland fills up. The day I was there was warm, but windy. The wind made lighting up a challenge, though all seemed to rise to it. As I don't smoke pot, I stood drinking a Tuborg draft by the open-sided bar and watched those who did (My second beer was a bottle of Christiania, special brewed, vitamin fortified). </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">As I panned Nemoland, everyone was, or was in the process of getting, stoned, but I only saw one guy who became unreachable. The rest were generally chatty and happy, even if a little pot-eyed. Most only came for a short while, and then got back to their non-Christiania lives out and about greater Copenhagen. Others with more time checked out backgammon boards from the bartenders, or shot pool inside Cafe Nemoland on the brand new pool table. Music thumped loud and clear and continuously. There was a festive air to Nemoland.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I chatted with the two bartenders who both spoke English pretty well and were quite willing to engage me. Neither was a resident of Christiania but both were long-time affiliates and spoke both knowledgeably and proudly of Christiania. In between pouring beers, selling rolling papers and pink plastic lighters, and taking frequent breaks to come out from behind the bar to enjoy a few tokes of their own, they told me how Christiania is undergoing major change.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Apparently, Denmark's government has had it with Christiania and has essentially made them the ultimatum to give up the land or purchase it. After a general meeting, which purportedly included those who wanted not to recognize the ultimatum, the option of buying the land prevailed. Christiania is now waiting to see what price the government will set, and in the end, whether Chrisitianites will be able to meet that price. As the bartenders told me, there are some very rich people on Christiania, but most are not. It remains to be seen whether the community will pool its resources -- each according their ability -- or whether the disparity in wealth and ability to purchase their homes and land individually will create schisms.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Regardless of what comes next, neither bartender doubted that Christiania would survive in some form, and with it, the free climate that has defined it for 40 years. The government, they told me, will move cautiously. For although only 900 strong within its gates, many Copenhageners and others around the world support the idea of Christiania and the struggle of the Christianite, and any Danish attempt to shutter the community would be met with formidable, perhaps even violent resistance. Christiania, they assured me, has lots of friends.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">*** </span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">After a few beers I was feeling pretty good, and who knows, with all the smoke blowing past me perhaps I had a bit of a contact high. So maybe my impressions were a bit chemically enhanced, but it seemed to me that on that day, in the sunshine, Nemoland, and by extension, Christiania, succeeded. It gave people a place to come and get happy and feel at ease, and from what I could tell, they did.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Bevar Christiania! </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<br />
</div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-37908667450463297042011-05-11T03:10:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:08:02.442-07:00Hallelujah*<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7YkwqYmZA-nPtUe67XG3DV1Awh-fqtr4wVaZd_fOFVU9F_j4WeR0u9Ru_XTleQ_DHdPPu4_xcjDp2pes8G_jpZIM4LbzEggNQVmmZgZODsXY31fe-QIxRT7BbyD5lDKKGI63AtGrK_4/s1600/Renee+invite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7YkwqYmZA-nPtUe67XG3DV1Awh-fqtr4wVaZd_fOFVU9F_j4WeR0u9Ru_XTleQ_DHdPPu4_xcjDp2pes8G_jpZIM4LbzEggNQVmmZgZODsXY31fe-QIxRT7BbyD5lDKKGI63AtGrK_4/s640/Renee+invite.jpg" width="542" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Things have gotten pretty tight since OBL got deep-sixed. Here in Hungary I have received email warnings from the State Department about the need to maintain extra vigilance in the wake of Bin Laden's wake.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">True to their own warning, I sensed extra security when I arrived at the U.S. Ambassador's residence last night to honor Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e Flemming, Fulbright student to Germany in 1984 and 2011 recipient of the Fulbright Lifetime Achievement Award. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> I flashed the guards my invitation; Moses parting the Red Sea.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Inside, I was greeted by a crisp embassy assistant who smiled and asked me to sign the guest register. I have to admit that I didn't know why my invitation bore the number </span><span style="font-size: large;">4895351, and I was concerned that 4,895350 people received invitations ahead of me. So I asked. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The assistant said, "Oh no, no, Dr. Blitefield, it's quite the opposite. The ambassador and her husband use a scale to rank their most desirable guests: 1, being right next to zero, is least desirable, absolutely undesirable. Mohammar Qaddafi undesirable. Such a person might receive an invitation, but only so that the guards can turn them away."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I looked at my invitation again and was suddenly feeling pretty darn good. "How high do the numbers go?" I asked, perhaps pushing it a bit. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry Dr. Blitefield. I can't tell you. That information is classified. <i>Need to know. For your eyes only.</i> That sort of thing." Then she cupped her hand in front of her mouth and whispered, "But I can tell you this, you are right up there. Can't get much more desirable than </span><span style="font-size: large;">4895351." She winked and then resumed her officious demeanor. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"How about that," I thought as I swaggered up the staircase to the second floor, regretting only that I wasn't given a name tag, one with my number on it. But then I corrected myself: there are others less fortunate than you; don't rub their noses in it. Being </span><span style="font-size: large;">4895351, I was quickly learning, comes with responsibility.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of numbers, while I don't know what her desirability number -- let's call it an index, desirability index -- is, though likely not close to my own, age-wise </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;">Flemming and I are about the same. I'm plus four, and so maybe when she reaches my age she will also have peaked higher on the desirability index. As for everything else, she and I are kind of on a par. That's why I wouldn't be at all surprised if I get the Fulbright Lifetime Achievement Award within the next year or two. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so, as a Fulbrighter who has not yet been awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award but who is certainly in the running, and with such an outstanding desirability rating to boot, the Ambassador, Eleni Tsakopoulos Kounalakis, and her husband, Markos, obviously thought I should be there to celebrate Renee, perhaps, too, to get a taste of what awaits me. Of what I so richly deserve. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Eleni and Mark -- I like to call them that -- it's so much less stuffy than <i>Madame Ambassador</i> and <i>Mr. Kounalakis</i> -- Eleni and Mark had had me to a previous reception just a few months ago for another Fulbright thing, and I guess I made enough of an impression then that they just had to have me back again (I wonder where I was on the index that night, before and after). I don't mean to boast, but I'm thinking I'm part of the inner circle at casa Tsakopoulos Kounalakis, a sure A-lister. A+. A+ squared. And I am absolutely, definitely certain that if Eleni and Mark knew me, we'd <i>all </i>be on a first name basis.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, I hadn't had two sips of my scotch before </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;"> and a whole gaggle of quacking photographers came over. Amidst the rasping of shutters and the soft pop of flashes, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;">and I tried to hold a normal conversation.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Photographers," she said. "I feel like I'm chained to them, dragging them with me wherever I go."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> <i>clickclickpopop</i></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Tell me about it," I chimed in.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>clickclickpopop</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I heard you were here."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>clickclickpopop</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"And I heard you were here."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>clickclickpopop</i></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, I am the one being honored after all."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>clickclickpopop</i></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>This time</i>, I said to myself. "Yes, you should be quite pleased. Winning the Lifetime Achievement Award is something special. And only very special people can earn it."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>clickclickpopop</i></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">She blushed. "Thank you. But you -- you're, an academic, isn't that right?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Hang on, Ms. Flemming. Excuse me just a second."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I stepped into all the clicking and popping and held up my hands. "Look, fellas, I know you guys are just doing your job. But me and Ms. Flemming are trying to have a normal conversation, and that's really hard to do with you firing away like that. Don't you have enough shots for now? Can you give us ten minutes to talk like two regular people?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The photographers looked at each other, nodded with chagrin, and skulked away. Not far away. Just away. To their credit, they did lay off the cameras for the time being.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Thank you!" she said, "You don't know how many times I've wanted to do that. I never knew it could be so easy. But forgive me. You were saying?" </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I was saying... uh, oh yes, that's right. I <i>am </i>an academic, a rhetorician. I teach at UMass Dartmouth."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"A rhetorician! So many syllables! I'm sure you can imagine that as an opera singer, I love syllables. And especially with such a mix of vowels."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, we rhetoricians, we're a pretty cool bunch."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"And at UMass Dartmouth!"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Now it was my turn to blush. "Please, Ms. Flemming..."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Do call me </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;">..."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Alright, </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span></i><span style="font-size: large;">, you're embarrassing me."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, I'm sorry, Jerry. May I call you Jerry. Really. It's just that, well, I've never met a rhetorician before. I've met lots of opera stars -- you know, your Pavarottis, your Domingos, your Carrerases yadda yadda yadda, and of course kings and queens and heads of state from all over the world, but you are my <i>first </i>rhetorician."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, if it's any consolation, you're my first <i>diva</i>. So, I guess that makes us even."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I guess so," she said with a smile. We shook on it. "Won't you tell me what you do? As a rhetorician, I mean? It sounds so exciting."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I will. But not tonight. There isn't enough time to do it justice. And besides, you've got others to see as well. The rest of the crowd here would be pretty upset if you spent the whole</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">night chatting with me."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">She looked </span><span style="font-size: large;">around </span><span style="font-size: large;">and much as she may have wished to be just a regular person at that moment she</span><span style="font-size: large;"> accepted the reality of her stardom. "I suppose you're right. But listen, it <i>is</i> my night, so if I want to spend just another minute or two with you, I can. And so I shall. Tell me Jerry, are you a <i>musical</i> rhetorician?" </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"</span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;">, you sounded a tad breathless with that question."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Did I?" she asked, looking away.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, just a tad. But anyway, to answer your question, yes, I play a little guitar."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Really! You mean the ukelele?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"No, I mean, I play guitar. Only a little."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Ah, got it. So what do you play?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I play a lot of Leonard Cohen."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Leonard Cohen! I <i>love </i>Leonard Cohen. What a voice. So earthy. So husky. Do you have a favorite Leonard Cohen song?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes. "Hallelujah"."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Mine, too! <i>"And even though it went all wrong, I'll stand before the lord of song, with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah"</i> -- that's some kind of writing, don't you think?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">'I do."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;">seemed very pleased with the conversation. "What other Leonard Cohen songs do you know?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, uh, that's the only one."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I suppose if you're going to know one Leonard Cohen song, that's a good one to know, right? I mean, I've always wanted to sing "Hallelujah," but, as you can imagine, it doesn't quite fit the operatic repertoire. So, what other songs do you play?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I don't. That's it."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"No, I don't just mean Leonard Cohen songs. I mean songs in general."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"So do I. I don't know any other songs. "Hallelujah"'s it."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"You know one song."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes. But it's a good one. You said so yourself."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">She reared back, some. "Oh... I see... When you say you only play a little, you're not kidding."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm a rhetorician, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;">. Rhetoricians don't mince words."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">No longer able to restrain itself, the crowd was closing in on us. Not to be outdone, the photographers started jockeying for position again. "Your fans are getting restless. You better get to them before there's bloodshed... mine."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, I suppose you're right. Though I so enjoy talking music with you, even if it is only about one song. But listen, Jerry -- in a short while I've got to perform a little. They want me to sing some dorky Handel aria or something, but I'd much rather sing "Hallelujah" -- with you. You and me. A duet. We can sing way down low, Leonard Cohen style." Here she started to sing way down low, Leonard Cohen style. I didn't have the heart to tell her; it sounded like croaking. Leonard Cohen is just not made for sopranos. Or vice versa. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Please, Jerry," she said, laying her hand on my arm. "It would mean a lot to me. Singing "Hallelujah" with you, a rhetorician." </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Her eyes were so pleading I couldn't say no. "Why sure, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;">. I'd love to sing a duet with you."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Fan-tastic!" she said, doing all she could to keep from hugging me. "Let me go do some glad-handing and so forth and I will come fetch you when it's time. This is going to be great!" she said over her shoulder as the human amoeba instantly englulfed her.</span></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbI4-UQrGeNr9nx7AetPLYU1ciEbhbgGtA3M7QxS8i6oidqsi6J21cohTBRh-2rNN2ha7M0R4h_iMHcWk4SOEevnn0QEFqtyjQ2hrCKRphX1T_wX68i8SGfkWQOKLx6PJpXGe_md1c_U/s1600/chillin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbI4-UQrGeNr9nx7AetPLYU1ciEbhbgGtA3M7QxS8i6oidqsi6J21cohTBRh-2rNN2ha7M0R4h_iMHcWk4SOEevnn0QEFqtyjQ2hrCKRphX1T_wX68i8SGfkWQOKLx6PJpXGe_md1c_U/s320/chillin.jpg" width="307" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e and Me, away from fans and photogs</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so there we were, just the two of us, standing in front of the piano in the salon, facing her adoring audience. "Ladies and gentlemen. First, I'd like to thank you all for the kindness with which you have greeted me tonight. I have long believed that going on that Fulbright in1984 was the turning point in my life, and I am deeply honored to have received this award. Second, there will be a slight change in the musical offering tonight."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Puzzled, the crowd looked at each other. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Instead of same-old-same-old <i>Handel</i>, I will be joined by my new friend, Dr. Jerrold Blitefield, master rhetorician at UMass Dartmouth, for a bit of our <i>own </i>Hallelujah chorus."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">My introduction was met with as much gasping as faint applause. <i>"What? No Handel?" "What's his name? Biddlefiddle?"</i></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes," </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;">continued above the rustling, "Jerry and I will sing for you that great American "Hallelujah", that of Leonard Cohen."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Leonard who?</i>"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Sam," she said, swinging </span><span style="font-size: large;">with brio </span><span style="font-size: large;">toward the piano player, </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Play it one time!"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sam slumped, dumbfounded. "Um, uh, Miss Flemming, I uh, don't know it."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, of course you do. Jerry, can you tell him the chords?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I cleared my throat but Sam cut me off. "It's not that, Miss Flemming. Knowing the chords, I mean. See, I'm not really a piano player. I'm working security, undercover, in case some terrorism should break out here." He opened his jacket a little to reveal the butt of what might have been an Ouzi or something.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;">was as shocked as I. "But who's been playing piano? I did hear piano, did I not?" </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sam raised his hands from the keyboard. "It's a machine? See? No hands!" he laughed, kind of desperately. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Does the <i>machine</i> know "Hallelujah?" "</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Is "Hallelujah" a show tune?"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"No. It most certainly is not a show tune."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Then the machine doesn't know it. We brought the machine that knows show tunes. Keep things peppy. Besides, terrorists don't like show tunes."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;">looked at me, panicked. "Jerry: What are we going to do? I have told the audience that we would be singing "Hallelujah" and they're expecting "Hallelujah" and now I find out that we have no piano player to play it."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"</span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;">, look. I'm just a simple rhetorician. But it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that." <i>If only my Sam was here</i>...</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="fine">lowered her head and began to cry. "What are we going to do, Jerry."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="fine">I looked around at the increasingly restless crowd, and at my pals Eleni and Mark, for whom the night was coming undone. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="fine">I lifted </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="fine">'s chin. "I'll tell you what we're going to do, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="fine">. </span>We're going to give them "Hallelujah." "</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh Jerry!"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Excuse me!" I shouted to the crowd, "Excuse me! Does anyone out there have a guitar?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"I do," a voice shouted back.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Jerry! You're not going to play "Hallelujah" on the guitar!"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"It's our only hope </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e. I've got to, or die trying."</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
