Hadrian’s Wall

My life has seen many periods of transition. One such time was about sixteen years ago when I reached out to an old friend to break the cadence of my course. We got involved with a group of school teachers in a community theatre group. I lent my skills for some technical aspects of lighting and sound. Performing or production was very inappropriate for my nature. The group was looking toward their spring break and one put together a package to London for eight days in the theatre district. I signed on for the good airfare but England had more to offer than London. With an infant Internet, I located a Viking Festival in the northern city of York which put me within the proximity of Hadrian’s Wall. My Latin teachings put that two-thousand-year-old Wall at the extent of civilization as the Romans knew it and an effort to keep out the barbarians. Kind of where I wanted to be.
Upon arrival at Heathrow, the right-hand drive rental car adapted quickly with York as the next stop. Online reservations for a B&B worked out well within the fortified walls of the ancient city. Jőrvik to the ruling Vikings in the eighth and ninth centuries, York was having a week-long celebration. We took part in the Feast of the Jarl at the thirteenth century Merchant Adventurer’s Hall. Hoisting a Goblet of Mead and a “Wassail, Drinkhail” with the local business people, it was extraordinary to be the only tourists for a feast of medieval cuisine.
After two days in York, we moved on to see the remnants of the earlier conquerors at Hadrian’s Wall. The journey north through the barren coal mining region was as chilling as the February weather. After two centuries Roman’s 118-kilometer structure was woven neatly into the countryside. Not the magnitude of China’s Great Wall or as foreboding but Emperor Hadrian left an indelible mark on this landscape. Like many historic elements of our world, the need to experience it had been accomplished.
Friends were awaiting us in London but a brief stop for genealogy research and a visit to Cambridge broke the long drive back. Where most of our group scheduled eight plays in seven days, we settled for Miss Saigon and Carmen. This was entirely adequate for my taste. Keeping with our historic mode, the Victoria and Albert Museum was a good choice. Yet the British Museum displayed the pillage that this Empire made on the antiquities of the world during their reign and conquests.

Maria 101

I sadly lost an old girlfriend on Sunday. Mrs. Spezia was 101 years old. I had known her all my life. She was a great Leonardite. My sister married her son. Her daughter was my age and there was a little adolescent flirtation; that’s just because it was in a small town where eligibility had a level of entrapment since earlier times.
Mrs. Spezia had a full life, being widowed only four years ago. She and her husband were not far removed from their Italian immigrant parents. Her man farmed for cash crops of potatoes, corn, and pigs. She managed the household.
I may have been ten when Mr. Spezia was very ill and his potato crop was near rotting in the field. The call for help came and the whole village showed up that Saturday to reap the harvest.
Another recall was while wandering about their barnyard. I stopped dead in my tracks with the electric fence across both chins. It kept the pigs contained but left me falling forward into a smelly sludge that sent me home for a shower and change of clothes.
The fondest moment was at my nephew Mike's wedding in Lake Tahoe in 2006. At 99, as the only grandparent, she had taken her first airplane ride and was feeling wonderful. At the wedding reception, she and I were left alone at a table when everyone was dancing. I got up, bowed, and asked her to dance. She beamed beyond my expectations. I pushed her walker out of the way and escorted her to the dance floor. By the second song, the rest of the party stood watching us dance. Never could a gentleman be so pleased as to have thrilled a lady so much. She exclaimed she had not been on the dance floor in thirty years. I had seen her twice since and received a fond hug, kiss, and renewed thoughts of our night on the dance floor. Simple efforts can mean so much at the proper time.

