Riding the rails

 

I know Brig, Switzerland only through a train window, only at night. Three times I have stopped there, entering and leaving Italy through the Semplon Pass, the route across the Alps developed by Napoleon. There my passport was checked, twice to make sure that I was fit for the ordered world of Switzerland, once to be welcomed to the relative chaos of Italy. All three times I was asleep upon arrival, waking because of the still silence. The window view was of serenity: empty platform, blue-cool glow from the station’s lights, dark silhouettes of the mountains looming beyond.

The Semplon Pass, the middle-of-the-night setting, the eerie silence – all mindful of a scene from a classic ‘40s film, perhaps a romantic comedy. My first Brig stop, in the late 1970s, would have worked well in such a film. It involved a girl I had met on the platform at Florence, where we both were waiting for the same north-bound train, she headed home to Basel while I was en route to Paris. Her name was Nelli and she had spent a couple of months in the United States and was eager to practice her English. I was simply eager.

My last stop in Brig was in 2010 when I was on my way from Milan to Paris, then, via the Chunnel, on to England for a Queen Mary voyage back to the U.S. It, too, featured a movie scene, but it was more film noir than romance. There was no Nelli, just a blood-curdling female scream in the middle of the night. When I had boarded around 11:30 p.m. I found I was sharing a sleeper compartment with an Italian businessman who was a regular between Padua and Paris. He warned me that there was a lot of theft on the train, and since I was in the lower berth, I should make sure the door was locked.

After our half-hour stop in Brig, I was soon asleep again. Then, about an hour into the Swiss Alps, I was awakened by the scream, followed, in English, by a female voice yelling “Stop, thief. You, get out.” We could hear commotion in the corridor. Opting for caution, my compartment mate and I decided against opening the door to find out what was going on.

After a few minutes, and some animated chatter (in Italian) from the intruder and the conductor, it was determined that the woman had failed to lock her door, and another traveler, sleepily making his way back to his bed from the restroom, had mistakenly entered her compartment. Film noir comedy, perhaps.

I began my train traveling in earnest in 1972, in Europe. There were memorable rail episodes in Germany, in Norway and France and Spain. And, years later, in Australia and Mexico and the United States. There were friendly, fascinating travel companions. Spectacular scenery, high Alps to Australian Outback desert and Mexico’s Barrancas del Cobre. Unexpected adventures, including witnessing a fistfight at a station in the Peloponnese and watching a troublemaker handcuffed on an Amtrak train in South Carolina. And I learned on three trips in Italy that dealing with rail lines in that country is always an adventure.

Since that 1972 journey, rail has been my favored way of getting from Point A to Point B, for many of the same reasons it has been favored by movie-makers: Diverse groups can be thrown together in a confined space; border crossings present opportunities for drama; interest builds easily as protagonists move farther and farther away from the familiar.

Too, there are more mundane advantages: relaxation as someone else takes care of propelling you; the discovery of exotic cultures and locales; the sleep-inducing rhythm of the rails. And there is the excitement of heading into the unknown, a pleasure that can be made better at night when everything is in the abstract, lit only partially, mysterious shadows hiding pleasure and/or danger.

Early in my first foray to Europe, I discovered that I could sleep on overnight trains, saving the cost of a room. At that time most European trains featured compartments with bench seats that had room for three – if you were the only occupant there was plenty of space to stretch out and sleep. So it’s 11 p.m. and you’re in Hamburg and there’s a train leaving for Vienna, due to arrive at 8 a.m.? Perfect, if you can find a compartment with plenty of space.

But sometimes sleep was secondary to the adventure. Once, I shared a compartment on a train to Copenhagen with a Frenchman, a French Canadian, a Dane, and two Germans, one from Hanover, the other from Munich. We were all in our mid-20s. The Canadian spoke French and English, the Dane German and English as well as his native language. We talked through the night, learning a lot about life in each others’ country – and about the nuances of language when the Hanover German said that he could understand the Dane’s native language easier than his countryman’s Bavarian dialect.

A couple of years later, preparing to depart Munich after Octoberfest, I got to talking with a young German, obviously hung over from the beery festivities, who was headed home to Ulm, a relatively short distance away. I pointed out to him that the train on the next platform was the Ulm express and we were on a train headed to Stuttgart. He said he knew that, but he did not have a ticket and would be thrown off the train at its first stop, which was Ulm. “This way,” he said with a grin, “I do not have to pay.”