There was a commotion deep in the crowd that finally emerged as a tuxedoed man holding a guitar, a little guitar. More like a ukele.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Does anyone have a real guitar?" I shouted.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes! Here! Take mine!" said a woman in a floor-length green chiffon gown pushing through. "Hallelujah!, Dr. Blitefield," she exulted, handing it to me.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh but Jerry -- that's a <i>nylon</i>-stringed guitar!" </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e observed with distress, "You don't <i>play </i>a nylon-stringed guitar!"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"I do now, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">e. I do now.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Because I'm kind of tone death and better at untuning guitars than at tuning them, I took this one on faith. "</span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e</span><span style="font-size: large;">, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Are <i>you</i> ready?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She looked at me with renewed light shining from her eyes. "Yes, Jerry. I <i>am </i>ready!"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She turned to the mumbling, grumbling crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! If you will just settle down some, we'd like to begin. Please. Settle down."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And they did, anxiously.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Here we go," I whispered to </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She nodded.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I strummed a C, and we began:</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>I heard there was a secret chord, </i></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>that David played and it pleased the lord, </i></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>but you don't even care for music, do you...</i></span></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>***</i></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e and I got through all of "Hallelujah", though just barely. I was a little slow in the chord changes -- finding the right spots for your fingers takes time -- and our singing was, frankly, atrocious. I would have been pleased if we sang simply as poorly as Leonard Cohen. Unfortunately, I think we sounded more like Tom Waits at his most guttural.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As we worked our way through the verses the audience jeered and booed, and had there been tomatoes among them I'm sure we would have gotten pelted. I caught Eleni and Mark out of the corner of my eye -- that didn't help my playing, either -- and they looked at me quite severely. I gulped as I saw my desirability index plummeting, falling like a stone. It was pretty clear that the three of us would no longer be on a first-name basis. More, I wondered if this performance would affect my chances for receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e, though, was absolutely radiant, exuberant, apparently having the time of her life. She was snapping her fingers out of time, and singing so low it sounded like she was gargling.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">By the time we had finished, the crowd was mostly gone, having left in a snit. The woman who had loaned me her guitar came and snatched it back, but not before barking, "You suck!" </span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And we were alone. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I turned to </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e. "Well, that was pretty much of a disaster. I"m sorry."</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Sorry?! I loved it! I thought it was perfect!"</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">She didn't look crazy. "Huh?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Don't you see," she said beaming. "For as long as I can remember, it's been applause on top of applause. Encore after encore. Standing ovation after standing ovation. I am not going to deny that sometimes I'm deserving of such a response -- I really do work hard. But everyone has an off day here and there, and yet the audience response is always the same. It sometimes causes me to wonder whether they're really listening. But tonight! They were sure listening tonight, and what they heard was <i>awful</i>, and they sure gave us what we had coming. I loved it! It was so real! The first time in my life that I'd ever been booed, and it felt <i>great!</i>"</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I wished I could say the same.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Look, Jerry, I want you to think about this before you give me your answer, okay?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I nodded.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"I have to give a concert Wednesday night at the Opera House, and I would love if you would join me for a reprise of "Hallelujah", just as we did it tonight. I think we'd knock the socks right off of them."</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">I hated to stick a pin in her elation, but I had to. I had to put a stop to this now, before it got out of hand. "Look, </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I don't want you to take it personally</span><span style="font-size: large;">, but</span><span style="font-size: large;"> what happened tonight was a one-time thing. You're a sweet kid, but I'm a rhetorician. Just as you've got your work to do, so do I. For me, it's in front of a classroom, or at academic conferences, not on the stage of the Hungarian Opera House."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">A cloud began to pass over her face.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Besides," I said, "You were born to sing beautifully, not horribly. You have a rare talent that brings joy to many people around the world and you just can't let that talent go to waste, not even for a minute. You have had your boos; now it's time to get back to the cheers. If not for you, then for your audience, your fans, those who love you and want to love you."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The cloud passed, and she took my hands in hers. "You rhetoricians are a pretty wise bunch, aren't you."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes. Yes we are."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Ms. Flemming, your chauffeur is here," someone said.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She looked to the door. "I must go."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"I know."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Will I see you again?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"No. We live in different worlds, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e. Tonight was just a freak of nature."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She nodded. "But we'll always have Fulbright, won't we, Jerry?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e. We'll always have Fulbright."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">e Flemming kissed me on the cheek and walked out of my life. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And with that, I looked for Eleni and Mark to say goodnight, but they were nowhere to be found.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">*With apologies to </span><span style="font-size: small;">Ren</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: small;">é</span><span style="font-size: small;">e Flemming, </span><span style="font-size: small;">Eleni Tsakopoulos Kounalakis and Markos </span><span style="font-size: small;">Kounalakis, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Rick and Ilsa, and Garrison Keillor.</span></b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-38767011059811942432011-05-07T11:08:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:07:17.063-07:00Meditating Over The Hands Of An Aged Piano Player<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp7hpuXxCOXhkrHcc71c2QnhJwZZr4bk9UISIchHAoE2ZJ-IASvrHoPu_SHJZsemPICT3vdzXWVPpKfZ5y1YY2JVTbDW9i6owUwYMX805R46ARQxT9eJ-YdlCCzQtOUlo7VX-KnTnncKc/s1600/Piano+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp7hpuXxCOXhkrHcc71c2QnhJwZZr4bk9UISIchHAoE2ZJ-IASvrHoPu_SHJZsemPICT3vdzXWVPpKfZ5y1YY2JVTbDW9i6owUwYMX805R46ARQxT9eJ-YdlCCzQtOUlo7VX-KnTnncKc/s640/Piano+man.jpg" width="480" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I stopped in the Spinoza Haz Restaurant on Dob u. in Budapest's Jewish Quarter for two reasons: 1) after having walked up and down </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Dob u.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I couldn't locate the Synagogue Apartments where I was to spend my two-night stay (</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Nothing remotely like "Synagogue Apartments, enter here (Jerry)")</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">; 2) Spinoza Haz was nearby when I threw in the towel to trying to find the Synagogue Apartments simply with my genetic gps, and Spinoza beckoning with free wifi so that I could check my email confirmation for the exact address. <br />
<br />
(Turns out the apartment was right across the street, though set back off the road in a rather deep and famous maze of buildings known as Godzsu Court.) <br />
<br />
Once inside the Spinoza and seated, I ordered a hosszú kávé, went online, and listened to the lunchtime chatter circling about. It was about 1 p.m.<br />
<br />
Dividing my attention between my laptop and everything else going on around me, I successfully eavesdropped enough to learn that the Spinoza offers nightly piano music (except for Fridays, when it offers klezmer <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oct9nJopdYU&feature=related">samples of klezmer</a>). I have been kind of starved for live music since having come to Hungary, so this was a gift dropped in my lap. Free wifi <i>and </i>live music. I was growing fond of Spinoza.<br />
<br />
And, as the restaurant was owned by an Israeli, and purported to serve "Jewish" food (not sure there is such a thing, but I'll save that for another time), I knew my eating there would tickle my two living sisters and bring approving nods from my countless dead relatives. So I decided the Spinoza was were I would have a Jewish dinner and live music.<br />
<br />
The Israeli owner said, "Definitely, absolutely," when </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">someone </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">at a nearby table asked whether she should make reservations in order to get a table during the piano performance. I got the sense he was very business savvy and would have said definitely, absolutely regardless, but given that the restaurant -- more like an old cafe -- wasn't that big to begin with, I decided to play it safe and make a definite, absolute reservation for myself. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The waiter was thrilled -- a bit too thrilled -- when I told him I wanted to reserve a table, which signaled to me that few others have, or do. He asked, "Would you like smoking or no-smoking?" I told him no-smoking, but more important, I said, was that I would like to sit somewhere close to the music. "Where is the piano?" I asked. "Here!" he said, pointing right alongside us. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The rectangular table just inside the door that was host to menus, wine cards, and an assortment of tourist brochures (all of which, I later learned, had carefully dogeared Spinoza adpages; I told you the guy was business savvy) actually abutted the back of an upright piano. A burgundy velvet drape concealed its ribs. "Oh. Okay. Somewhere close by here, then. How about 8 o'clock?" <br />
<br />
"Fine, sir. Thank you." He was very polite. Though the fact that he just scribbled down my name in a little red book with no other notes -- not even the time -- caused me some doubt. "I will remember you," he said with an enthusiastic smile.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <br />
I returned just before 8 and saw from the curb that the Spinoza wasn't full, but close. Perhaps the owner wasn't exaggerating definitely, absolutely after all. <br />
<br />
When I entered, a different waiter than the one I had booked my table with approached, and when I told him that I had a reservation he said, "Very good, sir!" He fetched the red book and I pointed out my name. "Ah! Well, then -- where would you like to sit? We have smoking in the back room."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I was starting to wonder: what does "reservation" mean in Spinozese?</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Nonsmoking, please. Close to the piano."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The waiter and I both looked around the nonsmoking area close to the piano. There was one </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">small </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">table, for four, against the wall and directly across from the piano. It was unseated and had a <i>foglalt </i>sign on it, which I was pretty sure meant "reserved", which I was also pretty sure meant it was my table, saved for me by my prior waiter, he with the good memory.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Apparently my very affable current waiter didn't see it that way. "Would you like to sit upstairs? We have some very nice tables upstairs? Please, follow."</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I hadn't known there was an upstairs, but, looking up, indeed there was, kind of a balcony perch from which to scope the piano and dining area (including my foglalt table). </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The waiter had already taken off and was half-way up the stairs.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>What the hell</i>, I thought, <i>so it's not front row. I'll live.</i> I looked wistfully at my foglalt table, and headed up the wide staircase.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The table I was offered was right along the simple wrought-iron railing, offering me a clear, almost perpendicular view of the piano and its as yet untinkled keys. <i>Better, actually</i>. I agreed to take it -- </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">though not without a snort of a hurrumph</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> -- and </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ordered a glass of wine.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The wine arrived at about the same time as the tall, somewhat stooped piano player, whose jacket suggested he better filled it in earlier days. He lowered himself on the piano bench and I coveted his white hair, thick and soft. (As a friend of mine from college who was graying prematurely used to buck up, "Better gray than nay." That goes for white, too.)</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">He rested his hands on the keyboard, momentarily, long enough for me to look them over. They were long. Their knuckles knobby. Deep ravines separated their metacarpals. Thick, blue veins crisscrossed them. They were old.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And yet, shortly, when he began to play, they were nimble, like marionettes: lively and brisk now, slow and doleful then, hopping here, carefully stepping there. From my crow's nest, they were more than capable; they were surprisingly accomplished, and, I instantly imagined, quite sought after in their day. I had no doubt those hands had played in venues larger, and for audiences more focused, than that of the Spinoza.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And yet here they were. He, the piano man, played them effortlessly through a Gershwin medey, "The Blue Danube Waltz", and for the hometown crowd, the old Jewish chestnuts, "Ha Tikvah" (Israeli national anthem; <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1I6d0OTSOA&feature=related">Enrico Macias scmaltzing up Ha Tikvah</a>) and the theme from the movie, <i>Exodus </i>(<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsmZeo1Tc9A&feature=related">original soundtrack, with movie clips</a>).</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The restaurant was busy and my waiter not especially good, so my food was slow in coming. But that was fine. I was actually quite happy resting my chin on the railing and watching the piano man below.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">About him swirled typical restaurant turbulence, and yet at his piano he was a sea of calm. With his eyes fixed on the keyboard, he was in a world of his own.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I watched with envy, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">but also with sadness, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">his hands float back and forth over the keys. I suspected that as he now looked down on his aged hands, as I was looking down on them, he felt some pangs of regret. Of loss. I guessed that as good as they were, still, they were not as good as they </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">were</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">, once. And I supposed that of all people in the world who knew that, he did.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so, watching him, it struck me as sad: here was a man who spent the last forty, fifty, sixty years in a totally devoted relationship with his hands, a relationship stronger perhaps than any he'd had with a person, a relationship that was visibly, physically renewed on a daily basis: How many hours each day and how many days each week over the decades had he looked down upon those hands, and worked with them, a full collaboration between eye, ear, and digit, in the elusive pursuit of perfection? And does he sometimes look down on them now, surprised at how old they've grown, perhaps with feelings of betrayal; how once they were young and strong, fleet, maybe even tanned, but now, old, frail, grinding, chalky white?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I would have given anything to play like he was playing for me in the Spinoza. I wonder what he might give today to play like he did in his prime. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I mused, and muse still: Is there an actual moment in life pinpointing the beginning of our decline? Was there a moment twenty, thirty, forty years ago that passed unnoticed when this piano player had slowly and quietly reached his peak, from which he has been slowly, inexorably, descending since? And how long after that flash in time was it when he began to realize his diminishment, that he and his hands were no longer, and never again </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">would </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">be, capable of doing what they did when younger, despite their will to do so. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Others surely know what this feels like. Athletes. Surgeons. Barbers. Scholars. Writers. Perhaps even religious supplicants. Anyone who has committed themself, devoted themself, to pursuing excellence, personal excellence. There comes a day when you just can't do it like you used to. And you know it.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">But then again, looking at this piano man past his prime, yes, he may not be able to do it like he once did, but he was able to do it quite fine for me and the others who listened, clapped, and put some forints in his tip jar. He may have known that he wasn't as excellent as he once was, but we, his audience could only have surmised that. For what we heard, or at least what I heard, was excellent. Period.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I suspect that when their playing was done and they pulled down the piano top for the night, he and his hands were pleased, at peace. At least for one more night.</span></b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-88269777752251518032011-05-04T01:14:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:06:42.164-07:00Sugar, Sugar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9tklgH_xkbwtfpsObXfufYa8PD2p9beWFryfm7qG0ZNgFpHl-j4YNaLfeB1wG5M80bRNhc-uLF-EQUMkomiTnlgTcOj-TFFvGwF9ozkHvWx_5pqeqBVQbRhoQHqmDOYzQAgtG7Lqyv4/s1600/fulbright1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9tklgH_xkbwtfpsObXfufYa8PD2p9beWFryfm7qG0ZNgFpHl-j4YNaLfeB1wG5M80bRNhc-uLF-EQUMkomiTnlgTcOj-TFFvGwF9ozkHvWx_5pqeqBVQbRhoQHqmDOYzQAgtG7Lqyv4/s400/fulbright1.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I drink a lot coffee, manly coffee: black, no sugar. All those fraternity sounding Starbucks drinks hold no appeal for me. Phi Kappa Frappacino. Sigma Alpha Machiatto. Alpha Dolce Latte. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Vini, vidi, no vente.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nor do those frilly coffee drinks seem to hold much appeal for Europeans, at least those that I've seen in Hungary. Okay, maybe Hungarians do order cappuccinos, and occasionally something that looks like a parfait. But generally, they order simple </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">k</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">v</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">é</span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> -- espresso. For the <i>jenki</i>, </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hungarian coffee shops offer what's called a <i>h</i></span></span><i><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ossz</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">ú</span></span></span></i><i><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">k</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">v</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">é</span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i>(hoe-sue kah-vey) or "long coffee", apparently in an attempt to calm down Americans who get frantic wondering how you can savor a cup of coffee when you're essentially beginning with the end: when it arrives Hungarian </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">k</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">v</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">é </span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">looks more like what you'd leave behind rather than what you should begin with. Dregs. A long coffee then is dregs with a dollop of hot water to dilute the dregginess and grow the cup American to expectations (sort of). </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, as I drink a lot of coffee, in Hungary I go to a lot of coffee shops, and not surprisingly while there </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">order a <i>h</i></span></span><i><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ossz</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">ú</span></span></span></i><i><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">k</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">v</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">é</span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> or two.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> As American coffee as Americans know it is nowhere to be found, I order long coffees as the next best option, albeit a very distant next best option. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, in the U.S., it is customary for restaurants and coffee bars to offer milk and sugar as sides: milk in a little creamer and sugar in packets loaded into some kind of dispenser that gets refilled (or should) as needed. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">By contrast, in those European countries I've visited so far -- Belgium, Poland, Germany, and my own Hungary -- each cup of coffee I've ordered, in whatever language, and no matter how puny, has coffee come loaded and cocked with two barrels of sugar; two carefully arrayed packets placed on the saucer. Or, to mix metaphors, Europeans are very serious about coffee presentation, and in Europe any cup would be embarrassingly naked without the cloth of two sugar packets to cover its coffee's beans. Cocked or covered, every cup of coffee served to me in Europe -- and I mean <i>every </i>cup -- has been garlanded with two packs of sugar. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay. I have already declared myself a macho-no-mocha-java drinker. So, just because some European sugar cartel foists two packets of sugar on me I feel in no way obligated to consume them; I'm an American and no one tells Americans what to do. Go ahead Domino; make my day, punk. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So me and the sugar packets stare each other down, every time. And I win. Every time. There hasn't been one single occasion where I haven't sent the sugars packing with their tails between their legs (more mixed metaphors). Which, because I am the son of a Depression-era father, would be fine with me <i>if</i> the coffee establishment passed along my shooed sugar to the next customer, and so on, until it reached a customer who actually wanted it. My father hated waste; he raised me to do the same. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But, restaurants generally don't hate waste</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> (at least not the ones I've worked in, and I've worked in a bunch)</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">. Given that in unseen ways the customer has already paid for the product, so no one really cares if they waste it. Especially with things so cheap as sugar. Meaning, once the sugar packets leave the counter, those packets, used or unused, become, in the eyes of restaurant employees, non-persons (or non-packets). They cease to exist in the eyes of service staff. If not consumed, they simply get dumped, unceremoniously, in the trash upon clearing. An ignoble end, to be sure.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And, because, in addition to hating waste, I have been attuned to the issue of global warming, I started to think about what is the carbon footprint of a pack of European sugar. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You know carbon footprints: they attempt to measure in carbon calories how much energy is consumed during a product's or activity's complete "life cycle" to assess its impact on the climate. So, for instance, and bearing in mind that I am not a legitimate carbon-tracker, in order to calculate the carbon footprint for European sugar packets we'd look at the fertilizer used to grow the sugar where it's grown (and the carbon footprint of that petroleum-based fertilizer), the cost of getting that fertilizer there (gas, diesel); the cost to spread the fertilizer; the cost to reap the harvest (gas, diesel); the heat produced to refine the cane into sugar; the energy used to produce its </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">package </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(from cutting down the trees to processing the wood into paper, etc., etc.) and then to package the sugar; then the cost in transports of the sugar packets to their distribution point; and ultimately the energy spent processing the waste of that sugar and its packet. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And you thought ordering a Starbucks coffee was complicated. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Probably, there are other variables I've overlooked, but you get the picture. Though you also may be saying at this point, <i>Is this guy kidding? We're talking about two sugar packets</i>.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay. But consider this. According to the wholly unreliable Coffee-Statistics.com, <i>Italy alone</i> purchases -- not just consumes, but purchases, as in cafes -- 14 billion cups of espresso each year. That means, if Italy follows proper European espresso protocol, 28 billion packets of sugar get shipped off with those 14 billion cups, each year. Further, as close to half of Italy's population is men, and <i>manly men</i> to be sure, you can also be sure those </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="it"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">uomini</span> </span></i><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">macho</span></i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">are not sissifying their espressos with </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="it"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">zucchero</span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">. They, like me, drink it just as God and El Exciente intended. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And, <i>that </i>means that each year, some number approaching 14 billion packets of sugar are taking a direct route from the Italian barista to the Italian garbage, with a brief layover at the customer's table.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">That's just Italy. Imagine other manly men around the world -- the Greeks, the Turks, all of the Mideast, and, of course, all of Central and South America, and you can see that a lot of </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="el"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">ζάχαρη, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="tr"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">şeker</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="el"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">, </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">قطعة سكر</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="el"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">,<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">סוכר</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="el"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">, and </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">azúcar</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="el"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">is brought into this world for no purpose whatsoever. All that energy expended for no purpose. All that carbon, right down the drain. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And that's just men. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And that's just sugar, sugar. </span></span></b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-458423852158727442011-04-29T11:30:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:06:12.644-07:00On Cameras and Crematoria<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rwira1T0aTxPw730KSKYc-eIbEFb-PDFsNHCAEhnsHUWFPVYVNLkoxTWbCc9jS5gP23WQ-dUCkgc6JlVcRsASGxnydzDXvkxMK00IzvN_pvMAL5axEYfTBiDCzhQ8Ec2wqzi7n0AvQ4/s1600/demolished+crematorium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rwira1T0aTxPw730KSKYc-eIbEFb-PDFsNHCAEhnsHUWFPVYVNLkoxTWbCc9jS5gP23WQ-dUCkgc6JlVcRsASGxnydzDXvkxMK00IzvN_pvMAL5axEYfTBiDCzhQ8Ec2wqzi7n0AvQ4/s400/demolished+crematorium.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The evolution of the camera, in short: cameras went from the cumbersome big, boxy, bellowy things that had to be supported on tripods and allowed long periods of exposure; to increasingly smaller and faster devices that could be hung around one's neck and adjusted on the fly with two hands; to computerized, palm-sized wafers that can be cupped small and light as a sparrow, operable with only two fingers. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As the camera changed, so too did photography and the photograph. In the early days of large format cameras, taking a photograph (well) required knowledge of both light and lens, and patience adjusting for each. Photographers (good ones) treated each exposure meticulously, striving for excellence in image and economy of materials. Time spent preparing the photograph was time saved in the darkroom. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As cameras moved from tripod to hands, some of the photographer's manual considerations -- such as balancing the appropriate aperture and shutter speed to the amount of available light reflecting off the subject -- were automated by innovations like the built in light-meter and push-button zoom. As the technology advanced, picture-takers, needing to know less about the physics of photography, were liberated to point-and-shoot. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">But even though the camera liberated the photographer it didn't liberate the photograph; film still had to be purchased and photos had to be processed, generally at some expense. Unless one one had the luxury of wastefulness, photographers weighed the value of each exposure. If you were going to spend $10, $15, $20 developing a role of film into prints, you were going to exercise some level of judgment and selectivity about what you shot and why.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">When the digital camera liberated both photographer and photograph; when everything apart from choosing the subject became the province and provenance of the camera's brain; and when photographs, rendered in pixels, ceased to exist as anything that had a materials/cost limitation, people were then totally free to shoot what they wanted, when they wanted, as often as they wanted. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so today, with the advent of the inexpensive digital camera, we have people taking pictures almost indiscriminately, even on the slightest hunch that there might be something worthwhile in them upon further review. The strategy seems to be; shoot first, determine value later. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As this mindset has taken increasing hold over the camera-bearer, there has been a parallel distancing between being-in-the-moment, and mining-the-moment-for-some-future-being, as though the photos destined for viewing later on will be of more value than the actual standing before or inside the very thing the camera has digitized.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Hence, I report back from Auschwitz with disappointment -- if it isn't sinful for me to say that I am disappointed in a museum predicated on exposing the horrors of the holocaust. I was disappointed both with what I saw happening outside me (some of which I participated in myself) as well as for what I didn't see happening inside me, and perhaps others. I anticipated a powerful experience; in truth, the place had some power, but far less than I had expected it would.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">In fairness, my response to Auschwitz was undermined by the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, which I had visited several years ago. There, in DC, I saw some of the same ghastly "artifacts" -- mountains of eyeglasses, suitcases, human hair, and shoes -- as were exhibited behind glass in Auschwitz. When I first laid eyes upon those artifacts in DC, particularly the shoes, I was greatly upset: nothing symbolized the end of the line so definitively as the forfeiture of shoes. Perversely, perhaps, I would have been happy to have been greatly upset seeing those shoes in Auschwitz, as well. But I wasn't, and that frightens me a little. Nor was I much moved by many of the other exhibits and remains.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">My lack of emotional response was not wholly owing to a callous heart. Auschwitz, as a high volume museum resists emotion, in part because it strives toward exhumation and memorialization, and in part because the hordes of people who attend each day become human wedges between the museum and any hope of intimacy. Over a million people a year travel to the little Polish town of Oświęcim</span><span style="font-size: large;"> to visit Auschwitz, and they, too, come with expectations. The want to learn; they want to see; and, they want to be jarred, horrified. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">However, jostled is not jarred, and because of the daily influx of visitors Auschwitz is crowded, teeming, and in order to see the exhibits one must often gently elbow their way up front, then to be gently nudged from behind. There is a constant slow churning at each exhibit, and it is only twenty or thirty seconds looking at the mound of shoes taken from infants and toddlers, or the mountain of pots and pans, before the intakers begin to feel the breath of others. To remain is to overstay, is to take more than you are entitled to. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">So visitors become part of a single lava flow from one exhibit to the next, from one building to the next, moving in a steady, orderly, forward progress. Regrettably, along the way there is no defined space or time for reflection. Yes, it's possible that some reflection occurs in the in-between of exhibits, but it's equally likely that one concentrates more on the shuffling of the crowd and care taken toward neither stepping on nor having stepped on feet than on the resonances of the fading exhibit.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The crowds, then, made it very hard for me to connect. I was one among the cattle. But it wasn't just the numbers that put layers between me and an emotional connection. Too, it was the ubiquitous and unrelenting presence of the digital camera and its ubiquitous and unrelenting pops of light. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I don't mean to suggest that people shouldn't take pictures of the exhibits -- I took a few. Especially given that no one really had the luxury of lingering, it's easy to see how someone would want to take a photo, perhaps to later recapture a sense of what they first saw when they first saw it. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">But there were some who took pictures of everything, not reflectively but reflexively, as though going to a museum, any museum, even Auschwitz, was to go on a photographic safari to bag and tag images whose value will be assessed back at the computer. On these safaris everything has potential meaning, not necessarily because the photographer "sees" something, but rather because the camera can capture it at no cost or sacrifice. Perhaps if their digital cameras didn't come with memory cards capable of storing hundreds of thousands of images those people would be a little less trigger happy. Maybe I should have been able to block them out, but I didn't. Instead, I got pissed.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">There was another strange camera occurrence: people taking pictures of others posing in front of an instrument or remnant of barbarism. A </span><span style="font-size: large;">posing </span><span style="font-size: large;">woman, leaning against a cement pillar of a barbed wire fence, lifting a heel against is as if standing coyly under a street lamp; or a guy having his picture taken in front of one of the ovens, and then taking the same picture of his friend who'd taken it of him -- this inside an actual gas chamber. Maybe it is their way of bearing witness; and maybe it is not. All I know is that I found it impossible to feel a sense of holiness at Auschwitz, in Auschwitz. There was neither time nor space nor demeanor.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">But Auschwitz is only the first of the death camps in </span><span style="font-size: large;">Oświęcim</span><span style="font-size: large;">. Birkenau (Auschwitz II), the much bigger camp, designed for death after Auschwitz had only been improvised for it ("Auschwitz," or Auschwitz I proper, was Polish military barracks commandeered by the Nazis and retrofitted for torture, diabolical medical experiments, death), is situated 3km away, and one must take a shuttle bus to it from Auschwitz. Though Birkenau is where most of the exterminations took place, Auschwitz is where the museum is located. And where Auschwitz stands virtually intact (or has been restored to appear so), Birkenau is in ruins. A wasteland</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Very few of the people who toured Auschwitz as part of my group followed on to Birkenau. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It had been raining off and on all day. Never heavy, but sometimes steady. Umbrellas opened and closed, opened and closed. It might have been the weather that held visitors back at Auschwitz. But is also might have been that Birkenau doesn't offer much explicit history: Auschwitz busily documents the enormity of Nazi crimes; Birkenau quietly documents the immensity of those crimes. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Getting off the bus, standing outside the barbed wire fence, able to peer out to the camp's extremities owing to the destruction of most barracks, I was struck by the camp's vastness, its reach. Within its barbed wire perimeter, Birkenau goes on and on. Prior to my visit I had seen Birkenau in pictures and film; standing there outside it, taking in its full panorama, dwarfed all previous notions of it. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">There was little to photograph, and much to photograph. The watchtower, Birkenau's imposing maw, remains. So too do the tracks on which daily transport trains, fifty boxcars long, slowed, squealed, stopped. And the 1500 foot long path on which the overwhelming majority </span><span style="font-size: large;">disembarking those trains </span><span style="font-size: large;">walked their final breathing minutes </span><span style="font-size: large;">en route to the gas chambers/crematoria awaiting them at the end of those 1500 feet. I took that walk. I was eerily aware of each footfall. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">At path's end, I walked up to the subterranean gas chambers, where Zyklon B snuffed the lives, wholesale. Now existing only as gaping holes in the ground, little by little the earth is reclaiming them. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The adjacent crematoria, however, the buildings which housed the ovens which burnt the evidence of mass murder, they remain, though in piles of brick rubble and twisted metal tendons. The Nazi's, fearful of these smoking guns, destroyed the four crematoria before fleeing the advancing Russian army. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Nearby stand a handful of barracks -- barren of life and light -- the not-so-long-ago way-stations of those who, no longer able to hang on, slipped from from useful to flammable. Structures beyond the comprehension of the young, barrack walls bear the etches and gouges of hormonal youth.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">As I think back upon the two camps, Birkenau offered less to know, but more to imagine. To imagine the human density of those cattle cars which pulled in daily, and then, to imagine how swiftly thereafter their human cattle had been sorted, gassed, incinerated, and turned into ash.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And to imagine their walk, the walk that the too old, and too young, and too maternal, and too crippled took along those rails which lead to the then still standing brick buildings with their imposing though seemingly benign smoke stacks, and to imagine what might have been going through their minds with each hurried, Nazi-prodded closing step. <i>Why have we been separated? Why are we going in this direction, when others are not? Why is that soldier standing there smiling as he blows cigarette smoke skyward? </i></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">At their peaks the crematoria were capable of combusting 9000 bodies a day. The gas chambers were apparently capable of more. As the trains eventually disgorged victims in excess of what the ovens could cinder, overflow corpses were hauled from the gas chambers, tossed in a ditch, and burned en masse in the open air. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The mass murder was cut short at three years.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> By the time the Russians liberated Birkenau, over a million people, 960,000 of whom were Jews, had been turned into ash. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I took pictures of their cemetery.</b><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-32349650623554146392011-04-24T23:08:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:05:35.842-07:00Passover<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUy35y_41qXIgO5uGLNPdTBGuPM6-RcoFFssZDfu1dqFjg_kpYXswKF0j9yemZjvEXzg_w-f-nttCIkSzhlJBrW1H7f9SzsMGmOur0ATC0LYpzL_VbtOP2YoHTZj3nLtSkvMEgygVf5g/s1600/auschwitz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUy35y_41qXIgO5uGLNPdTBGuPM6-RcoFFssZDfu1dqFjg_kpYXswKF0j9yemZjvEXzg_w-f-nttCIkSzhlJBrW1H7f9SzsMGmOur0ATC0LYpzL_VbtOP2YoHTZj3nLtSkvMEgygVf5g/s400/auschwitz.jpg" width="302" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am now in Poland on a train headed for Auschwitz. Not directly, but eventually. <br />
<br />
That's a strange thing for me to write. I was tattooed by Auschwitz at ten or eleven in the early '60s when my synagogue showed us the documentary <i>Let My People Go</i>, and I lost my innocence. As I got older, I learned just how crucial the railroads were to feeding the furnaces at Auschwitz. And now I ride these rails; am I hearing the same clack-clack... clack-clack ... clack-clack Jews heard then? <br />
<br />
Since landing in Hungary I've read some accounts of the war and Auschwitz by notable Hungarian writers who survived it. Their accounts bring to light not simply the death of those camps, but the living in them; how people survived, and under what terms and conditions. I've also read reviews of those works that elaborate even further on the complexity of the social and economic machinations of the concentration camp.<br />
<br />
What emerges from these writers is a picture much less black and white then I remember seeing in <i>Let My People Go</i>. In that film people, Jews, were either dead or rescued at the 59th minute of the 11th hour. They were either rotting, muscleless, rubbery corpses laying in tossed heaps, or as shrink-wrapped skeletons peering out hopefully and hopelessly from behind barbed wire.<br />
The presence of absolute victim, the presence-by-absence of absolute evil. <br />
<br />
But the picture that emerges for me now some forty years later from Imre Kert</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">é</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">sz, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">György </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Konr</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">d, Istv</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">n De</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">k, is not less representative of victim and victimizer but more nuanced about who was what, and why. Maybe even to what degree. <br />
<br />
When I went to Berlin a few weeks ago I traveled in ignorance, conflating all Germany with Hitler's Final Solution. As a rational human being, I knew that such over-generalizations are indefensible, but as an equally irrational being I never bothered to learn otherwise: all Germany was evil. Period. </span></b><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Once in Berlin, though, and owing to a highly informed non-Jewish German Judeacist, Irene, I discovered that at least from the German side of things, such an over-generalization is in itself a form of heaping, an indiscriminate ditching of everyone German. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Irene has used the term "little Schindler" to tell of the Germans -- how many I don't know, though to my mind a number is irrelevant -- who at great risk to themselves thwarted Hitler and his Final Solution in whatever ways, large or small, they could. Irene said that someone figured it took the coordination of twelve Germans to rescue one Jew. That's a complicated chain with many breakable links. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And yet these little Schindlers succeeded. They may not have risen to the level and legend of of their namesake, Oscar Schindler, made known to the world by Stephen Spielberg in <i>Schindler's List</i>, but even so, their efforts saved a handful of Jews here, and a handful of Jews there, fully knowing that to have been found out would have meant prison or death. And acknowledgment of the little Schindlers does not account for those individuals who may have hidden a neighbor, a friend, perhaps even a total stranger. Like the little Schindlers, they, too, were "part" of Hitler's Germany. <br />
<br />
The question why some Germans went the way of Schindler while others didn't can't be answered here. All I can say is that some did, and because some did, a blanket condemnation of Germans is insupportable. Anyone seeking the truth must accept it in total. <br />
<br />
