King Arthur’s Quest

My travels have sometimes left a child behind to hear of my adventure after the fact. In 1996, I thought to put the dazzle in the eyes of my daughter with her own involvement. As a single parent and with her at eleven years old, I would need a little help. My nephew, her favorite cousin, would give her a companion. Quintessential in my mind was to bring a lady friend to help my daughter to the WC and share a little parenting. One thought was that England would be comforting without language problems and other such confusion. Next, I needed a theme to promote their interest and convince my brother and his wife along with my ex-wife that their children would find security in my good hands. The Legend of King Arthur's theme should encompass that. An initial meeting with the kids drew excitement for the travel but my extended talk about King Arthur lost their attention after a few minutes. None the less, my plan was executed within three weeks and the four of us flew to England.
Oxfordshire was our base and a rental car left us without restrictions. The area was famous for thatch roof houses that numbered 111 by the kid’s count after our second day. We had a small hotel in Faringdon that was close to the massive hill that displayed the Chalk Horse. It was not until Stonehenge that the kids caught on to the marvel of it all. After that came Salisbury Cathedral and the wonderment of Avebury. Bath was a good lesson on Roman occupation with their thermal reservoirs and aqueducts. Their fun was when we returned to get to our car. I had parked within the double yellow lines and it was towed away. An hour to find out what happened and a sixty pound fine gave way to laughter on our way back to the hotel.
Our Quest was about to begin. Glastonbury gave the kids little inspiration as the ruins had little to say. Tintagel was much more magnificent with its seaside setting. To venture on to Land’s End was grandiose in itself but not to our youthful counterparts. Lacking their enthusiasm we returned to our Inn at Faringdon. Dining at the Haunch of Venison, I told the innkeeper we may go to London in the morrow. He said you may find an Englishman there.
None the less, I bought rail tickets for the journey. Neither of the children had been on a train. Upon arrival at the central terminal in London, we sought another first, to take the Underground to Big Bend and hear it chime. From there, “Let’s grab a taxi” for another maiden voyage to Buckingham Palace. There was an assembly of onlookers for an occasion we were not sure of but we could spare a few minutes. Soon passed exiting limos; one was a shielded Princess Margaret but next more regal than any – Nelson Mandela. He sat high and waved pointedly to all in his wake. We were all very touched by his presence, more so than any royal figure before or after him. At that, a Double-decker bus awaited us for a trip to the Tower of London. Given that place at another point in time, Nelson would have been in shackles where the gems of South Africa would bejewel some crown. To further exhaust our day we caught a taxi to Windsor Castle. Beyond those walls and gardens was our distant relative Princess Di. By the time we returned to our Portwell House in Faringdon we had to carry the children and tuck them into bed.
Wales was within our reach and its stretch of the English language seemed like a good lesson for the price of a day. Reaching the Welsh border was a landmark for our tour yet our rental car fizzled on the first curve of a rural road. The contact and rescue cost us a few hours waiting by the side of the road watching dairy cows. It was not such a bad break. Our rescuer, the rental car bloke, got us back to the hotel with an entertaining demure and arranged for a new vehicle to follow.
The next day was slow to get rolling but I had another mission. Years before, maybe twenty or more, my first trip to England led me by Bodiam Castle to the southwest of London. With its fairy tale motif, I thought my daughter would love it. A long day’s journey brought us there with a few hours of daylight remaining. Rushed, I took Katrina to the top of one of the majestic towers above the expansive moat. There I pointed to the ducks swimming below. With a massive twenty pence curled in my index finger, I cut it loose with a wild throw. Quack-quack echoed from below as the victim flapped across the murky water. Katrina swatted at the air between us to shame my deed and our laugh echoed all around.
The day was about to end when I asked the kids if they had enough of all this history and culture. An innocent grin came forth. An area guide showed a beach resort within an hours drive. The yeah’s were very resounding at such a thought. We all needed two days poolside and some beach combing. Given such a choice at eleven, I would have opted to frolic than have a history lesson.

Stanford

Life is. There are components that bring us to a point where we are. I doubt if I can express the impact of all such trivial encounters.
Work has always given me substance within those I come upon. In my teenage years, horse farms gave me gas money for hard work well done. Whatever you do there is always someone older and wiser. That encompassed most everyone in my youth in varying degrees of magnitude. At fifteen or sixteen I did not give much outward credence to the older set but held such thoughts close to my chest. At Brown Valley Farms, Stanford was much older than his years, all of which encompassed the menial tasks I was performing without deliberation. Mucking stalls and hauling hay posed no social redemption or redeeming value. Stanford was steadfast and diligent. He was always there and dealt with each task in a serious manner. My teenage frivolity gave him many moments to peer over his glasses and shake his head in distaste. My cigarette smoking was a concern for him but then I had never witnessed a barn fire, but everything around you had a low flashpoint. Stanford always had a pouch of Red Man to chew. Though the spitting was gross he assured me that his accuracy would squelch the spark of my cigarette in the haymow. Good sense told me I should listen so he rolled me a chew and I slid it in-between my lower lip and gum. Wow, the burning lasted two days after a few seconds of the test. After that, he chuckled each time he rolled a cud, motioned an offer to me, and I shuddered. He probably cracked a grin when he was alone with a chew.
One point of distinction was a medical problem with his left eye and a flesh-colored patch that covered the better part of his face. I did not question the cause, as that is just the way he was. One hot summer day we were working to clear bales of hay from the field. I was shocked to see blood coming from under his patch. It was probably the first time I touched him but I grabbed his shoulder and jabbed at that area of my face. He pulled out his red handkerchief, held it to his face, and walked back to the barn. Later we acted like nothing happened but it had. The next day I asked about his family. He had a sister in Ohio but he had not seen her since -- well he didn’t remember the last time. A few weeks later his old car wouldn’t start so I drove him home after the jump didn’t work. It was a one-room shack on a dirt road outside of Lakeville. The summer was winding down and in a few weeks, I was going to begin my junior year of high school. The hay was high in the barn and I told Stanford I was thinking about playing football so with practice and games I would only be around on weekends to help with the chores. With his grin and a nod, I knew it was okay. Most of what I said gave him exhilaration to either his past or things that should have been for him. That week, it may have been a Wednesday but Stanford was not at work. On Friday the boss asked if I had seen him. This was scary as Stanford was always there. I finished our work and left early, drove to that shack, and pounded desperately on the door. Forever passed but he opened the door to say he should be back on Monday.

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.