In Norway, leaving Bergen on an over-nighter for Hamberg, I shared a compartment with a young man from California. He was headed home to settle things up so he could return to Norway and his new girlfriend. I heard all about her, as he talked the entire night. She was beautiful, he told me dozens of times. So beautiful, he said, that he didn’t even care that she didn’t shave her legs. Realizing that no comment from me was needed, I finally drifted off to sleep as he kept talking. I don’t know if he ever slept or not.

On another over-nighter, in Spain this time, from Barcelona to Malaga, I found myself in a compartment with a second American, a just-married Spanish couple, and a young Moroccan. The American had a guitar and initially there was a song or two. But the newlyweds were only interested in each other and the Moroccan was only interested in impressing the two Americans.

He had learned his English, he said, from American servicemen in his home country. That explained his use of the basest profanity. He had been to Italy to buy a Vespa, which was in the baggage car: “A Vespa is important in my country – I will be big with the girls.” Finally, I escaped to the platform between cars, hanging out the window and enjoying the views of the Mediterranean coast, of the inland desert. Come night, while the Moroccan was in the dining car, we made the seats into beds and prepared for sleep. He returned to find himself assigned to the top bunk above the Spanish couple.

At some point, about 2 a.m., I was awakened as the Moroccan began yelling at the newlyweds. It seems they were whispering to each other and keeping him awake. He went for the conductor, who then guided him out into the corridor; soon his yelling became fainter as they moved down the train. The rest of us went back to sleep.

The next morning, at a small stop called Chaparral, one of the train’s engines broke down. We sat around under a tree until a replacement could be brought in. Our Moroccan showed up while we waited, chipper toward everyone except the Spanish couple. I asked him where he had been. He looked disgustedly at the conductor a few yards away, and said that he had been forced to join his Vespa in the baggage car. And, to our relief, that’s where he rode for the rest of the trip.

But Mexico, high in the Sierra Madre Occidental, was the site of my most memorable train experience. I was traveling with photographer Skeeter Hagler from Chihuahua to Los Mochis, on the Gulf of California side of Mexico. The trip is famous with tourists as it crosses the mountains above the Barrancas del Cobre – the Copper Canyon. The canyon is in area larger than the north American Grand Canyon. It is also home to Tarahumara Indians, famous for their long-distance running and their peyote-centered religion.

The trip is scheduled for about 12 hours, but often takes 14 or 15. There are stops with spectacular views into the canyon, but there are also unscheduled delays. So, about midnight we had just begun our descent from the heights when there was a stop at a small village. Skeeter and I were in the last car, and I was hanging out at the very back with a drunk native. Periodically, his friend the conductor would admonish him to be quiet, to sit down, to quit causing trouble. He would look at me and laugh.

When we stopped, the conductor exited the car at the other end with his signal light. And the drunk exited at our end to relieve himself. After a couple of minutes I glanced toward the conductor and saw him waving the light that meant we were ready to continue. I alerted my “friend”. My voice got the conductor’s attention, and when he saw what was going on he started yelling at the drunk, who just laughed. As the train started slowly moving, he finished his business and started running for the train. I reached down, grabbed his arm and pulled him aboard.

“Gracias, amigo,” he said with a grin as the conductor began marching him back down the car. Looking into the canyon I could see the faraway lights of Tarahumara fires, only then realizing that if my “friend” had been stronger, I could be tumbling down the mountain toward them.

When I told Skeeter, who had been sleeping, he shook his head. “That would have made a great picture,” he said. Or, in retrospect, a great opening scene for a movie.

Chasing Aphrodite

 

Miami in 1972

New York City journalism had recently experienced a major upheaval with many of the dailies closing, sending dozens of staffers heading south for jobs in Florida. Many landed at the Herald, adding to what was already a diverse group of wily veterans, including a refugee or two from pre-Castro Havana.

There was Gene Miller, two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for investigative work. When he was present, his loud and dogged phone interviews dominated the newsroom.

At the other end of the spectrum was demure Edna Buchanan, her appearance belying her skill with grisly stories from the police beat; and Jay Maeder, whose laconic demeanor masked a rapier wit which eventually found fruition in a column.