It would be nice to be able to stop there, on a redemptive note, but the stories surviving the camps as revealed in the above-mentioned writers, and others, tell of uncomfortable incidences of Jewish-Jewish exploitation and oppression, sometimes in the service of Nazi-Jewish extermination. Apart from the simple yin-yang, German-Jewish portrait of camp life most people hew to -- or at least I did -- , inmate populations were oftentimes highly hierarchical, both politically and economically. Imre Kert</span><span style="font-size: large;">é</span><span style="font-size: large;">sz tells in his memoir <i>Fateless</i> that as a boy alone in Auschwitz he was completely shunned by other inmates and left to his own peril because he was a Hungarian Jew and not a Polish Jew. Istv</span><span style="font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">n De</span><span style="font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">k, in a review of Kert</span><span style="font-size: large;">é</span><span style="font-size: large;">sz and others in <i>The New York Review of Books</i>, cites that the Jews who stripped camp arrivals of their possessions often acquired a considerable booty from the process, happy booty at that. These Jews awaited the trains eagerly. So, Jews turned on and in their own. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">More unsettling still: as children </span><span style="font-size: large;">only </span><span style="font-size: large;">consumed food and produced nothing, they were of absolutely no use to the Nazis and </span><span style="font-size: large;"> -- once the killing machine reached its peak efficiency -- </span><span style="font-size: large;">children would step off or be lifted down from the freight cars and get marched directly to the gas chambers. Mothers holding their young child's hand would be sent to the chambers along with them. And so there were reports of mothers abandoning their children, walking away to secure their own lives while relenting to the inescapable fate of their children. But there are also stories of older women, knowing what awaited a mother, furtively snatching the hand of a child away from its mother and going to the gas chamber as that child's "mother" instead, so sparing the younger woman certain death. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">How do we account for all this, all this capitulation to evil and all this refusal to capitulate? We know what happens in the moment: a decision is made, an act committed, a past sealed. Whatever chapter it may comprise, it becomes an entry to the official biography of one's life. But what leads up to that decision? What in our lives sends some of us one way, and others of us the other way? What, or who, has prepared us for that moment of crisis? </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">***<br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I am on a train to Auschwitz and it will be Passover when I arrive. For those who don't know, Passover is the Jewish holiday that commemorates the story from the book of Exodus when the Egyptian Pharoah, having not succumbed to the first of God's nine plagues, is about to suffer the tenth: the slaying of all the non-Jewish first born (males). To protect Jews from God's wrath against the Pharoah, the Israelites are instructed to slather lamb's blood on their doorposts so that the Angel of Death, spotting the blood, will not descend but pass over that house and on to homes not so marked. The Jews did this and were spared; the Egyptians were not; and the Israelites were set free.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As I walk through Auschwitz, I will be thinking about death and its agents. The unfathomable number of lives ended there, and the unfathomable number of lives whose coordinated efforts put them there or resisted, and sometimes succeeded, in putting them there. Auschwitz is but the last stop; the rail lines to it begin many miles away, from many different directions, laid by many hands. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Was it the same Angel of Death that flew over Europe as flew over Egypt? For whatever inscrutable reason, did he this time seek out the lambs blood not to spare, but to sentence? How much more complete would his work have been were there not those with no lambs blood on their doors hiding Jews inside, shielding them from his mission?</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As I walk within the death camps, I will be conscious of the irony of visiting Auschwitz on Passover. </span></b></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-58428515444814554712011-04-21T01:47:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:05:08.180-07:00Tall Tales From My REMoir<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGh0Fys46RRf0LrSKoqSLhHdC0QrmlHBeAuJ3Bpto0EMMilDzu196uip-JMh5a9MAX2T-F_W1LLnPYZLpTUneEcVR8dvnqsVoBdBxkmFmNkirDGps9ZLDYnuRXLBGFijHk6y3fiuYx1oo/s1600/me+and+gale+sayers+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGh0Fys46RRf0LrSKoqSLhHdC0QrmlHBeAuJ3Bpto0EMMilDzu196uip-JMh5a9MAX2T-F_W1LLnPYZLpTUneEcVR8dvnqsVoBdBxkmFmNkirDGps9ZLDYnuRXLBGFijHk6y3fiuYx1oo/s640/me+and+gale+sayers+copy.jpg" width="540" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Memoir is in trouble again. After having been humiliated a few years ago by Opra's couch-mate and Book Club coronate, James Frey -- the Self Embossed Bad Boy of <i>A Million Little Pieces</i> --, the genre has apparently been depantsed again by a <i>60 Minutes </i>report on another bestselling memoirist, Greg Mortenson, questioning the quacks of his facts in <i>Three Cups of Tea.</i> </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In unfairness to Mr. Mortenson, CBS, and <i>The New York Times</i>, I did not see the TV report and only scanned the newspaper article, but from that I've gleaned the controversy has to do with K2, the mountain. Not that Mortenson's bumper sticker should read <i>This car climbed K2! </i>and not <i>I Climbed K2!</i>, but the issue is whether, as he claims in the book, that on his descent he recovered from the grueling climb while being cared for in the village Korphe, Pakistan, the village which inspired him to raise money and build schools throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan (apparently, some of these schools are in question, too, but that allegation is outside the context of the book) or whether he actually visited Korphe a year later. Given that the guy appears to do quite a bit of good in the world, and his book has inspired many others to do good in the world, the "controversy" over when he went to Korphe seems to me a trifle. </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But readers feel betrayed, ripped off. Which raises the question of what readers are really after in memoirs, especially when they are memoirs of hardship: "You mean you <i>weren't</i> sexually abused as a child? How dare you! I paid for sexual abuse. I want my mone</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">y back!" "What?! You <i>weren't</i> beaten within an inch of your life by that street gang but only roughed up some? Damn you, I paid for extreme violence and near death! Gimme back my money!"</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In any event, incidents such as Mortenson's or Frey's or any number of other defrocked memoirists always initiates a new round of hand-wringing and soul-searching among writers (and publishers): where, in memoir, does the writer draw the line between fact and fiction?</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I actually solved that dilemma several years ago when I conceived and coined a new genre, REMoir, pronounced the same as memoir but with an r instead of an m. It seemed to me then that memoir kept getting called to the carpet because the assumed unwritten subtitle for every memoir is, "It's All True."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">REMoir makes no such claim. Instead, REMoir's subtitle would be something like, "It's All Truish." <i> </i></span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Truish</i>?: what does that mean? I don't know; I'm still working on it. But so far, what I know is that REMoir is bound by these rules: </span></span></b><br />
<ul><li><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">that it contains elements and episodes that are true; </span></span></b></li>
</ul><ul><li><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">that it may contain elements or episodes that might have become true, if things had worked out differently, as long as the reader is properly cued; </span></span></b></li>
</ul><ul><li><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">that it may contain things wholly untrue, so long as there is no possibility that a reader could construe them as true</span></span></b></li>
</ul><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, real lives are REMoir's anchors, but once so anchored, the REMoirist can set his or her tiller and drift toward truishness, wherever it may take them. In other words, whereas in memoir imagination is verboten, imagination is the very stuff of REMoir, as long as both reader and writer are on board that REMoir, unlike memoir, makes no claims about digitizing reality (or capital T Truth). This opens up great writing possibilities for people like me, whose real or capital T Truth lives aren't really all that interesting. If Mortenson or Frey had written REMoirs instead of memoirs, no one would have raised an eyebrow or pointed a finger. Readers would have assumed creative embellishments as characteristic of the genre.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why <i>REMoir</i>? Because REMoir combines the unconstrained imagination of sleep's REM cycle, the dream cycle, with the constraints of an actually lived life. As long as I stay anchored to my life, I can sail away on dreams as far as my imagination can carry me. </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For example, in my unpublished and untitled REMoir completed a year ago (I like to refer to it as <i>Volume I</i>), I recount this episode: </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Hge0pOJKfqdS6gnP9m6mmpmnRPdZGAi_W4w-EDO6gZrkc76oqAOOgqM9hy8E9OCLBddSW0hlnVtwURd166B8BbLS6194jvFFV7IDCes8BUPgZprSNzNrdce0GfF6zUYOQ-LEJMEtwX0/s1600/orthodontics-braces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Hge0pOJKfqdS6gnP9m6mmpmnRPdZGAi_W4w-EDO6gZrkc76oqAOOgqM9hy8E9OCLBddSW0hlnVtwURd166B8BbLS6194jvFFV7IDCes8BUPgZprSNzNrdce0GfF6zUYOQ-LEJMEtwX0/s320/orthodontics-braces.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was eleven or so it was decided that I would get braces for my teeth. My teeth were fine, and didn't need braces, but like all kids from middle-class, Long Island Jewish families of the late '50s/early '60s, you got braces not because you needed them but rather so that others should know you could afford them. Braces were like Jewish bling. It would be a <i>shanda </i>if parents didn't put their kids in braces: God forbid, everyone would think you were from poverty.</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, when I was eleven or so my mother schlepped me off to Dr. Mittleman, the family orthodontist, for a consultation. As both my older sisters had braces by Dr. Mittlemen, my mother should have been quite pleased that our family had contributed so generously to Dr. Middlemen's sparkling waiting room and state of the art equipment. He did well by us. And he was about to do weller.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A nurse walked me into his office and laid me back in the plush dental chair. She told me that he was going to take some pictures, some x-rays, so that the doctor could get a better look at the work not needing to be done.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She wore white but had blood on her hands as proceeded to stick a series of sharp-edged, painful x-ray films in my mouth and zap me. Then she went off to develop the field of play.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, at eleven or twelve or whatever age I was, I was still growing. I don't know if I had yet surpassed my mother's 5'2", but I am certain that I was no where near my father's 6'2". </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So when Dr. Mittlemen, white smock fluttering behind him, came in beaming with x-rays in hand, and said to me, "You know, these x-rays show me that you have a large head, and I am guessing from the size of it that you are going to grow to be very tall, six-two, six-three," me and my perfect teeth and big head beamed along with him.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Six-two or six-three! I'll be able to play pro-football, just like my idol, Dick Butkus! </i>It was the happiest day of my young life.</span></span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicdSGANMzEx7cUXvR7tTfhuZUi2FvYAn7HtV6U8fxj9_uQwjG0yruOdXjnV5CA7GbRzbO2hvUdrG2dodgJ6DDL2AT-MFiU5aebFbvUz10a2GQi8F7giMME6b2Ln3qrDpKaF1DKWWJ0zM0/s1600/butkus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicdSGANMzEx7cUXvR7tTfhuZUi2FvYAn7HtV6U8fxj9_uQwjG0yruOdXjnV5CA7GbRzbO2hvUdrG2dodgJ6DDL2AT-MFiU5aebFbvUz10a2GQi8F7giMME6b2Ln3qrDpKaF1DKWWJ0zM0/s1600/butkus.jpg" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But Mittlemen lied. Or was a quack. Or maybe that was his schtick for building rapport with a kid whose mouth he'd be spending much of the next couple of years torturing. When my much awaited growing spurt failed to materialize, I ended up splitting the difference between my parents and stalling at 5'8". That's the reality of it.</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As the story continues in my REMoir, however, Mittlemen is right! I do grow to be 6'3", and quickly, so that by the time I get into junior high school I am fully grown. And not only that, I am so gifted as an athlete that I am sent straight to the varsity football team, where, as middle-linebacker, I am truly outstanding and become recognized throughout the state and across the country. Though I still have years of high school ahead of me, college recruiters from the biggest named universities flock to me and court me left and right, offering me all kinds of scholarship goodies -- and even a guarantee to waive that pesky requirement, the high school diploma!</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Of course, I am flattered, and though bewildered by the blitz of attention I'm receiving my parents are very proud. When it seems as though the recruiters are about to overrun our lives, my father finally takes control and announces to them, all of them (they've been camped out on our front lawn for weeks, each hoping to be picked by me) that we need time to think, that they should go back to their respective schools, and that we'll be in touch. There is a collective hang-dog groan as the recruiters pack up and shuffle off to their cars, and, even though I am a monster, physically (you wouldn't recognize me), I am glad to have had my daddy shield me. Yes, we are all feeling pretty good at dinner that night, except for my sisters who are jealous.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning during breakfast there is a knock at the door. "Not them again!" my mother says as she heads toward the door ready to pounce. My father has already left for work.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">From the kitchen table I hear her open the door and start in: "Can't you recruiters leave us alone? My husband told you that we need time to think, and twenty-four hours is not time."</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Ma'am, I'm not a recruiter," the man says apologetically. "But I would like to see your son."</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"He's having breakfast, and then he has to go off to school. I'm sorry." </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The door creaks as she started to close it. </span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"But wait!" the man says desperately,"If you'll only tell your son that I'm here, and then let him decide!"</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I get up from the kitchen table, curious. But I can't see through my mom.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Who should I say is calling?" my mother asks.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Dick Butkus, ma'am."</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Dick Butkus! </i>I run to the front door nearly knocking my mother over once I get there.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"It is <i>you</i>! And you're in his uniform!"</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Hi, Jerry." </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Dick Butkus</i>! <i>The greatest linebacker, <u>ever</u>, just said "Hi, Jerry"!</i></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Mom, this is Dick Butkus!"</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I heard," she says. "So; who is Dick Bupkus?"<i> </i></span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Only the greatest linebacker <i>ever</i>! We have to let him in. He's Dick Butkus, mom!"</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <i> </i></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay, okay. Come in Mr. Bupkus, before my son has a heart attack."</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She leads him in with a sweep. Out of respect to her, he doffs his helmet before entering and says, "Thank you, ma'am." </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">What with his shoulder pads and all, he barely fits through the doorway. And yet, when he does, strangely, he and I are eye to eye. We shake hands. Two strong hands.<i> </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I can't believe it: he seems to be no taller than I am. In fact, I get the sense that of the two of us, I may be the taller. <i>Taller than Dick Butkus!</i></span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> ***</i></span></span></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Well, I hope you get that gives you an idea of how REMoir can work. Just so you know, Butkus is there to ask me -- beg me -- to come to Chicago and not only play for his Chicago Bears, but replace him at middle-linebacker for the Bears -- actually assume his number 51. He tells me he has suffered a knee-injury which has greatly hampered his game, and he believes I am the only one in the country who could fill the position he will soon have to vacate. As a teaser, he hands me his helmet and tells me to try it on. Fits perfectly. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I discuss it all with my parents, who agree, and, at 17, I begin a professional football career with <i>the </i>Chicago Bears, a career that sees me voted to the Pro-Bowl every year, that sees me break every defensive record known to the NFL, that sees me retire after 20 years as the most feared and revered linebacker ever to have put on the pads -- more feared and revered than even Butkus himself. What a life. And I owe it all to Dr. Mittleman.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, you see, REMoir is much better than memoir. In memoir, the horizon is determined by how close to the truish edge you dare go; in REMoir, the horizon is determined by how far beyond the truish edge you want to go.</span></span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You should give it a try.</span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-17614651995202352872011-04-15T02:33:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:04:04.970-07:00Tikkun Olam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5vdTcSRqgjJ7MnaI6nPDtcook-VXezqTMwj619O5e8qPoduyo0ghF0pAy8sd1ltED7gj6cXRlzcEq6bcuyn5xZN23-qC9e0Z2xqD8qSQtfSUBib6qSMUrT_UXayUTTmbEkIKWp5hwKg/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5vdTcSRqgjJ7MnaI6nPDtcook-VXezqTMwj619O5e8qPoduyo0ghF0pAy8sd1ltED7gj6cXRlzcEq6bcuyn5xZN23-qC9e0Z2xqD8qSQtfSUBib6qSMUrT_UXayUTTmbEkIKWp5hwKg/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am heading back to Eger on the 9:59 a.m. train from Veszprem. On either side the land is flat and fertile; vast seas of good farmland, greening as they should in April.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have been in Veszprem the past two days participating in something called "America Week," a joint effort sponsored by the University of Pannonia and the Veszprem American Corner (which is to say, the U.S. State Department). </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The idea of America Week is to bring together speakers across a range of American interests and issues. Some spoke of music and of the arts; some spoke of history, and of philosophy. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I presented on The Moving Wall, the half-scale replica of The Vietnam Veterans Memorial located on The Mall in Washington, DC. (If you would like to read more about The Moving Wall, please visit my blog <a href="http://rollingwiththemovingwall.blogspot.com/">Rolling With The Moving Wall</a>). <br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">My America Week audience was a mix of faculty, students, and local citizens simply interested in things American. My host and session organizer, Ildy, informed me and my </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">two </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">co-panelists that, as we had a two hour slot to fill, we could each speak for 30 minutes, as opposed to the 20 minutes originally allotted. I was grateful, but in the end I still had to rush to finish.<br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Because my audience was largely young, and almost exclusively Hungarian, I wasn't sure how much they would know about the Vietnam War and the need for a memorial commemorating not only the sacrifice of those who lost lives or loved ones fighting in it, but also the sacrifice of those who served and lived through it. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so I told them of the war's having been made visible through advances in journalism, and how, with those advances, the war was also made unpopular. I showed them iconic images of the war's barbarism, gasped at in the front-page photos of</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> General Nguyen Ngoc Loan</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> executing Vietcong </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">fighter Nguyen Van Lem</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">,</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq-Ms1mTUr2T8aQX0r6vSUi4rdLQiRrv8uP0vs-sZCLHmyoBdu19S7uwQ1vd9BL2kqwO7kepziqSTj5mLFqfm4NHFS1yGlIx86wstkwqRsWZuj1OwZEATS1D-rBXu8cHMi49xupk0z6k/s1600/Nguyen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq-Ms1mTUr2T8aQX0r6vSUi4rdLQiRrv8uP0vs-sZCLHmyoBdu19S7uwQ1vd9BL2kqwO7kepziqSTj5mLFqfm4NHFS1yGlIx86wstkwqRsWZuj1OwZEATS1D-rBXu8cHMi49xupk0z6k/s320/Nguyen.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">of civilians gunned down by Charley Company at</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> My Lai </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBwhiw6wbVa5khaIHVWnIEYBaasviO0aqK5nnWFB2qjyTcTZbBqwZt1Dh_LifD7sfONigFhY86ypLiSUU9G0ReRGjA8_htdIsGBq5GCdhPaPW3dSeo5G9R-35PK0To_7GcF0ekT1K7Fk/s1600/300px-My_Lai_massacre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBwhiw6wbVa5khaIHVWnIEYBaasviO0aqK5nnWFB2qjyTcTZbBqwZt1Dh_LifD7sfONigFhY86ypLiSUU9G0ReRGjA8_htdIsGBq5GCdhPaPW3dSeo5G9R-35PK0To_7GcF0ekT1K7Fk/s1600/300px-My_Lai_massacre.jpg" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">of children fleeing a napalm bombing.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixReIookwLk4bjAg2zpSqQaSCPkuc6MynS-8wFOuomP6J-sAMneInfD-c0XFOrm2TdG_QV4VvMDs2s6Nyi-0R6MYYhHpG8_HRP4MzkNcrch1rS1HRdecJIwuRGv8xCP58T5NjeORqRqsU/s1600/250px-TrangBang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixReIookwLk4bjAg2zpSqQaSCPkuc6MynS-8wFOuomP6J-sAMneInfD-c0XFOrm2TdG_QV4VvMDs2s6Nyi-0R6MYYhHpG8_HRP4MzkNcrch1rS1HRdecJIwuRGv8xCP58T5NjeORqRqsU/s1600/250px-TrangBang.jpg" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">For many Americans such images came to represent what the war was about. For some Americans, such images came to represent what American warriors were about.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so I told my audience that when soldiers returned home from Vietnam they were not assured of receiving a hero's welcome. Sometimes they were greeted with bile and spit. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unsure of their civilian status as Vietnam vets, many who returned home laid low and kept quiet about their tours of duty, hid who they were, went underground. I told my audience what John Devitt, Vietnam vet and creator of The Moving Wall, once told me: that if you were applying for a job, you kept your service record off of your resume; you didn't bring it up in an interview. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I told my audience of Jan Scruggs, also a Vietnam vet, and how, after watching the film<i> The Deer Hunter</i> he felt compelled to do something to reclaim the veterans' collective psyche by creating a memorial to them, and how after some bitter wrangling (with others than Scruggs) Maya Lin's black chevron -- The Vietnam Veterans Memorial, aka, The Wall -- was finally dedicated on November 13, 1982.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhaQss8ORsaNrsrAn9zpt2nS03y57bDNQhhzcEAEfF59kfCdMdqQXKAQPv2FzUMCpIA6mwUPAojCUWMpnbh68KsRaEK1Qmqvl89LbLi66Rz-_5e7mcBZRRSw7tHDWY3fHqMf2mQ-pAho/s1600/dedication.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhaQss8ORsaNrsrAn9zpt2nS03y57bDNQhhzcEAEfF59kfCdMdqQXKAQPv2FzUMCpIA6mwUPAojCUWMpnbh68KsRaEK1Qmqvl89LbLi66Rz-_5e7mcBZRRSw7tHDWY3fHqMf2mQ-pAho/s400/dedication.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I told my audience how John Devitt, who had scrounged money to make the cross-country trip from San Jose, California so that he could be present at the dedication, was so moved by what he saw there that he felt he had to do something, too. Because, I told them, transporting as The Wall was for those vets and their families who visited it, John knew that confronted with financial, physical, or psychological obstacles, many of those most needing to see The Wall never would. Devitt knew that there were broken lives all across America for whom Washington's salvation or emancipation would remain out of reach.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so finally I told them about The Moving Wall, </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgVBx45cdCG45uC42WQhXXTDtLplsByNupIgtrWi0C71N9Gz2ze0uDzKdcPbHMzRGbZXULyHPwD9io-iQKBj7s-Ty-TLZuS5z26Jiz8Ohvs0-DeDFidi8wesx10-NhPDU2fcG1qUAkaw/s1600/the+moving+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgVBx45cdCG45uC42WQhXXTDtLplsByNupIgtrWi0C71N9Gz2ze0uDzKdcPbHMzRGbZXULyHPwD9io-iQKBj7s-Ty-TLZuS5z26Jiz8Ohvs0-DeDFidi8wesx10-NhPDU2fcG1qUAkaw/s640/the+moving+wall.jpg" width="640" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">and how Devitt conceived and created this </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">line-by-line, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">name-by-name replica of The Vietnam Veterans Memorial 27 years ago, and how he has been trucking it around the country ever since; how he has delivered it to over 1100 cities and towns where it has been visited by millions; how it has galvanized communities in remembrance, reverence and gratitude. Most important, though, and closest to Devitt's heart -- the thing that most motivates him to do what he does -- is this: many of the lives The Moving Wall has met along the way have been lives broken by Vietnam. For more than anyone, The Moving Wall is for the broken.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And Devitt has come to know a lot of them; perhaps has even become known to them. Without seeking to be, he is sought. One March night, late, while I was visiting him in White Pine, MI, winter home to The Moving Wall, John and I were elbows on the bar at the Konteka Inn, and in the corner sat a shadowy soul. A fellow vet. After a while he slid over a bar stool or two and began speaking with John about veteran's benefits, and the trouble he was having getting his. John gave him some advice, and the man slid back to his shadows. I asked John about post-traumatic stress disorder, something of a new term coined since the Vietnam War to account for some of the psychological troubles Vietnam vets were experiencing, the kind of troubles made cinematic in <i>The Deer Hunter</i>. John told me that every war has produced PTSD, though under different names. Others have said so as well.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Still, Vietnam vets seem to struggle differently than vets of other wars. Perhaps they're just more open about it. Or perhaps their war was categorically different than other wars. Maybe the war in Vietnam lowered the threshold for what it means to be human and to act human. This much is clear: the mind of the American vet in many instances was ill-equipped to process that war. I am thankful that my mind never had to. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I write this because here, in Central Europe, where Jewish survival was solely a matter of luck, where being in the right place at the right time as opposed to the wrong place at the wrong time determined one's lifeline, and where the literature of Hungarian Jews, and no doubt Jews of Poland, Germany, France, and on, and on, can find no <i>reason</i> why some lived and others died, why <i>I </i>lived and <i>you </i>did not, I suspect that those who visit The Moving Wall, and John Devitt himself, wrestle with similar questions. </span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">From the Holocaust, from Vietnam, some have survived, but have never lived beyond their survival; they are flesh hung on bones; spirit, the light, sputters. But some, somehow, have gone beyond surviving, have found a jet within themselves to feed the light, a light that burns not just for themselves, but for others. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">John Devitt fought in the Vietnam War. The same war as those whose names appear on The Moving Wall; he returned from the same war as those vets who come searching among the names. But Devitt has managed to survive it in a way that many of his comrades haven't. That night in the Konteka Inn, when I was asking him about PTSD, he finally mused: "Hell: I'm the poster-child for PTSD. My whole life is that war. I've never moved beyond it." </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Perhaps. Though it would be hard to imagine that Devitt could have done anything more noble with his life than to have shepherded The Moving Wall for the past quarter century. Consider the alternative: no Moving Wall. What a huge tear that would have left unstitched. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is a Hebrew phrase, <i>tikkun olam</i>, which means "repairing the world." We are all called to it, to repair the world, but few of us actually do. While he may not realize it, John Devitt <i>has </i>been practicing <i>tikkun olam</i>, <i>has </i>been repairing the world -- year by year, town by town. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijX3v8rOPgW4QSS0qOigAVjEdtJSRg-fxHab11nwONWh-l4UUkr9tundHcCpfHEfRw6vVwFzDEZol1fmvijgAXNhHy5McVifAzaW7CIQe-nZiakSMt80LTERH2Hivu6i71_u_BysMCpU4/s1600/101-0176_IMG.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijX3v8rOPgW4QSS0qOigAVjEdtJSRg-fxHab11nwONWh-l4UUkr9tundHcCpfHEfRw6vVwFzDEZol1fmvijgAXNhHy5McVifAzaW7CIQe-nZiakSMt80LTERH2Hivu6i71_u_BysMCpU4/s320/101-0176_IMG.JPG" width="240" /></a></b></div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-12619528418140014682011-04-08T06:12:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:03:29.871-07:00The Rise and Ultimate Dictatorship of the Colatariat<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY2jMjntaXKc2lvShg4K3yGLT4h2OSXcflI8s0rkBpTPc73HUlSeQiFU-BkYAd3L1OKSeIjqmq6fAbmLhv8JQKt_yZbBhhu7QiWYMLWBuJHS4pduR4PqVf97bXvXzYXe95nXSZCQjp8M/s1600/Marx+and+Coke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY2jMjntaXKc2lvShg4K3yGLT4h2OSXcflI8s0rkBpTPc73HUlSeQiFU-BkYAd3L1OKSeIjqmq6fAbmLhv8JQKt_yZbBhhu7QiWYMLWBuJHS4pduR4PqVf97bXvXzYXe95nXSZCQjp8M/s1600/Marx+and+Coke.jpg" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To capitalism<i>!</i>": Karl Marx.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">One account of the history of Hungary since 1989 can be summed up thus: Kremlin moves out; Coca Cola moves in. Not that Coke wasn't here before the fall of the Soviet Union, but until then Pepsi was the cock of the cola walk. Coke played third fiddle to its arch-competitor and the communist ideology. When Sovietism was sent packing, Coke-is-it-ism stepped up and overthrew Pepsi. In a commercial purge Stalin would have admired, Coke succeeded in wiping out Pepsi and any other serious threat to its fizzy rule over Hungary. Today, it thoroughly dominates the soft drink market. Pepsi, 7-Up, or any other contra-Cokes are nowhere to be seen, except in rare incidences of token dissent from the party colatariat. As for now, rebel opposition to The Cola is anemic, scattered, and demoralized. Hence, it can be tolerated. Such tolerance serves to demonstrate, by juxtaposition, Coke's colossal strength in the world of soda.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">How did Coke rise to such prominence in Hungary? I don't know, though I have made some observations. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">In the United States, where advertising saturation has numbed American society, Hungary stands in stark contrast by its lack of advertising. Which is not to say advertising doesn't exist, but rather, that because the landscape is so uncluttered, the little advertising one encounters here -- on buses, billboards, etc. -- really goes a long way; and, from an American perspective, how much, how vastly much remains to be plowed. Why it remains unplowed is anyone's guess. Perhaps it's because Hungary wants to restrict the intrusion of private commerce into public consciousness; or perhaps it's because Hungarians by and large don't have a lot of disposable income, so why bother. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Coke chose a different path. Rather than refrain from or go timidly into the then virgin market of a free, democratic, and capitalistically coquettish Hungary, Coke went on an all out blitz to make sure that its red logo replaced the red star as the dominant symbol Hungarian culture. Since I arrived in January, I have been amazed at how prevalent Coca Cola is, and I don't just mean the soda; I mean the sign, the symbol, the trademark signature. <i>It! </i>is everywhere.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Case in point: In my little town of Eger, where I am now </span><span style="font-size: large;">conducting research</span><span style="font-size: large;"> seated at an outdoor wine cafe, within my view are five restaurants, all with outdoor seating, and all with identically beiged awnings bearing the individual restaurant's name, and the Coca Cola logo. </span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4K9AuAO52Wr0Xpm0KgSg9mEF_Hd4fXaQv8FXYB-6uXT8e6ez9rpDwu1eyg8bwXKjhDBvn3tEAXmyS7Amm0l48HAzIGxYr6PzH6B7Bmdpex4ilyBP5j8rAkEnb9ug-UQdBEEVnLYIr7cE/s1600/IMG_0390_0246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4K9AuAO52Wr0Xpm0KgSg9mEF_Hd4fXaQv8FXYB-6uXT8e6ez9rpDwu1eyg8bwXKjhDBvn3tEAXmyS7Amm0l48HAzIGxYr6PzH6B7Bmdpex4ilyBP5j8rAkEnb9ug-UQdBEEVnLYIr7cE/s320/IMG_0390_0246.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Though my father owned a beer and soda store, I never drink soda (can't say the same for beer), and so I don't know if Coke is a good product. What I do know is that no matter how good Coke may be, no establishment is going to advertise the product without getting something in return, a bit of <i>Coke-pro-quo</i>. In other words, all these restaurants bearing Coke tattoos struck a deal:</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Coke</i>: We'll help offset some or all of the cost of your awning.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Restaurant</i>: What's the catch?</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Coke</i>: Two things: our name goes on it, and you sell nothing but Coke products.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Restaurant</i>: Deal.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">So, not only is Coca Cola reiterated ad nauseum everywhere you turn, by virtue of its <i>Coke-pro-quos, </i>it is Coke (or Coke products <a href="http://www.thecoca-colacompany.com/brands/product_list_a.html">The Coca Cola "Portfolio"</a>) or nothing.</span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And the limits of <i>Coke-pro-quos </i>seem to have no end. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Here is some Coke furniture:</span></b><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_l_tzGAGOL3SAQ5gxYDJ-VjHqhhfnsV83sm9vVWTmc5p7Daxs2pWES7fyrfxs6vvnjzShJEJjPD_2j6TDI1qHwfw3VB9xmeYETwKu6d9jchCfnaYAwa7A38xCyvLH9UMRr4uIpnrtwh4/s1600/IMG_0409_0265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_l_tzGAGOL3SAQ5gxYDJ-VjHqhhfnsV83sm9vVWTmc5p7Daxs2pWES7fyrfxs6vvnjzShJEJjPD_2j6TDI1qHwfw3VB9xmeYETwKu6d9jchCfnaYAwa7A38xCyvLH9UMRr4uIpnrtwh4/s320/IMG_0409_0265.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Table top</span></b></td></tr>
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</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyYgvJQqSJkYu7gCk5KHbefiAWXoezfhQUsXBM7lruAEx6kPaZSplFiiIdbOZaoO4_-qCcGUnsO0-HPjKrK9ZzT_FHsrWyiewgwT51FZ8SuJ96GhG6Or9kd1ql2bR4OCeei63CGpVWfk/s1600/IMG_0408_0264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyYgvJQqSJkYu7gCk5KHbefiAWXoezfhQUsXBM7lruAEx6kPaZSplFiiIdbOZaoO4_-qCcGUnsO0-HPjKrK9ZzT_FHsrWyiewgwT51FZ8SuJ96GhG6Or9kd1ql2bR4OCeei63CGpVWfk/s320/IMG_0408_0264.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Accompanying Chairs</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Here is some Coke artwork:</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCRbNYVCEBczbSnokFhHq6P90MdCrygr4wjYeYxHaW7k6WVIfvqs1d1xyaX6fqug3icvwtT6SV2qPigY-FgxCEbrU4ccludpcSZl1dsWqyAJazjS2bbRbJwFoAXkrdphUVRg8G0rTVZk/s1600/IMG_0541_0407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCRbNYVCEBczbSnokFhHq6P90MdCrygr4wjYeYxHaW7k6WVIfvqs1d1xyaX6fqug3icvwtT6SV2qPigY-FgxCEbrU4ccludpcSZl1dsWqyAJazjS2bbRbJwFoAXkrdphUVRg8G0rTVZk/s320/IMG_0541_0407.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFN7yXR3TpmKv9TgTzPxljG9nULc4OpaFwcq2zxsEKHdq21GZfvrlEYnCfZ-unHkVIprfTQU2IfzsOZs8xV3v96HHzBrqok-obdpp97SH5Z82y4HfKzf9fPNtrXtUFh0NERfXsQ5A6Vk/s1600/IMG_0414_0270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFN7yXR3TpmKv9TgTzPxljG9nULc4OpaFwcq2zxsEKHdq21GZfvrlEYnCfZ-unHkVIprfTQU2IfzsOZs8xV3v96HHzBrqok-obdpp97SH5Z82y4HfKzf9fPNtrXtUFh0NERfXsQ5A6Vk/s320/IMG_0414_0270.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhnhw8Rt8tP4BBWIfbMndBoJ7-lpSgi5Ze4-TEUkSGPMceQUNN7yJ48akcYNx_o_xJa9mV3r8Zfungn7ccvHCLNG3sB9UKOd0ETJJFbROOQozNQ1TswadtmzkcJW9KJ4btv-ZbLk_HAk/s1600/IMG_0412_0268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhnhw8Rt8tP4BBWIfbMndBoJ7-lpSgi5Ze4-TEUkSGPMceQUNN7yJ48akcYNx_o_xJa9mV3r8Zfungn7ccvHCLNG3sB9UKOd0ETJJFbROOQozNQ1TswadtmzkcJW9KJ4btv-ZbLk_HAk/s320/IMG_0412_0268.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinx6yCcqc5Zm1oVIzp25DRh1RnDtYCNDXmBRhIGCW7WtamvSZI2w_PAiLKNQ1qBTgbKYGILXXj8bZJPxb-pHxR7aP8BQPPircVxZqqYnwvTf6TECqV9RZVvQ6PprkddsBIZf-C840lo2g/s1600/IMG_0685_0633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinx6yCcqc5Zm1oVIzp25DRh1RnDtYCNDXmBRhIGCW7WtamvSZI2w_PAiLKNQ1qBTgbKYGILXXj8bZJPxb-pHxR7aP8BQPPircVxZqqYnwvTf6TECqV9RZVvQ6PprkddsBIZf-C840lo2g/s320/IMG_0685_0633.jpg" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And restaurant equipment:</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUlNKDBmmieTVfQry5lrg_6TMFeVtLOYeieoazEvmAspWQPN7tGvSnEbGVyQOMeOAIqx9FcjDQdPrIT1nrrFRIHM7gTXrpl7_aQCwh6Pe6eY2UUoS18CxDVeroo8imElbyzpIHegv4bg/s1600/IMG_0394_0250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUlNKDBmmieTVfQry5lrg_6TMFeVtLOYeieoazEvmAspWQPN7tGvSnEbGVyQOMeOAIqx9FcjDQdPrIT1nrrFRIHM7gTXrpl7_aQCwh6Pe6eY2UUoS18CxDVeroo8imElbyzpIHegv4bg/s320/IMG_0394_0250.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvOpjpM8IxWyRtVKJ_DGS79whiNyafDFGi0qaDI4rpliaOfCVfSH8OxWhFBjhaNb1PrtAdjeMyuLDRP_VIrkC7_GCQqMP4Uv1ZTBn3S60aJ7hRlHThjsta1KqGsmChhphxE_qzl-fi1M/s1600/IMG_0714_0627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvOpjpM8IxWyRtVKJ_DGS79whiNyafDFGi0qaDI4rpliaOfCVfSH8OxWhFBjhaNb1PrtAdjeMyuLDRP_VIrkC7_GCQqMP4Uv1ZTBn3S60aJ7hRlHThjsta1KqGsmChhphxE_qzl-fi1M/s320/IMG_0714_0627.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEmd4CSTSJIpb-M1giFdqjVs_lOYPQ0axZ-81yWQLz3GTzpm09Uzc057pBzrSgon6Q-_l6igjpmNNOSimBgcbWhFHEMJhj96ULHbUIFS4QFS-cx7IMQvU4d8732P2mKGhaigKPGt6WMU/s1600/IMG_0557_0401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEmd4CSTSJIpb-M1giFdqjVs_lOYPQ0axZ-81yWQLz3GTzpm09Uzc057pBzrSgon6Q-_l6igjpmNNOSimBgcbWhFHEMJhj96ULHbUIFS4QFS-cx7IMQvU4d8732P2mKGhaigKPGt6WMU/s320/IMG_0557_0401.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">What about those who want to drink something a bit stronger?</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Well, there is certainly the traditional alcohol+Coke product, such as the old war horses, rum and Coke and Jack and Coke. But those are drinks for old-timers and dive bars. Today's drinkers of tomorrow need new, hip drinks to call their own, and Coke has obliged, at least here in Hungary, by concocting a bunch of new drink recipes -- all of which call for a product from the </span><span style="font-size: large;">Coke <i>portfolio</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> -- and by promoting them, gratis, in slick Coke printed and logoed drink menus found throughout the country.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwspxLT1szRbuQC0Bx5-3Km0FPuJ4XDbvDBLKGLjd91Q4I9rk-vtrn0XrM1jaFQntIEWo60Y6O1LlTlzx3IZ1i7eeEmZKhLloStNXJhOcdaHTJyvlc92JSEtb_g4FgxH-UjakzxTNCNWY/s1600/IMG_0396_0252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwspxLT1szRbuQC0Bx5-3Km0FPuJ4XDbvDBLKGLjd91Q4I9rk-vtrn0XrM1jaFQntIEWo60Y6O1LlTlzx3IZ1i7eeEmZKhLloStNXJhOcdaHTJyvlc92JSEtb_g4FgxH-UjakzxTNCNWY/s320/IMG_0396_0252.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOR_s5ktQ0fJH7Zxsyjm1EAONdqdDeTXchevmm5gtu2vJOobbg26ceDGmF2oPBJKE5L353nl528lZhUD6qiregWUuoDHJW-vXKnbErwdxbo3gPpPR8NwpBm1zKAthEow10kI8dk9SR00Y/s1600/IMG_0402_0258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOR_s5ktQ0fJH7Zxsyjm1EAONdqdDeTXchevmm5gtu2vJOobbg26ceDGmF2oPBJKE5L353nl528lZhUD6qiregWUuoDHJW-vXKnbErwdxbo3gPpPR8NwpBm1zKAthEow10kI8dk9SR00Y/s320/IMG_0402_0258.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7nqpPchUqohlVRyP-QMFkPoaNUgzR_UzK8wuyWmq6WMbeTBrbXJbj0spMLGYDiZgR-52ODWi3jmWWA23VXP1optkcWppK_FM47egL3dwbrI4IRfw4g47aNS5mrCQl7mLSHNjlsYewjo/s1600/IMG_0404_0260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7nqpPchUqohlVRyP-QMFkPoaNUgzR_UzK8wuyWmq6WMbeTBrbXJbj0spMLGYDiZgR-52ODWi3jmWWA23VXP1optkcWppK_FM47egL3dwbrI4IRfw4g47aNS5mrCQl7mLSHNjlsYewjo/s320/IMG_0404_0260.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">You've got to hand it to Coke. They think of everything, and then provide it. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">But, what if you don't like to drink your drink with Coke portfoliates? Say you like your whiskey straight, or simply prefer wine or beer? In that case, hasn't Coke perhaps wasted this promotional outpouring? Maybe, but maybe not. So, two scenarios:</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Scenario 1: Four college kids go out on a night of drinking. All four drink beer, because, a), that's what college kids drink, and b) it's cheaper than mixed drinks (hence, a).</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Scenario 2: Same four kids go out on a night of drinking, except Hungary has a zero-tolerance law when it comes to drinking and driving. Meaning, even a spec of alcohol in your bloodstream lands you in hot water. So, in Scenario 2, of the four drinkers, only three are drinking beer. The poor guy who is the designated driver has to abstain 100% from alcohol. What then is the designated driver's choice should he or she not want to simply sit with hands folded, to openly reveal to the world that <i>I am the loser of the drawn straws</i>? Why, a soft drink of some kind<i>!</i> With the proper get up, a soft drink even <i>looks </i>like a drink drink. So, have a soft drink<i>!</i></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">In Scenario 2, all is not lost for Coke. Yeah, Coke did lose three of the four to beer, but Coke never had them in the first place. Coke did, however, put itself in position with the designated driver.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Now, let's connect the dots. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Dot 1: Coke has completely colonized Hungary. In 99% of Hungary's restaurants and drinking holes you will find Coke products and only Coke products. </span><span style="font-size: large;">All the <i>Coke-pro-quos</i> guarantee that. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Dot 2: Coke or Coca-Cola is emblazoned everywhere -- inside, outside, on the way into the mall:</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ89wmPwZqNijXzomGJCFRCA1UFyd5kKOSY9QIpVkv2bK3sKBpaGVoQGNSLCbatz2s26VOUNhyGe2mbKDIj_yqYkcD82szClIT1PnHlfDB8UWwouYthvEoS_ClZCOAwYd_SFFXx_UzzDM/s1600/IMG_0688_0601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ89wmPwZqNijXzomGJCFRCA1UFyd5kKOSY9QIpVkv2bK3sKBpaGVoQGNSLCbatz2s26VOUNhyGe2mbKDIj_yqYkcD82szClIT1PnHlfDB8UWwouYthvEoS_ClZCOAwYd_SFFXx_UzzDM/s320/IMG_0688_0601.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8Uy21Eqt1Rs9VLm58Hq50KnnV5vxNEMLtVM7grf8uhrdF0T8CpJoEa996fQUAtj3MMka41L04UQVjlXJLye5grQa2Dw0t0fMZYoVyOPA8n3-TV_ElZoBfaBv594syGt1KcIrMdwANiY/s1600/IMG_0689_0602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8Uy21Eqt1Rs9VLm58Hq50KnnV5vxNEMLtVM7grf8uhrdF0T8CpJoEa996fQUAtj3MMka41L04UQVjlXJLye5grQa2Dw0t0fMZYoVyOPA8n3-TV_ElZoBfaBv594syGt1KcIrMdwANiY/s320/IMG_0689_0602.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Dot 3: Hungary's zero-tolerance law ensures that at least one person of a group will drink something other than alcoholic beverages. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ergo, Dot 4: at least one person in the group will drink some Coke product. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Seems to me that the zero-tolerance law likely produced quite a windfall for Coke. Just look at the litter of designated drivers sired by the law.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"> Hence, in my tendency to see much of the world in terms of conspiracies, I can imagine a script wherein Coke, calculating the benefits to be reaped from a zero-tolerance law in a country where such a law would lasso buyers for their products, might actually have wrangled some politician or politicians to propose the law, and then help to insure its passing. I've heard of (and imagined) more cockamamie ideas in my life. </span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever. Bottom line: In Hungary, more than <i>it!</i>, Coke is it.</span></b></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-18265238979988247602011-04-05T04:14:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:02:40.792-07:00A Tale of Two Utcas (Ootsawsh): Part 2<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLkxTYNZa6EfDFNi9bgJ65Fs6Dcg4mKVQL3dZThVKUjpJsTxTOBokm1CXoJQSR0awuUAtjpGsDC0LZT_OarA8k748flGy1JpoooPsX_MZq59qsRX9CSNiqvfDutWyAeononLnynXtlUQ/s1600/IMG_0677_0638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLkxTYNZa6EfDFNi9bgJ65Fs6Dcg4mKVQL3dZThVKUjpJsTxTOBokm1CXoJQSR0awuUAtjpGsDC0LZT_OarA8k748flGy1JpoooPsX_MZq59qsRX9CSNiqvfDutWyAeononLnynXtlUQ/s320/IMG_0677_0638.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47b</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> Note: This is part two of a two part series. See prior post for part one.