Cyclone Nargis

Let the grace of our humanity behold the cyclone devastation in Burma. I recall hearing of 351 deaths reported on the day Nargis hit the coastal low lands eight days ago. Today they are estimating 60,000 dead and another million in danger. Who can fathom what poison exists in such murky waters after so many days have passed in this tropical clime? A military junta bent on isolating their travesties from the civilized world. Such unwarranted conduct can only manifest itself as an antipathy of all that is within us. ‘Tis so sad so many lives are in the control of a small group of potbellied creeps in uniform with contrived glitter on their hats.
I have a small point of reference in this area of the world with my volunteer work in Vietnam, business in Thailand, and recently a brief stay in Cambodia. Yet I have a stronger engagement with my witness of Buddhism throughout Asia and Indonesia. From touching the hand of Buddha at Borobudor in Java to my blessed bell in Guangzhou, I have given them my reverence but humility has damned these hallowed beings.
Three weeks ago His Holiness the Dalai Lama came to our area. My daughter and I witness his readings and the magnificence of his presence. For me it may have been being a part of today in the midst of the Tibetan protest over the China occupation as well as the then Rangoon political dissidence from Buddhist monks.
I can fumble through any of the one hundred odd prophesies recited that day by His Holiness.
Either within or likewise without,
Or somewhere in between the two,
The conquerors have never found the mind:
So the mind has the nature of an illusion.
Given such a precipice we in the West can only look on in angst over what they perceive as an illusion.

Constantinople

The Wednesday weather was chilly in Istanbul but lack of a winter coat did not hold me back. A decent breakfast at the hotel, scanning the guides I had, was enough to get me going for the Grand Bazaar. Busy as expected with all that was marketable and much that wasn’t, my first interest was pages of old Arabic books in gold leaf and great script. Like most souvenirs, there is much fun in bargaining but the price will be of no significance by the time you get home. The bathing harem girls are the treasure and the other was just to help the bargain process. Sat back and enjoyed a tea while watching passers by. It was obvious the Muslim berka was not in vogue here. Babushkas were everywhere on the older ladies but the young ladies seemed quite western. None were enticing to my eyes.
The ceramic work was noteworthy and a good one should make it collectable. I was drawn in by a hustler after wandering into a shop where I was whisked off to his treasure trove. There were three rooms full and the decision / bidding process began. The large platter was essential and the bowls were just adders.
Next stop was the Spice Market. This commodity was more fitting for caravan trade and the variety was complete. Who needs anything more than pepper? I got a variety, along with some tea fresh off a camel’s back. The dried fruit was abundant. Also, many gelled or candied mixes of foodstuffs certainly stemmed from an ancient means of preservation.
On Thursday I got a late start to avoid the rain. I dedicated this day to museums. The Hague Sophia was a waste of time. It was just a barren old mosque whose significance escapes me. In the area was a government carpet sales outlet that seemed like a good idea but prices were beyond what I wanted to spend. I must have shown my aimless wandering face as a Turk from Dallas struck up a conversation on my way to the Blue Mosque. I knew he was leading me on to some sort of scam and beyond the Mosque was his family’s Kurdish carpet store. Of course, I did not get out without dropping $800.00 on an antique rug. Duped as I may have been, the excess expense is lost once it is a possession at home.
Carpet in hand, I snaked my way through the maze of Sultanahmet unsure of a way to my hotel. A downhill direction was enough when I came upon the trolley cars seen from my hotel restaurant. Such a coward I was when an English Style Pub lie before me. Warmth, Tetley’s Ale, and Fish ‘n Chips gave my wandering soul a bit of repose. Regenerated, the journey back to the hotel drew a wealth of sightings along the way. If it were not for the shop keepers trying to draw me in, the local people had little response to strangers like me. None the less, walking my way through was best. Weary legs on an early evening return gave me a chance to read up on where I was.
Topkapi Palace, a tourist highlight, was on my list and waiting for my Friday. I was not going sour on Constantinople and the Ottoman Empire but I fail to see the Devine Providence in a bunch of fat ugly turban headed Turks ruling half the known world. This Palace, built in the 1400’s, in all of its regalia, did more to deny them my reverence. Pavilions for harems, eunuchs, and slaves assembled around a library, kitchen, armory, and treasury gave my Western mind guilt for my new found prejudice. Slaughter, murder, and mayhem in the Western colonialism bore little difference to barbarism, slavery, and rape from Arabic people. Yes, I am unsettled over the later. Perhaps, my notions were slighted by recent readings in books of early African exploration To the Heart of the Nile by Pat Shipman and The White Nile by Alan Moorehead revealed major atrocities of the Arabs. So allow me a little contempt.
My discontent waned in a brisk walk back to the hotel. There, a mature lady in the lobby was offering various tourist venues. Her sophisticated approach gave credence to the new Istanbul I had yet to explore. I held a modern gravurier piece of modern art picked up along the way. She was quick to inform me of their Istanbul Museum of Modern Art on the Asian side that my art vendor had so informed. From there her enthusiasm about Taksim and a scenic walk through Beyoğlu would pay reverence for my stay. The fare for such advice was to purchase tickets for dinner and a show at the Galata Tower on Saturday night which seemed fair for her courtesy and means of commission.
The Saturday setup worked well for my first stop at the Museum. The primary features were what it should be, the Turkish talent. My kudos was to see the originality of work that was virtually void of Western influence. It was very pleasing to see my prior purchase by Tekcam had a presence.
From there a taxi seemed a better mode to get to Taksim and once there, the shops had little appeal to me. From this vantage point, it was two miles downhill and the bridge to the European side of Istanbul. By the time I got there it may have been twice that. Fishing off the sides of the bridge was a popular pastime but over such major shipping traffic, I could only imagine the lost lines. Once crossed, the familiar Bazaar Quarter had much needed restaurants and a place to ease my aching feet. At mid afternoon, I notice good activity in a third floor dining place. A bit posh, but my concern was rest and good food. The entertaining clientele of affluent tourists and local socials made for good diversion.
I would have been content to retire early but my early flight back home meant I had to leave for the airport by three am. Our prior plan was to party all night at the Galata Tower. Ugh, this had all the makings of a tourist extravaganza much unlike my normal modus operandi. Yeah, a tour bus picked me up on the rounds of all local hotels. About twenty of us arrived at the Tower to be elevated to the sixth floor for the eight o’clock show, joining another group of twenty. Being the solitary figure from the Armada Hotel, I had a prime table near the bar and the door. The food fare was Turkish traditional with chicken or lamb kebab. The following entertainment was a variety show of belly-dancers, singers, traditional dancers, a Tony Bennett kind of emcee, and more belly-dancers. I was content with the diversion that kept me occupied well into the evening. This role as a tourist worked for me. I returned to the hotel after midnight with time for a shower, last minute Internet check, stuffed my suitcase with Turkish memorabilia, and caught a taxi to the airport.