Jim Dance, a talented and eccentric editorial writer, was a fellow native of southern Appalachia. He was from Middlesboro, Ky.

Then there was Ben Hunt, a Brit who had been declared persona non grata in Ian Smith’s Rhodesia for refusing to vote, a requirement for all white residents. He had worked for papers in London, Johannesburg, and Toronto.

It was an interesting mix, making for an interesting publication.

At that time, South Beach wasn’t exactly seedy, but it was years removed from today’s glitz. The atmosphere was traditional beach-boardwalk. A Coney Island habitué would have felt at home – and many of them did.

The south end of the beach gave way to a greyhound-racing track. Many of its patrons were regulars at a bar/restaurant a half block away. The Turf was dark and smoky, an escape from the sun, sand and surf a short walk away. It was close enough to the Herald via MacArthur Causeway that it became one of our regular dinner-break spots. Our usual waitress was a Brooklyn escapee with an accent that was thicker than the burgers.

Another favorite, within walkiing distance of the Herald on Biscayne Boulevard, was the Lobo Lounge, a place that could have been a mainstay of many Brooklyn neighborhoods.

Most often after work, we headed to the North Dade Athletic Club, where the only athletic equipment was a pool table. The hours were the main attraction – as a private club ($5 to join), it stayed open until 3 a.m.

The Herald building was on Biscayne Bay, which meant spectacular views from the east-facing windows. We could watch the seaplanes of Chalk Airlines as they landed on the water. Or the Goodyear blimp, tethered next door to the Chalk facility on Watson Island.  A bit farther south, there were usually several cruise ships tied up at the Port of Miami pier.

That was 40 years ago, and now, in May 2010, I’m beginning a two-month journey to Cyprus, birthplace of Aphrodite, by returning to Miami, where I’ll be boarding one of the successors to those ships. But I’ll be checking out the old Herald neighborhood before sailing. I’m sure my favorite views have changed, my old haunts have disappeared, the tropical funk replaced by sparkle and glamour. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to seeing Miami again.

Return to Miami

In South Georgia, on Interstate 75 for Florida and Miami, billboards dominate the terrain, touting pecans, peaches, and peanuts. Closer to Tifton, just beyond the sign boosting the “historic”  downtown, spa advertisements take over – there is Lucky Spa, No. 1 Spa, Tokyo Spa (Truckers Welcome). South Georgia is, it appears, about more than fruit and nuts.
Across the state line, roadside scenery quickly changes. North Florida apparently has stricter rules when it comes to billboards. They are there, but not in such numbers. Real estate, a classic Florida sell, is available, at least until horse country starts. Then the interstate cuts through expensive terrain, home to thoroughbred horses and their moneyed owners. Billboards aren’t as welcome.
Ocala  comes and goes as a fierce thunderstorm hits, then it’s the tollway heading east, horse culture giving way to Mouse culture as Orlando looms. I skirt Disney country to the south, leaving its tourist attractions to those more enamored  of rodents and their fascist creators than I am. Back into desolate agriculture country, finally leaving the turnpike for a room in Okeechobee.
The next morning, I head east for Interstate 95, making contact in Palm Beach County at rush hour. Just before 8 a.m. two guys in a convertible speed around me, top down, golf clubs filling up the back seat. This is the Florida I remember.
On the outskirts of Miami, I get off I-95 in favor of Biscayne Boulevard. Little River, where I briefly lived before leaving Miami, is now a Caribbean enclave, a Little Haiti with its bright colors, street-front food vendors and storefronts blaring reggae – or on one occasion, Aretha Franklin. But the seeming prosperity is only evident for a couple of blocks; empty buildings and caved-in roofs speak to a desperate poverty only a few steps off the main drag.
Right onto 36th Street (not easy as Biscayne is torn up with a construction project), to see what remains of the North Dade Athletic Club. There’s the building, sadly boarded up and graffiti-splattered. Not surprising, as the joint’s heyday was 30 years ago.
On to downtown, where new high rises crowd Biscayne Bay. The Herald is still where it was when I worked there – but part of the building is rented to a school. Across the McArthur Causeway to South Beach. No dogtrack, no Turf Bar, just sleek, airy
hipster hangouts instead. But the pedestrian traffic seems to be the same mix, enough weathered retirees that have called it home for decades to offset the young, not-yet-weathered sun worshippers.
And just south of the causeway, tied up at the Port of Miami, is my ship, the Jewel of the Seas. Time to ditch the car and board the boat.
As the ship slips through Governor’s Cut, South Beach to the left, Miami is spectacular in the rear-view mirror, like most cities: beautiful from a distance, not so much from street level. Miami is a tropical metropolis, sunny funkiness edging toward heat-induced rot.