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">To continue. The hotel where I was staying on D</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ó</span><span style="font-size: large;">zsa Gy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rgy u. sat diagonally </span><span style="font-size: large;">across from Heroes Square, </span><span style="font-size: large;">just to the west of the northern end of Andr</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">ssy u. According to both Google Maps and my hotel gratis map, getting to V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi u, 47b was as simple as stepping out of the hotel's entrance and banging a left. Within a half mile or so I'd run right into </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi</span><span style="font-size: large;"> u. <i>Absolutely. </i></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Google's directions from my hotel pinpointed 47b to the north of </span><span style="font-size: large;">D</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ó</span><span style="font-size: large;">zsa </span><span style="font-size: large;">Gy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rgy</span><span style="font-size: large;">, and so, following the directions' blue line, with a left on </span><span style="font-size: large;">D</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ó</span><span style="font-size: large;">zsa </span><span style="font-size: large;">Gy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rgy </span><span style="font-size: large;">and a </span><span style="font-size: large;">right on </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi</span><span style="font-size: large;"> u. I would be there in no time. </span><span style="font-size: large;">This night, there would be <u>no possibility of going left when I should have gone right</u>; both maps clearly agreed, and confirmed each other, and me. And, as insurance, they showed that to reach </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi </span><span style="font-size: large;">u., I needed to cross some railroad tracks, railroad tracks that were only to the </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi</span><span style="font-size: large;"> u side of the hotel, the same railroad tracks whose trestle I could clearly see standing outside my hotel. In other words, my directions were Jerry-proof.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">European hotels, at least those I book, don't furnish room clocks, and so I opened my clamshell Westclox clock upon checking into the room, forgetting that in addition to setting it forward an hour the night before adjusting for European summer time, I had not corrected for the roughly ten minutes fast time which didn't fool me at home in Eger but which did fool me there in Budapest. </span><span style="font-size: large;">And so, unaware, when I set out at 5:00 to meet Nora, it was actually 4:50.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As I approached </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi </span><span style="font-size: large;">u. and looked up to a huge church clock straight ahead which showed not 5:20 as I had assumed, but 5:10, I thought, "Well, so I have to wait a few minutes for Nora. Big deal. She waited plenty for me."</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I turned right on </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi </span><span style="font-size: large;">u. and began counting up. I think I began somewhere in the teens, maybe twenties, meaning, 47b could not be so far away. </span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Addresses can be a little non-intuitive in Hungary, though, as the b in 47b suggests. You can have a single block that runs from, say, addresses 20 to 25, or a single block that runs from 20a to 20g. The numbers don't synch with the distance traveled; progress does not move at a metered pace. And as I realized this passing long blocks which were stuck on a single number, I wondered just how far ahead 47b could be. Blocks? Miles? <i>Regardless</i>, I concluded,<i> walking up from 20 in search of 47, wherever its b may be, you've got your nose to the wind.</i> As long as the numbers continued upward, meeting Nora was inevitable.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Frankly, the further I walked, the less appealing was the neighborhood. Granted, it was Sunday, so with shops closed the sidewalks were going to be empty. But contrary to the lower parts of </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi </span><span style="font-size: large;">u, near </span><span style="font-size: large;">D</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ó</span><span style="font-size: large;">zsa </span><span style="font-size: large;">Gy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rgy</span><span style="font-size: large;">, where there was a hotel, and a gleaming mall, and some kind of modern business park, the higher numbered addresses of </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi </span><span style="font-size: large;">u were occupied by tiny crumbling stores selling lottery tickets, cigarettes, and cans of beer, or sneakers, or fake nails. The avenue on both sides struck me as dry and dusty. I surmised that I was simply passing through some kind of urban desert, after which would come an oasis and St. Michael's Church.</span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">As I approached number 40 not much had improved. There was an auto parts store, and wedged between two spaces dark and vacant, a narrow camera shop was locked behind a sliding metal gate.</span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Several blocks further, at 45, signs of a retail pulse became even fainter. The 45 block was a mix of vacancies, a shoe repair, a key maker, a card shop with yellowed cards on display. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Still, regardless of what I would have expected the surrounding neighborhood for a church and classical music venue to be, I was making progress. The numbers proved it. And even though I couldn't yet see the church -- no doubt because it was set back from the road a bit -- I was confident that soon I would. And there Nora would spot me from a distance, and sigh with relief.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Initially, I was more confused </span><span style="font-size: large;">than alarmed </span><span style="font-size: large;">when at last I came upon </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi </span><span style="font-size: large;">u, 47b. <i>What kind of church is this?</i> </span></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmJjrQb_8gLHzGFc8pZ3_CVC90jNuXzvnDhCB9danNo3AWDJw3pwga2lHbuhQhvqI9-WORxqt6Do5GrjACiq7jXbFslIV_3iN_Eb3-WvrbIiPBSF0QktZ_hKYe0_3gjlKS_PYgWTm_0w/s1600/IMG_0680_0641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmJjrQb_8gLHzGFc8pZ3_CVC90jNuXzvnDhCB9danNo3AWDJw3pwga2lHbuhQhvqI9-WORxqt6Do5GrjACiq7jXbFslIV_3iN_Eb3-WvrbIiPBSF0QktZ_hKYe0_3gjlKS_PYgWTm_0w/s320/IMG_0680_0641.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47b</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The address was right, but the building was wrong. <i>Maybe it's on the far side of this building, behind it</i>, I thought, so I turned the corner and walked down the side street and turned again to find the church there, but it wasn't. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I began getting a bad feeling.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Heading back up the side street I spotted a couple who had just parked their small truck and were about to unload some used furniture. I approached the woman and asked if she spoke English. "Kicsit," she said, so I showed her the concert ticket with "Szent Mih</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">ly Templom" and the address on it and asked her where the church was.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">She studied the ticket for a few seconds. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"You must go to Metro, h</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">rom vonat,"</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Three train,"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, yes. Three train. To De</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">k T</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ér." She poked the ticket with her finger. "De</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">k </span><span style="font-size: large;">T</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ér. Metro." She handed me the ticket and pointed back in the direction I had just walked, back toward </span><span style="font-size: large;">D</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ó</span><span style="font-size: large;">zsa<span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Gy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rgy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Remember from Part 1 of this story the image of Dustin Hoffman sprinting in <i>The Graduate</i>? Hit "replay."</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">By the time I got to the Metro stop at the junction of </span><span style="font-size: large;">V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">csi and </span><span style="font-size: large;">D</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ó</span><span style="font-size: large;">zsa Gy</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rgy the church clock which once showed me to be early now showed me to be approaching late. And again -- because what could possibly go wrong? -- I hadn't brought Nora's number with me.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Panicked as I was, I knew I couldn't panic entirely. I couldn't just jump on the train to </span><span style="font-size: large;">De</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">k T</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ér without some corroboration. So, though instinct wanted to fly down the tunnel to the Metro reason stood me before the reception desk of the hotel at the corner and calmly asked where the hell the church was.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The receptionist was very nice, though a bit stumped by my question, but she then pieced it all together and opened up one of the hotel gratis maps, searched for St. Michael's, circled it, and then showed me that I had to get on the train and take it to Ferenciek tere, one stop beyond </span><span style="font-size: large;">De</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">k T</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ér. Reason was feeling rather proud of itself. The rest of me was feeling like an idiot.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I emerged from the subway at Ferenciek there was no big yellow arrow hanging from a cloud pointing me toward St. Michael's so I asked the first person I could find, a guy standing at the top step of the metro entrance. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I asked if he spoke English he said, "Kicsit," and so I asked him where St. Michael's was, but he mumbled something. So I showed him the ticket with the address, and after mulling it over for a minute -- which seemed more like an hour to me -- he started giving me directions to V</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">áci utca which would have landed me back with the couple unloading furniture.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Out of nowhere a rather distinguished elderly man in tie, overcoat, and fedora approached and asked in sweet, blessed, near perfect English if he could be of assistance. I asked <i>him </i>where St. Michael's was, and he pointed me two streets down on the left, on </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca. Just take a left on </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, he said, and the church will be on the right after a block or two.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I thanked him and turned Ben again.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sure enough, there it was. </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47b. The other </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47b. Or, perhaps there were more. Perhaps there was a chain of </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47bs.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The church </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">clock </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">tower read 5:45, and though I looked inside the sanctuary to see if perhaps Nora was waiting there, I didn't really expect that she would be. And she wasn't. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Maybe she went to the Central Cafe to wait for me there, I thought, brightening some, because, after all, that was our plan anyway, to eat there before the concert. So I hurried to the Central Cafe but Nora was not among its many smiling and relaxed diners. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Had I the luxury of time I would have lingered at the Central Cafe, stewing and berating myself, etc., but I decided that before I could indulge myself I had to swing by the church once more, just in case.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And there, sure enough, was Nora. She wasn't happy. She didn't exactly light up at seeing me.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I tried to explain but my self-defense was so mangled that it didn't even make sense to me. She changed the subject and said that she was very sorry, that she couldn't attend the concert because she had to photograph a friend's dance recital instead. It is entirely possible that those plans were rather freshly minted, say sometime after 5:30, though there was no way I was now going to probe that possibility standing behind a giant 8-ball. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In any event, Nora would not be joining me for the concert, and that was that. We did agree to have something to eat at the Central Cafe, though she said he had to clear out by 7:30. At not yet 6:00, we still had an hour and a half to kill before we had to go our separate ways. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The meal began rather awkwardly, what with the fact that I had twice blown a rendezvous with her as the table's imposing centerpiece. After a while, though, the adrenalin which had so seized her shoulders earlier began to drain, and, though she may disagree, by meal's end I thought we had turned things around pretty well. We laughed some, giggled some, and drank wine some. In sum, then, despite the harried start, we concluded by having a pretty nice time together.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course, not so nice that I will ever hear from her again or get a response to an email I might send. Not that nice a time. But nice, given the circumstances. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is an adage that goes, "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." It doesn't go as high as thrice, and neither would Nora. And who could blame her?</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I did go to the concert at </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47b</span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">, and it was good. Although, between </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">pieces </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">and movements a large white neon PUTZ kept flashing inside my head that I couldn't shut off.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In case you are wondering, I made no mistake, misread no map or address. In Budapest, there really are two </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47bs. The right one, and the wrong one.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-16149709240333672132011-03-31T08:02:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:01:54.107-07:00A Tale of Two Utcas (Ootsawsh): Part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzrfNXK0Lqgml3iBrA2Qy3eJh1sNiK0FWgDncd-sqgUH-B1Y5LFctLK0-CYukJyj6O6ovRFLoj4aspurUGopILwl-SS0VMvqtxO6HAmgdSuCJ5AU-8coocE8J6KWvHaGQJiu2i_G02NU/s1600/st_michael_church_vaci_street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzrfNXK0Lqgml3iBrA2Qy3eJh1sNiK0FWgDncd-sqgUH-B1Y5LFctLK0-CYukJyj6O6ovRFLoj4aspurUGopILwl-SS0VMvqtxO6HAmgdSuCJ5AU-8coocE8J6KWvHaGQJiu2i_G02NU/s400/st_michael_church_vaci_street.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">St. Michael's Church, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Váci utca, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;">47b</span></td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Budapest, like Prague, like many European cities, prides itself on its ability to make music, to make it beautifully and to offer it widely. Each year Budapest hosts a two-week (mostly) classical music festival with performances scattered about the city in basilicas, churches, and concert spaces large and small. It's kind of like Hungarian March Madness, minus the competition, frenzy, and basketball.</span></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Before I came to Hungary I had known of and began anticipating The Budapest Tavaszi (Spring) Music Festival. Last month, I purchased pairs of tickets to five performances. Regrettably, I did not foresee the travel logistics to the Berlin Fulbright Conference last weekend, and so I had to forego the first two concerts (though I was happy to have made a gift of them to two of my very hospitable Hungarian colleagues). </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Last night, then, was the first concert I was able to attend, an all-Mozart program featuring several of his oratorical pieces. The concert was to be performed at Inner City St. Michael's Church, Váci utca (street), 47/b. <a href="http://www.360cities.net/image/st-michael-s-city-church-budapest#0.00,0.00,70.0">Interior views of St. Michael's</a></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I had invited Nora, a friend of friends, to join me for dinner and the show. Nora is Hungarian, a Budapester of 20 years, though she has spent some time in the U.S. as an au pair. Her English is, by her own measure, not good, though compared to my Hungarian, she could work at the U.N.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Through a series of comical emails, we arranged to meet outside St. Michael's at 5:30. Then, we would head off to the renowned and nearby Central </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">K</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">áv</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">haz -- now more an upscale restaurant than a traditional Hungarian coffee house --, have a meal, and return back to St. Michael's for the show.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The last time I was to have met Nora, when I first arrived in Hungary at the end of January and was in Budapest for the Fulbright orientation, was at K</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">lvin Tér</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">, a metro stop not far from where I was staying near Blaha Lujza T</span><span style="font-size: large;">ér</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">According to the map I was given gratis </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">upon </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">checking-in at my hotel, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">K</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">lvin Tér wasn't far. Definitely walking distance. Turn left on R</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">kó</span><span style="font-size: large;">czi utca, keep going, take a left on <span class="dirsegtext" id="dirsegtext_0_5" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Múzeum körút</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">, and boom, I'm there. Can't miss it. So I decided to walk and not take the metro, which would have gotten me there in two stops.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I left the hotel and made the turn. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I walked.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And walked.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And walked. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">According to the map, I had walked enough blocks to have long ago crossed the Danube, perhaps even the Austro-Hungarian border. I was in the dark in a dark neighborhood with few signs of help. I saw a Chinese restaurant. This should be interesting, I thought.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I entered and asked the eager to help waiter "</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">K</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">lvin Tér?" </span><span style="font-size: large;">He shook his head, and, either in Hungarian with a Chinese accent or in Chinese with a Hungarian accent, he directed me where I needed to go. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, it was all Greek to me. Whatever he said, I was sure he was mistaken. </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">K</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">lvin Tér was close. It had to be. If only he spoke better English.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I asked somebody else on the street, equally eager to help, but we were mutually incomprehensible. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, a young woman walking her dog was able to help as the dog did its business alongside a tree. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Chinese guy was right; I was way off. It turned out that the first turn I made coming out of the hotel was fatal. I turned left; I should have turned right. The destination originally so close was, thanks to my footwork, now far, far away. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I located a phone booth and dialed Nora's cell. I got the Hungarian equivalent of the three-tone shrill when, in the U.S., you dial a number which is no longer in service or misdial and the phone company figures to damage your hearing for trying, along with a Hungarian operator-droid informing me of something about the undialability of the number. Screw her/it. I dialed again. Same result. I grew frantic. This was the only number I had for Nora. Plus, I was already late, and far away in Nora-time from where I needed to be. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Picture Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin Braddock in <i>The Graduate</i> after his Alfa runs out of gas and he tears off to reach the church before Elaine (Katherine Ross) says "I do" to Biff. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9eIXN6Sp40">Ben on the run</a><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">By the time I got to </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">K</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">á</span><span style="font-size: large;">lvin Tér, somewhere around 8:40, I was sweating. A mess. </span></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Nora, sensibly, was gone. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">There was a pay-phone in the station, and I tried -- desperately -- to call her. Again, three squeals and a strikeout. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sure that I was continuing to grow as the biggest loser Nora had never met, I felt an acute need to get in touch with her. I found two women chatting by the entrance to the subway escalators and, showing them the written phone number, asked them what possibly could be the problem. They conferred for a second and pieced together the answer that because I was calling from within Hungary, the initial calling code was 06, not 36, as the number I had been trying (which would have worked <i>outside </i>Hungary, say, in Austria). </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I dashed back to the payphone and dialed 06 instead of 36. Nora picked up. She said, with audible edge, that she had waited half an hour for me. I apologized profusely, and sincerely. That night was shot; could we at least meet for a glass of wine the next? She agreed, we did, and with rose in hand, I had redeemed myself, somewhat.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">So, I was determined not to have a replay of that inanity leaving Nora at the church door. I had the address. I had a map. I had google. Google.</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">***</span></b></div></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Do you think you know where this is heading? Well, sorry to disappoint your CSIQ, but you don't. Come back for part two, to see what happens next. </span></b> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-43549274767028738942011-03-25T04:45:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:00:50.173-07:00Not Yet A Berliner, But Not So Far Away, Either<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVe2sNNsTt1GTjph4XTKgbBymItOfJyDGVZK2FXdtRvCMiX9U2pL-ojjvAzA2PALhXcfXE09FLsIV5bHX4Fn1_Tf05ddoMu013YqP3NHJ5x0pVdRTKRgGr6UHhg6A8Ehd5FKENF-iJVao/s1600/Kennedy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="481" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVe2sNNsTt1GTjph4XTKgbBymItOfJyDGVZK2FXdtRvCMiX9U2pL-ojjvAzA2PALhXcfXE09FLsIV5bHX4Fn1_Tf05ddoMu013YqP3NHJ5x0pVdRTKRgGr6UHhg6A8Ehd5FKENF-iJVao/s640/Kennedy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is a story that when John F. Kennedy pronounced ''Ich bin ein Berliner!" at the Berlin Wall in 1963, instead of expressing his (and America's) solidarity with West Germany, he inadvertently thundered "I am a jelly donut!", Berliner being a German, jelly-filled pastry. If true, then speaking on our behalf, Kennedy was assuring Germany that all America stood behind a jelly donut.<br />