Istanbul Works

My initial plan for a couple days of business in Istanbul was to spend two weeks and make an effort to see the Black Sea coast and venture into Bulgaria. Travel plans require flexibility so when the cargo was delayed by customs, I lost a week handling paperwork at home. Now my trip was confined to one week because of other commitments. Okay, I can handle two days of work and five days to play.
The first day of business was going well. My host, Kerem offered to take me to dinner, a Turkish one at my request. It was a nice businessman’s restaurant on our Asian side of Maramar Sea. The maitre de set a US and Turkish flag on our table as a courtesy. Rakisi is their country’s ouzo – an anise taste with 45% alcohol so with water and ice, it was good for the palette. The appetizers were plentiful, much the same in Arabic food – eggplant, garlic, and beans with flat bread. The salad was tomato, parsley, walnut, and peppers. A Turkish pizza was thin and covered with olive tomato mix. By now I am very full when the waiter brings our main dish Adana, a minced meat kabob kind of thing. I worked at it but left some behind. Of course, we finished with Turkish coffee which Kerem noted that at the end you dump the cup in the saucer. When it cools, the grit pattern is something used to read your fortune. I recall hearing the same with Arabic coffee.
From our conversation that evening, I learned Kerem’s fortune had been established by his grandfather. The founder of the business had earned his doctorate in chemistry at the University of Michigan in 1942. My host was a recent Purdue graduate and the business was headed by his father, the imposing figure, I had met earlier in the day. I am sure the chain will not be broken. We talked of family values. His traditional marriage to a fine Turkish wife had brought him a daughter, now twenty-one days old. This legacy may or may not require a male heir should it come to that. Turkey seemed imbedded in tradition but with a pending European Union appointment, flexibility was also on the horizon.
The next day of training left me comfortable that the lab people were resourceful to handle my instrument. For lunch I went with them to the company mess hall. There was a hearty portion of soup, bread, rice, and a stew mixture. Erina pointed to a baklava style dessert, at which I exclaimed “Fat Tuesday”. Her shrug assured me that it did not translate. At our table, I pursued the Lenten subject by throwing out Mardi Gras – Carnival – holiday. She twisted her head and said they only have two holidays -- Ramadan and – the English word was not coming to her. She searched for words – lamb -- sacrifice – cut, cut – then motioned to be cutting her throat. I said with a smile, “Oh, like Americans in Iraq?” “Oh! No! No, not that!” I broadened my smile and winked. We put that subject to rest and enjoyed the meal.
My anxiety to see Istanbul and a sense of accomplishment for the task completed had left me jittery to seek out a hotel to focus on the historic city. Kerem shrugged at my tour book choices and suggested the Armada Hotel. A company Fiat in the hands of a speechless driver took me to the walls of the old city. My quaint position after dark left me content that morning would bring all expectations alive.