<br />
It turns out that the story is only partially true -- that, <i>technically </i>he could have been declaring his (and our) oneness with jelly donuts, but the only way a German could possibly have reached that interpretation, Kennedy would have had to make the claim standing in a bake shop, to which his German audience would have responded, "Nein, Sind sie verrückt" ("No, you are nuts."). <br />
<br />
Given the actual context, addressing a huge Berlin crowd in the open, what he said was not that he was a jelly donut, but that he was a citizen of Berlin. Germans remember him fondly for it.<br />
<br />
I don't know that I will ever say "Ich bin ein Berliner" in either sense, but I can say that my time here in the German capitol has greatly changed my perception of this city and what fills it. How representative it is of Germany as a whole I don't know, but my initial concerns about being Jewish and coming to the one-time epicenter of anti-Semitism have been greatly allayed. Berlin is contrite about its Final Solution past. Politicians talk openly about it; citizens talk knowledgeably about it; the city is flecked with museums and cemeteries and memorials recounting a significant German-Jewish heritage as well as an ignoble German-Jewish past.<br />
<br />
Non-Jewish Germans seem to feel something more than simple penance. It is almost as though they have embraced a terrible past, and with it, a truer sense of themselves, not who they were -- though that is surely part of it -- but also, who they <i>are</i>, truly, and want to be: what Germans, and Germany believe and represent. By opening themselves to self-scrutiny, they also confront visitors with the admonition to do the same.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
Last night, at the farewell party for the Berlin Fulbright Conference, a woman complemented me on my hat (it's a good hat) and we began talking. She, Irene, is no jelly donut, but a true Berliner. She holds several degrees and has spent years in the U.S., China, Russia, and her own Germany earning them. Her PhD is in Sino-Russia history.<br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yet, it wasn't her knowledge of a once-upon-a-time communist relationship that impressed me as we spoke but rather her knowledge of German-Jewish relations, then and now. Irene is not a Jew, though if admission to Judaism were a matter of respect and appreciation for its religious culture, Irene could be bat mitzvahd</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
I had to check out of my hotel the next day (today) by noon, but Irene offered to take me on a Jewish tour beforehand. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *</span></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">We met this morning at 9:00 on the </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Senefelder Platz </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">subway platform, two stops from the hotel. Within a short walk of the station she brought me to the Jewish cemetery on Schöenhauser Allee, the only one of the two cemeteries she would show me not desecrated by the Gestapo. A little museum, called a lapidarium, held a display of tombstones, its walls bearing information about the traditional format for a Jewish tombstone, some of the symbols that adorn them (a butterfly, water pitcher, Star of David, for example), as well as other historical and religious explanations. Unfortunately for Irene, and surprising to her -- because so many who visit these Berlin sites are English-only Americans --, all the information was in German, and so she had to translate it all for this English-only American. (That earned her lunch later on, a cheeseburger, though she certainly could have demanded higher. Owing to the dollar's puniness against the Euro, I was relieved.) <br />
<br />
She then walked me out to the actual cemetery, crowded with listing and fallen tombstones from 100, 200 years ago. Some black, some brown, some grey. Most with Hebrew chiseled into one side and German chiseled into the other. Trees shot past the tombstones. A bed of ivy kept them all warm. It was green and pretty, but a bit unruly, as old cemeteries, and the codgers who come to occupy them, sometimes get.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWt4VHC7yXz3trwmEu79o_FujRgVyIlHMvqmHCjPW_il-uQQ63Zbg227NxE-1qFA2rzq4RVx_mZn1EwAJUgaz-TpnWzREf6ohgHUrc05NjAymNRzo04vtSa_zm4fqhaG2wimzOxR6YZzM/s1600/IMG_0646_0472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWt4VHC7yXz3trwmEu79o_FujRgVyIlHMvqmHCjPW_il-uQQ63Zbg227NxE-1qFA2rzq4RVx_mZn1EwAJUgaz-TpnWzREf6ohgHUrc05NjAymNRzo04vtSa_zm4fqhaG2wimzOxR6YZzM/s320/IMG_0646_0472.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Irene then walked me to the Mitte, the "center," Berlin's prewar district of Jewish living and culture. She showed me the other cemetery at Grosse Hamburger Strasse, unrecognizable as such but for the single tombstone of Moses Mendelssohn, the 18th century philosopher. The cemetery had functioned as a burial ground from 1672 to 1827, but in 1943 the Nazis removed the tombstones so that they could have a lawn upon which to play ball. I didn't think to ask Irene if the Nazis spared Mendelssohn, or if his tombstone was only replaced after the war. <br />
<br />
She then showed me the spot adjacent to that cemetery where once stood a building which served for many years as a Jewish hospital and nursing home, and not briefly enough as a Gestapo processing center for Jewish deportation. It was destroyed in a Berlin bombing raid; only its space remains. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Several blocks away she showed me an orphanage, named Ahawah, Hebrew for "love," that was similarly converted to the orderly extermination of Berlin's Jews. A plaque tells its history as an orphanage, as well as an announcement of its renovation and reopening. The plaque dates from 1998. Nothing has been done to the building, and it is deteriorating badly.</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1OYx6kChYzIL4ZqOFf9HMoD9W6mNIsn24XnE2bXRu54AJqGOwORkhh7jDC6uRh4_DjVoslO3DM0ADfFtXrCZHTg7Vk75EBpvv85cAEroKr2SIVV8sdEMTy5hBg3L4NU-LUS9CmDCqgP8/s1600/IMG_0650_0476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1OYx6kChYzIL4ZqOFf9HMoD9W6mNIsn24XnE2bXRu54AJqGOwORkhh7jDC6uRh4_DjVoslO3DM0ADfFtXrCZHTg7Vk75EBpvv85cAEroKr2SIVV8sdEMTy5hBg3L4NU-LUS9CmDCqgP8/s320/IMG_0650_0476.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Less imposing than the cemeteries and memorial sites, but more arresting, are the "stumbling blocks" that Irene had told me about the night before. More figurative that literal, the stumbling blocks are brass plates, about three inches square, set into the sidewalks generally in groups of three, four, five. Each grouping of plates generally bears a single family's names -- mother, father, children, grandparents -- who lived in the building outside of which the plates have been placed. They were the Jews swept away. In addition to an individual name, each plaque bears its namesake's year of birth, year of death, and place and manner of dying. A few were </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">ambiguous: "</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Buchenwald, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">died." </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Most were not: "</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Auschwitz, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">murdered."</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEzxPB-rP5XMndK5QwIe8q6ZY1Zgq_Xz0MgFkD2XiJwGutT0KFF3pHNFv4rjrYJyWKvRGUafD5ADNMWAnvWhivfEiawGXbJyBZGy2LYRBpACjiEghu98R8yy5oev-Y-_jFOG40yfxwIw/s1600/IMG_0652_0478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEzxPB-rP5XMndK5QwIe8q6ZY1Zgq_Xz0MgFkD2XiJwGutT0KFF3pHNFv4rjrYJyWKvRGUafD5ADNMWAnvWhivfEiawGXbJyBZGy2LYRBpACjiEghu98R8yy5oev-Y-_jFOG40yfxwIw/s320/IMG_0652_0478.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Had Irene not first pointed out to me these stumbling blocks, I might well have walked on and over them unnoticed. Once she pointed them out to me, however, I saw them all over. Every few buildings in the Mitte there would be another cluster of stumbling blocks. There was no escaping them. And there was no escaping how many of them recorded lifespans in the single digits. To be one, two, or three, and already so despised by a massive world power to be put to death.<br />
<br />
Some of the stumbling blocks are not in clusters, and not victims of the camps, however. We came across two several blocks distant from each other that had not been murdered at Auschwitz nor died ambiguously in Buchenwald. Instead, one, a young 22-year old man, and the other, an older man, a lawyer, both died in a notorious Gestapo prison, executed, perhaps, for being Communists. Both were Jewish and likely to have been killed, anyway, but it was probably their politics which did them in first.<br />
<br />
These stumbling blocks are neither a government program nor a uniquely Berlin phenomenon. Irene told me that the people who live in the homes formerly occupied by the Jewish families pay 90 euros to purchase and place the stumbling blocks. And she said people are putting down stumbling blocks all over Germany. The project is ongoing. Current residents are continuously making connections with their past. <br />
<br />
According to Berlin's Jewish Museum (this one time a source other than Irene, though she corroborated it, so I trust it), in 1933 there were approximately 520,000 Jews living in Germany. By the end of the war, 215,000 of those Jews perished. The difference in the two figures represents those who fled before the camps became their fate. I wonder if Germans will ever get close to fixing a stumbling block for each deserving name, and if so, what the streets will look like, then. <br />
<br />
Irene, a not-so-typical typical German woman, and a non-Jew, helped me see beyond my own fear and more importantly, my own bias. I can't account for why Germans of the '30s and '40s allowed the Holocaust to develop, and worse, helped develop it, but my sense from spending four days in Berlin plus one morning is that today's Germans are quite willing to shoulder a past not of their own making so that the past <i>of</i> their own making resembles nothing like the one they inherited. </span></b>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-30118972149938965322011-03-20T09:23:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:00:11.932-07:00Echoes From A Past Not Really My Own<span id="goog_271441212"></span><span id="goog_271441213"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkixvMkApU6QchVrPrVjv5YI7zuFivLCxLVPWqOFgTdnMPq4DayUc690hB8kw-PAsaeReJJ9OQ6S1WqmkiLwrD5OZYNbZU2IZQmLE4dHcsK3RJuEr4VZmaHqaSZtw8LPJXf00ENLZZh1M/s1600/hdh+girl.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkixvMkApU6QchVrPrVjv5YI7zuFivLCxLVPWqOFgTdnMPq4DayUc690hB8kw-PAsaeReJJ9OQ6S1WqmkiLwrD5OZYNbZU2IZQmLE4dHcsK3RJuEr4VZmaHqaSZtw8LPJXf00ENLZZh1M/s1600/hdh+girl.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I'm beginning to wonder if even the Hungarians themselves know Hungarian. This morning at 6:30 I arrived at the Eger Palyaudvar (pieawudvawrr/ Train Station) to purchase a round trip ticket to Budapest, 6:50 departure. On the walk over from my apartment, about twenty minutes, I practiced, out loud, "K<span style="font-family: Arial;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rjuk, Budapest, hat ut ven, k<span style="font-family: Arial;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rutaz<span style="font-family: Arial;">á</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">s" (kayrrook, budapesht, hot ut ven, koorrutawzosh." Over and over, I repeated "K<span style="font-family: Arial;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rjuk, Budapest, k<span style="font-family: Arial;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rutaz<span style="font-family: Arial;">á</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">s" like a mantra, fingering the scrap of paper I had scribbled it on like a rosary.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">So when I say to the ticket agent -- in what I can only describe as impeccable, and, more importantly, unambiguous Hungarian -- "K<span style="font-family: Arial;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rjuk, Budapest, </span><span style="font-size: large;">hat ut ven</span><span style="font-size: large;">, k<span style="font-family: Arial;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rutaz<span style="font-family: Arial;">á</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">s," he looks at me, adrift within my syllables. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I concede: maybe the </span><span style="font-size: large;">k<span style="font-family: Arial;">ö</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">rutaz<span style="font-family: Arial;">á</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">s </span><span style="font-size: large;">should have come after the Budapest, or the hat ut ven before, but, given the context, what possibly could I have been saying to so confound him? Even if I had shown up speaking Mandarin (and not perfect Hungarian), wouldn't the fact that we both were in a train station, that Budapest is a train stop, and that the next departure was scheduled for 6:50, minutes away, wouldn't that combination of clues, even under the most unintelligible of exchanges have prompted the ticket agent to hazard the Hungarian equivalent of "Budapest? One way or two way?" There appear to be few leaps of logic when it comes to Hungarian rail service. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Baffling as Hungarian is, it doesn't scare me. <i>German </i>scares me. Irrational as I may be, German remains, to my ears, fixed in the larynx of Nazism. As a Jew I cringe at the sound of it. Everything I hear sounds like six degrees of separation from Adolph Hitler. Again, I fully admit the irrationality of it.</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Still, it is with some apprehension and a bit of anxiety that I find myself now in seat 25A of Lufthansa flight #1337 en route to Berlin for five sprechen sie Deutsch-filled days.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">My trip into the acme of the axis powers is not entirely involuntary. Berlin, nor anything within Germany's borders, was on my to-do list. But, each year the German Fulbright Commission hosts a pan-European conference, to which as a European Fulbrighter, I was invited.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I could have said no, turned down the invitation with no excuses, purely for fear of being immersed in German/y, but I decided that to do so would be childish, that what happened happened long ago, in a much different time, in a much different country.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I know this. And yet I am not convinced that, once there, I won't break out in hives or have some other kind of hysterical reaction.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">To prepare myself for a soft landing, I had dinner last night in Eger's sole "German" restaurant, the HDH, or something-something Hofbr</span><span style="font-size: large;">ä</span><span style="font-size: large;">uhaus. It's a German restaurant, but everyone who works there is Hungarian and speaks Hungarian. Worst case scenario I figured is that I'd end up eating some kind of wurst when I thought I'd ordered wienerschnitzel. I read the laminated menu, each page of which featured a picture of the stereotypical blonde, buxom biergarten fr</span><span style="font-size: large;">ä</span><span style="font-size: large;">ulein hugging a brood of brews close to her ample bosom, laughing heartily at something no doubt saucy shouted off camera. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, my server looked nothing like the fräulein</span><span style="font-size: large;">s; he looked like James Carville. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fGdPSEu0Se_80SsF7HChVGuhyphenhyphen74AYcsyQicyjrSqGNsaSSdLJTsKpQ4aEQ-kJEuOefByZe-CFfkMcw4pOr8sRCGlBj23zcTUkpyHRKlNRVS5xE1JxKK5jCVuQ2pABmRw3j-TsUvYFgA/s1600/James_Carville_11-e1291199932263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fGdPSEu0Se_80SsF7HChVGuhyphenhyphen74AYcsyQicyjrSqGNsaSSdLJTsKpQ4aEQ-kJEuOefByZe-CFfkMcw4pOr8sRCGlBj23zcTUkpyHRKlNRVS5xE1JxKK5jCVuQ2pABmRw3j-TsUvYFgA/s200/James_Carville_11-e1291199932263.jpg" width="120" /></a></b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Through a series of pointings and "igens" I managed to get some kind of pork thing with roasted potatoes wrapped in bacon (as I've said before, Hungary is no place for pigs), which would have been good had the pork "loin" not been sauteed into a wafer. With it I had a nice mug of a special sour-cherry beer, which, fortunately, James Carville did not attempt to deliver nestled in his cleavage.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Had it been just this amount of Germanness in the restaurant, I would have been fine. But, in order to cultivate maximum Aryan authenticity the music was all oom-pah-pah and Bavarian drinking songs. All very cheery, and upbeat, the kinds of songs you and a fräulein</span><span style="font-size: large;"> can swing huge steins to in unison, and maybe even klink some.<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y5ryo-cd-EU&feature=related">Trinken, trinken, trinken!</a></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The problem was that I didn't picture myself swinging steins with either of the HDH fräulein</span><span style="font-size: large;">s, nor did I see myself merrily drinking to these songs with anyone else. Instead, innocent as the music sounded, I pictured a couple of SS guys, caps tilted back, drinking and singing those songs, pinching the </span><span style="font-size: large;">fräulein</span><span style="font-size: large;">s</span><span style="font-size: large;"> and generally yukking it up after a long day of deporting Jews. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I am certain that because they were authentic, the songs filling the room had also filled rooms during and through the second world war, and had, for at least a while, given comfort and pleasure to Nazis as they went about the day-to-day business of persecuting, and ultimately exterminating, Jews (and yes, others). </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">So, you can see how, if I can manifest that kind of darkness out of simple German drinking songs over a Hungarian restaurant's sound system, who knows what kind of paranoia I'll come up with once I have both feet on the ground in Germany. </span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">One thing I can assure you of: for better or worse, I will be all ears. </span></b></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-33189227336148258472011-03-17T02:29:00.000-07:002011-06-05T02:46:00.343-07:00Growing Pains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPbEIEJIcktfiekaiwBv8IezabTlxvD7LkC2KPvSRW1l4Dh501IYMb8vYTflUPSigisdCSvFQsHdFdoPvD3Jqr5uFYWImIZvUuPYAlkvEjk-AeNLT6i1hulkQjkyykOycKX7RcKSAPBc/s1600/aru5351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPbEIEJIcktfiekaiwBv8IezabTlxvD7LkC2KPvSRW1l4Dh501IYMb8vYTflUPSigisdCSvFQsHdFdoPvD3Jqr5uFYWImIZvUuPYAlkvEjk-AeNLT6i1hulkQjkyykOycKX7RcKSAPBc/s640/aru5351.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">March 15 is Hungarian Independence Day, when Hungarians celebrate the 1848 revolution against Austria and the Habsburg monarchy. It's kind of like our (U.S.) July 4th, except it's March 15th. And, from what I can tell, it differs from July 4th in that shops close for it, rather than pimp it as a reason to have a sale.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I decided to spend my Independence day at the voluptuous Book Cafe, located on the second floor of the Budapest's upscale Alexandra Bookstore. Twice before I felt like a rich man in its splendor; I was going for a hat trick. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I arrived at the bookstore and took the escalator up to the second floor restaurant, which was delightfully empty. The room sits beneath a huge, ornate, vaulted ceiling. Seats are a mix of small black tables and chairs, overstuffed leather loungers, and plush banquettes that line the walls. </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I spotted the banquette where I sat last time I visited, on which I spent several delightful hours drinking Cabernet Franc and listening to Norah Jones beneath a gilded firmament. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I shed my backpack I spotted and overheard the three customers at the corner of the same bankette, two tables over from mine, drinking cappuccinos. They were all speaking English, one American, two Hungarian. I glimpsed a bit more. The American, sitting in a plush chair and most visible to me, was chubby, fifties, wore a greying goatee and grey wiry hair pulled into a pony tail. The two Hungarians, a woman and a man, both sat on the banquette. I could only catch their profiles. She, closest to me, was late forties, I guessed, chestnut shoulder length hair, no makeup and nothing remarkable about her dress. The man alongside her was, like me, shorn of hair. He looked to be in his sixties, maybe seventies, but hip. He wore two small hoop earrings in his left ear, and camo cargo pants. The American, leaning to the side away from them, arm draped over the back of the chair, was clearly the center of the Hungarians' -- and his own -- attention.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I unpacked Will Shortz's <i>Crosswords for 365 Days</i>, which, is in fact, a big fat lie, because I have had this compendium of <i>New York Times </i>crossword puzzles since I went to Reykjavik, Iceland in January 2007, well over a thousand days ago. And I am only only puzzle 251, "Growing Pains." </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I settled into my little corner there, soon to be greeted by the same young waiter I had during my last visit. He remembered me and the wine I ordered -- to excess, I now surmised. "Cabernet Franc," he declared standing by the table, as though prompted in his head by the <i>Jeopardy! </i>question, "What did this American drink last time?"</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Very good memory!" I said, envious of his recall. "I'll have another, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">k</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">öszönöm</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">." </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He smiled, rightfully impressed with himself. He also pointed out a smoked trout pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é plate on the menu he thought I would like. "Okay, sold," I said. But then he disallowed me from having the Cabernet Franc. "You must have white with the </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">," he said, probably mistaking "must" for "should" or "ought to." Whatever. "Fine. Pick one for me."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The truth is, I don't really care for white wines, but he was trying so hard, I didn't have the heart to say no. "Chardonnay," he said conclusively to another <i>Jeopardy! </i>question. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Off he went and on I went to "Growing Pains." </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The threesome next to me were speaking loudly enough so that in the otherwise quiet room, even with Norah Jones singing over my should, I could still pick up their conversation with crystal clarity. Clues abounded. He, the American lived in LA, and apparently traveled a lot, or at least widely, as he spoke about having been in Indonesia the week before. He also said that whenever he flies, he always takes an aisle seat. Always.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Talk turned to Charlie Sheen, his fiasco with CBS, and how the execs had no choice. "As far as I'm concerned, I couldn't care less what someone does, as long as they show up for work. He didn't. What choice did he leave them?"</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hmm. Sounds like an insider to me. I snuck a peek. Clearly not an actor; talking like a director. Maybe he's a Hollywood somebody.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I corrected my posture, in the event that, like Lana Turner, I might be discovered. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">More talk about </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">unstable </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">movie stars. "I mean, look at Nolte. The guy goes to the liquor store in his bathrobe, for chirssake. But he shows up for work. That's the difference."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Wine arrived. Who cares. I had a mystery to solve. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, he is some kind of Hollywood player. What was he doing in Budapest? And who were the Hungarians with him? What was their role? Local casting, perhaps?</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I weighed introducing myself to him, real laid back like, one American to another, to see if he was somebody I knew ("Ah, so you're Ethan Coen. I admire your work, mostly, though I found <i>True Grit </i>disappointingly two-dimensional"), or should know, and to see if perhaps he wanted to cast a Fulbrighter in his next film. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I decided instead to remain demure, appear to be </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">quietly </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">tending to to "Growing Pains," my wine, and soon to arrive trout </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">, all the while gathering and piecing together more clues. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I also concluded that if he <i>was </i>a somebody, it would begin to grate on him that I wasn't paying attention to him, wasn't, apparently, interested in discovering just what a somebody he was. The only thing that annoys somebodies more than being recognized is not being recognized. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Eventually, unable to stand my disinterest, he'd get out of his chair and come over to my table demanding to introduce himself to me, when he would learn just how cool and collected I am -- "Hi Ethan," I'd say, extending my hand, but not getting up, "Name's Jerry." He then would ask if I've ever done any acting, and how I'd be a "natural" for his next lead role of a suave and sexy academic who spends a semester in Hungary teaching but also working undercover with the CIA to crack a global crime ring. I'd chuckle, a little embarrassed. And he'd call Harrison Ford right then and there to tell him he's been fired. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, I played hard to get, and just listened without appearing to.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Depp and DeCaprio. They're the ones to watch. Neither of them has peaked yet. But they've got the look. They're the new look."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Depp, okay; but DeCaprio? He's a wimp.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The trout </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> arrived in a clip-top jam jar, along with several slices of toast. I gave one a schmeer, and took a crunchy bite. It was good. I swigged -- no, <i>sipped </i>-- the wine, trying to appear nonchalant -- in case "anyone" should be watching --, as though I have trout </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é with Chardonnay in elegant restaurants all the time. It's just one of the many sophisticated things I do.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Bottom line, it's a business. And actors just don't get that." The Hungarians commiserated. "I mean, I'm paying for the shoot, and if one of them doesn't show because they got too drunk the night before, or they had a fight with their boyfriend, or whatever -- that's money out of <i>my </i>pocket. They just don't seem to understand. If they don't show up, or show up late, I've still got to pay for the location, for the cameras, the whole bit. That costs <i>me. </i>I mean, I'm sorry for all the troubles in their life, but I've got a movie to make. I've got a business to run."</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Hungarians understood, totally. And, in fact, so did I. Prima donna actors mucking up the works. Prissy little Leonardos screwing things up. And zonked out Charlie Sheens.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"And then if they don't get along. I've got to do all this hand holding, as if they aren't professionals being paid to do a job. I mean, they are professionals, right? So, why does it matter if they like each other? Just do your job and let's call it a day."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was beginning to see how actors could really be a director's nightmare. But which actors? I wanted to know which actors, specifically, he was talking about? Someone famous, I hoped, I have to admit. But someone I disliked, too. (Leonardo for sure.) I didn't want to think that any of my favs -- Helena Bonham Carter, perhaps -- could be anything but the most professional and productive of actors. I was positive that, if given the chance, <i>I </i>would be a model actor, the polar opposite of nightmare. A director's dream. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I continued my feint with "Growing Pains" and chomped through another crunchy bite of the </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">éed toast, causing me to miss the question posed by the Hungarian woman.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Oh sure," the American said. "That's something I always try to do. Add a story. I want it to be more than just the sex. I mean, there are those who want the sex and only the sex. But there are others, plenty of others, who want a story also. It's for them that I make my movies."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Wait. What did he say?</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"I mean, how many times can we see the plumber come to fix the kitchen sink? It just gets boring after a while. So, I try to give my movies a story, some drama, something to watch besides the sex. And I try to cast my movies with actors who want to mix a little bit of acting -- real acting -- into their roles."</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hmm. So. He's not quite the director I thought he might be. Not likely to fire Harrison Ford, or even know his phone number. I started to rehearse in my mind how I would tell him, in the end, I just didn't feel right for the part. I just couldn't risk my acting future with a starring role in a porno movie. </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I have to admit that, despite having to soon turn down the not-yet-offered-role, I remained interested in their conversation, <i>not</i> out of my own prurience (okay, well, maybe a little), but rather because the more they talked, the more I learned about the other side of porn, the business side, what happens behind the lens, so to speak -- and how unerotic it is. I am not a big devotee of porn -- I'll watch it if there is nothing else on -- but he was knocking the stuffing out of it, stripping it of all its allure. It got so I expected to hear him kvetch about how hard it was to make a living in porn these days, what with the Chinese producing it at a fraction of the cost.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, porn ain't what it seems. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But why stop there. Maybe the movies I thought he directed before I learned he directed porn, maybe those, too -- and the assumed charmed lives of actors in them -- are equally illusional and delusional. Maybe if we spent a day with Depp or DeCaprio we'd be bored to tears. </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Even dining in that bookstore opulence, beneath the painted ceilings and chandeliers, the ooh-lah-lahness of it is kind of make believe. Certainly my waiter, by now, ceased to see the cafe's splendor, and instead saw it as a place to go to put in his hours, serve awestruck Americans trout </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">pat</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é and Chardonnay, make his money and go home.</span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Maybe everything is cool-lah-lah only from a distance. Maybe all the things people lust over -- be it pornographic fantasies, or fantasies of wealth and celebrity -- maybe those fantasies are propped up more by what we are kept from seeing than by what we are shown. </span></span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I got through "Growing Pains." It took time, and the glass of Cabernet Franc that I had asked for way back when, and a bit of sneak-peaking at the completed puzzle in the back, and the departure of the director and his friends.</span></span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGyBXWBPP2Ls5_DNzOWbvXG6wVV4CaXcGUGQdvAR0dSzCrKZiM7sdkYirjCRmBk5PtiEr-dGzkyrAU54JQs5Mtdje0kJMTzt5J_JcNQpJzD2hZuRvKS9XgPb4QdQiueOqKPS-EqsqWrE/s1600/IMG_0576_0468.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGyBXWBPP2Ls5_DNzOWbvXG6wVV4CaXcGUGQdvAR0dSzCrKZiM7sdkYirjCRmBk5PtiEr-dGzkyrAU54JQs5Mtdje0kJMTzt5J_JcNQpJzD2hZuRvKS9XgPb4QdQiueOqKPS-EqsqWrE/s320/IMG_0576_0468.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217181694532432317.post-51054767902274997122011-03-14T02:07:00.000-07:002011-06-05T02:59:21.926-07:00Just Say Nem<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionNJKmTrdeZHAim-kaV6qUB0mPjcymLn-Ybj6Hnj_5k2FURVMe3HEAR3GVdmiQRdGQt5COU9Z92DZ3_lPuSc7apfkeQvN-YLefEql5MSIZfPBwK-gj5ClrjIAz5kj6AGBpYNnl_TCg7c/s1600/Ronald-And-Nancy-Reagan-Posters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionNJKmTrdeZHAim-kaV6qUB0mPjcymLn-Ybj6Hnj_5k2FURVMe3HEAR3GVdmiQRdGQt5COU9Z92DZ3_lPuSc7apfkeQvN-YLefEql5MSIZfPBwK-gj5ClrjIAz5kj6AGBpYNnl_TCg7c/s1600/Ronald-And-Nancy-Reagan-Posters.jpg" /></a></b></div><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I never liked the Reagans (though they did provide great satirical fodder for Gore Vidal in the pages of <i>The New York Review of Books</i>)<i>. </i>Since The Great Eviscerator -- the <i>original </i>Talking Hairdo -- took office, and gave us each not a chicken in every pot but rather a truncheon in every hand, to whack at and keep whacking at Washington like some giant, taxes-stuffed pin</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: large;">ã</span><span style="font-size: large;">ta, the American heart has withered to a raisin. </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Dutch had the twinkle, but Nancy -- the Smiling Hairdo -- had the vision. Coming from California, and the hippest of circles therein to be sure, the Reagans had learned, and Nancy gave utterance to, the magic bullet for helping teens steer clear of drugs: Just Say No. How simple? How easy? Who would have thought that those three words alone could have worked so wondrously? But wait: I will come back to them shortly.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">First though, I would like to talk about some other words. When one is in the process of not learning a language as fluently as I have not been learning Hungarian for over a month now, whether in Hungary or anywhere (with the appropriate translation), there are key words that will get even the most unteachable tongue out of a pickle. Here are a few that I have learned:</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Bocsánat (<i>b</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>otchanought</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">)<i> </i>= (I'm) Sorry. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Here, as in the U.S., I think it best to lead with penance. Even if you have done nothing wrong, people will appreciate your apologizing for it nonetheless. However, fearing that even my Hungarian apology may not be discernible to Hungarian ears, I redouble my apology by crossing my hands over my chest and bowing deferentially as I do or do not botch</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> bocsánat</span><span style="font-size: large;">. There is no way that even a botched </span><span style="font-size: large;">bocsánat would not be understood with such heartfelt chested contrition.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Köszönöm/</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Köszönöm szépen</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> (K</span><span style="font-size: large;">oosoo</span><span style="font-size: large;">n</span><span style="font-size: large;">oom/</span><span style="font-size: large;">K</span><span style="font-size: large;">oosooo</span><span style="font-size: large;">m sa</span><span style="font-size: large;">ype</span><span style="font-size: large;">n) = Thank you/Thank you very much (an Elvis favorite when he bonded with Hungarians following the 1956 uprising (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gN5Hoo_6d9A">Köszönöm, köszönöm szépen</a>). </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Saying thank you is also a good pre-emptive strategy, even if, as in </span><span style="font-size: large;">bocsánat</span><span style="font-size: large;"> above, it confuses the recipient who did not register doing anything worthy of thanks. Again, just the fact that you are grateful for whatever they did or didn't do can go a long way in a foreign lang/land. So many Americans are ungrateful. Try to be unAmerican in this regard.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The exponential value of a combined </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Köszönöm/</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Köszönöm szépen, </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;">bocsánat" or "</span><span style="font-size: large;">Bocsánat, </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">köszönöm/</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Köszönöm szépen" should be apparent, and so I will move on.</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><br />
</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Viszlát (</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;">veezlot) = (Good) Bye</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Usually said with brio, as </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><i>Viszlát!/Bye!</i> Now, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">viszlát serves several purposes, the most immediate of which is to let whoever may be attending to you know for certain that you are leaving. As a twenty-year bartender I can tell you that nothing -- apart from a fat tip -- brought on more joy to me than to see an un-time-tested customer leave (I have seen alcohol flip switches in even the nicest of strangers). Especially if the customer had been grating on me from the beginning, as would The Dour Donalds</span></span></span></b><br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Rummy,</span></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJMy45Ji30DGe064FYyxL_g2A9pGic8iYzsRGkYm_Yk_JlVQaArTXdqx5OjTWV8kgTaukwcaAS2VEg4Qp72DD9KLm0hCig0ikQd4E_XdQSPgTBlm1Oi5LH9M9rBbHUvIkguAj9Vr_-tOM/s1600/rummy+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJMy45Ji30DGe064FYyxL_g2A9pGic8iYzsRGkYm_Yk_JlVQaArTXdqx5OjTWV8kgTaukwcaAS2VEg4Qp72DD9KLm0hCig0ikQd4E_XdQSPgTBlm1Oi5LH9M9rBbHUvIkguAj9Vr_-tOM/s200/rummy+.jpeg" width="175" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span></span></b></div><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVC5QX5B1_DhNzpdBFXab68fnH62f_KzF8g3LpilzpEvOKP5iciELZMGGlrH86uU_NDa-kKvQtDs1jUtSWmW0AfmfY4LyGSeRIoCY8CGIGp2FFgz5eWbcUHo5-hphurasglO4amCulozI/s1600/donald_duck-1058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVC5QX5B1_DhNzpdBFXab68fnH62f_KzF8g3LpilzpEvOKP5iciELZMGGlrH86uU_NDa-kKvQtDs1jUtSWmW0AfmfY4LyGSeRIoCY8CGIGp2FFgz5eWbcUHo5-hphurasglO4amCulozI/s1600/donald_duck-1058.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span></span></b><br />
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</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">have grated on me had I to pour them drinks. So, the first good of goodbye is that it signals its sayer will soon be gone.</span></span></span></b></div></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">The second good of </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">viszlát is that, because one usually says it with a dash of exuberance -- </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><i>viszlát!</i> -- that emotional uptick shows that you feel some bond with the person you are </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">viszláting, as if, "I am not just any old apologetic yet thankful American, I am an apologetic yet thankful American who feels a loose kinship with you, even if it's only in, and by, leaving." </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Viszlát!</span></span></span></i></span></b><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Igen </span><span style="font-size: large;">(eegen) = yes.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Igen is another all purpose word. Most usefully, it helps hide the fact that you don't really know the language but can agree to certain things nonetheless, hence not exposing yourself (totally). So, for instance, if I go into the local </span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">hús</span> </span><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"><span style="font-size: large;">bolt</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> (hoosh bolt) and order a </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">csirkemell</span> fil</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">é</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"> (cheerkemell <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">feelay)</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">, naturally, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">the butcher </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">freezes in place as <i>What did the hell did he just say? </i>washes over her face. Then, when I point to the heap of boneless, skinless chicken breasts piled up in the meat case she understands, and leaning into the meat case she'll start sorting through the breasts asking me a number of questions, which, of course, I don't understand, but which I presume have something to do with the </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">csirkemell</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">filé I just requested. Uncertain but trusting in a small margin of error I say "Igen" to one of her questions. She </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">holds up a chicken breast and </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">double-checks with her own "Igen?" </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Igen," I confirm as though there could be no better chicken breast for me than the one she plucked. I pay her and of course do the whole </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Köszönöm szépen/</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">viszlát!" thing.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The vocabulary I cited above, though helpful, can only be used in a limited way, in response to well-constrained situational exchanges. So, for instance, the seamless conviviality of a </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">viszlát! only works upon leaving; likewise, one wouldn</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">'t offer a resolute "Igen" to a butcher who holds her arms wide to include the cornucopia of her entire meatcase. It is only because, like a skilled chess-player, I have been able to back the possible meanings into a corner, that I am able to deploy the terms and phrases above with a modicum of confidence.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Another advantage of those terms is that they thrust the confusion squarely in the lap of my conversation partner. In a sense, they've got to figure <i>me </i>out. </span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Not all situations, however, provide me such clear advantage. There are occasions where I am more confused than confusing. For instance, when I go to the supermarket to buy a bottle of scotch, and the cashier looks up from scanning the bar code and asks me a question, as they always do, I can't say "Igen" because I have no clear point of reference. I don't know what I'd be saying "Igen" to. Is she asking, "Do you have a shopper's card?" or "Would you like to step in the back and have your liver harvested?"; "Trouble finding anything?" or "We have lots of mangy stray cats locked up in the basement; would you like some?"; "Do you need a bag?" or "My ex-husband, the bum that left me for a woman less than half his age, used to drink this very brand of scotch; would it be okay if I smashed the bottle over your head?"</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">As you can see, there are simply too many variables to say "Igen" in such a situation, with or without </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;">bocsánat</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">s, </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">köszönöm</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">s, etc. It is at times such as these that the simple wisdom of Nancy kicks in. When in doubt, <i>just say nem. </i>Nem, no, nips it. Clean. Simple. The End. </span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="hu"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Now, of course, just saying nem could cost me, too. It's possible that rather than wanting to harvest my liver the cashier only wants to fatten it, gladden it: "Oh, that brand of scotch has a two for one promotion this week; would you like the second bottle, free?" Or that rather than of an excess of cats, cash is her problem: "My register seems to be too full of money; would you take some off of my hands?" Or rather thank looking to smash a bottle she's looking to raise a toast: "I think you'd be a perfect match for my daughter, Miss Hungary; would it be okay with you if I gave her a call?"</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Igen, nem, both carry risks. But, at this stage of my Hungarian evolution, knowing what I know, and more importantly, what I don't, I'd rather hang on to my liver, stray the strays, and slip the split head and splitting headache, even if it means passing up a bottle of scotch, a wad of cash, and perhaps a mall makeout session with Miss Hungary. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is very little that Nancy and I agree upon, but in this instance, I'm with her that just saying nem is the way to go.</span></b></div></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10120976431354031560noreply@blogger.com0