Gulag goulash

My curiosity about Turkish people began to build in Amsterdam at the appearance of those gathering at the gate for my flight to Istanbul. Other than an older couple American and myself, there was an Aussie gent and a handful or Euro types in the frequent flier group. The remaining hundred plus were of dark complexion and a surly, burley crowd, ladies included. Of the male majority, some may have been to Europe for businesses as they had the robust stature from over consumption. While the younger ones, who knows?
My amazement came in the nonresident lines upon arriving in Istanbul. It was like someplace filled with Gulag caricatures, Borat look-a-likes, a multitude of Gypsies, and several Arial Sharons. I broke the rumble of the crowd when I laughed out load at a grumpy Brezhnev looking guy in the next aisle, who was told remove his Russian fur hat in front of the immigration desk. He quickly grabbed his hat, snapped to attention, and gave a cheesy smile to the guy behind the desk. It must have been the unkempt hair but moreover, a visual of this cultural mix. I had thoughts of the Kurdish victims of Saddam and now, the Chechnya rebels, and the many republics that came from the breakup of the USSR. Was this the Ottoman Empire?

Above all, I knew there was much to be learned about the people in this foreign land.

Grandpa Ben

On a visit to my sister’s on Christmas, I picked up boxes of family photos with the idea of scanning things for posterity. A project made for a day like today with five inches of snow out there.

Within the archives was a Book written by my grandfather in his teen years from 1908 to 1910. I remember him as a crude, insensitive guy who walked with a limp because of childhood polio. He died when I was fifteen. My only memory of talking to him was when I was about twelve. He was sitting in his chair sipping a bottle of beer. I looked curious at him as he had a shaker of salt for his beer. He called me over smiling, about to light a cigarette and asked “You know how I light my fire?” He leaned forward with a kitchen match to his bronze ashtray which had a standing nude female figure and lit it on her belly. I turned red and he laughed like crazy.

The Book is a bound ledger of superior cursive writings of near perfect spelling and grammar. It could have been for schoolwork in the fifth through seventh grade. Some stories took the form of a letter to friends like Ray where he describes “My trip through South America” telling the details of dream. Another dream was written to Fay that contained all storybook characters crashing into the sea from Jack the Giant Killers air-ship. One titled “A Narration of Learning How to Swim” gives an account of being dunked by ‘larger boys’ at the “Sand Bar”. Because of his polio impairment I would expect him had born more childhood scars than he revealed in the writings. “My Autobiography” gave a chronology of an itinerant childhood where they never stayed in one town in middle Michigan for more than two years. There was no account of his birth father or his mother’s second marriage when he was nine. He only tells of staying with his grandfather and an uncle on occasion.

Among the seventy odd pages are about ten pages of collected poems clipped from the newspaper and one poem written by him at eighteen. All of which has much more sensitivity than he had ever shown.

After all this delving, I did not find anything that put me closer to understanding the nature of my grandfather.