 

At Sea

The last time I was on board a boat out of Miami, it was a 12-foot Sunfish, property of a fellow Miami Herald employee named Dave Finley. It was my first adventure on a sailboat, and it ended with the Sunfish on its side in the Atlantic off Key Biscayne, Finley and I thrashing around trying to right it as a Coast Guard Albatross circled overhead. We finally got it upright, clambored aboard, and returned to the safety of Biscayne Bay.
The Jewel of the Seas is a bit more of a boat – a cruise ship of the Royal Caribbean line, a gleaming, massive party vessel with a full casino, a theater, several restaurants and bars, two swimming pools, a library, resident acts ranging from magic to musical, and, not to be discounted, two ping-pong tables.
The passengers, headed for Harwich, England, with stops in Bermuda, Lisbon, and Brugge, number about 3,000. Judging from their destination-tagged t-shirts and tote bags, they are a well-traveled bunch: All the expected  Caribbean locations, plus the Falklands, Cape Horn, K2 Pakistan, the Black Sea. When a destination is featured on a t-shirt, it’s no longer remote no matter how far away it may seem.
The British seem to be in the majority, many headed home after South Florida vacations. Out of Miami, weather hot and humid, the outdoor pool is popular, tanners catching the rays. The poolside tableau – when its members were several decades younger – could have starred in an R. Crumb fantasy.
The first few days, before we head north into cooler weather, the pool is the center  of organized activity, with line-dance lessons, bean-bag toss, a putting contest, and the World Male Belly-Flop Championship. The last garners much attention when a female, helped by libations from the Pool Bar, insists on entering, fully clothed. She competes, but loses out to a big-bellied Scotsman.
My dining tablemates – Peggy, Sandy, and Rosa – are all cruise veterans and, natives of the New Orleans area, not easily fooled when it comes to eats. Even as we critique what Royal Caribbean is serving up, we are talking about the best of the Crescent City. I learn to always insist on unwashed oysters (saltier and tastier); that in real Italian households, tomato sauce is called “red  gravy;” and that the best bread pudding is found at the Red Maple in Gretna.
On Mother’s Day, we land in Bermuda, though many are disappointed because downtown Hamilton and its shopping is closed, it being Sunday.
After eight hours ashore, it is back at sea – five days until Lisbon. As we are farther north, it is generally too chilly for poolside activity, though the solarium pool is still available for the serious water sportsmen. So the two ping-pong tables, wind-protected in the verandah, start drawing crowds. As I takie my morning tea at 7:30, I can watch ping-pong. There are even formal-wear games. (Several evenings are designated for formal wear – I do not participate, but am startled one night by a huge Scotsman in tux and kilt, a sight not soon forgotten.)
One of the appeals of a cruise is that it can be an escape. You are among folks that you never have to see again; you can participate in belly-flop competitions in anonymity; you can spend hours in the casino without anyone (except your banker) knowing about it; you can take the stage on amateur night and pretend you’re on American Idol. And, like the man in the kilt, dress however you want.
One Brit, bald and in his 50s, favors an all-red outfit. His sleeveless shirt, mid-calf pants (they used to be called pedal-pushers), and matching Keds wouldn’t be acceptable in any London office, even on casual Friday.
Finally, Lisbon looms. I sign up for a shore excursion to a national park and fishing village south of the city. There is a stop at the Fonseca winery, where I discover that one of their products is an old undergraduate favorite, Lancers. On the tour, Most-Obnoxious title goes to a couple who insist on loudly arguing with each other in the middle of our guide’s commentary.
The coastal scenery is spectacular, wildflowers in bloom, blue sea below. The tortuous cliffside roads make me think of those short States-side news stories: 56 die when bus plunges down Portuguese mountainside. Fortunately, our driver is experienced, his bus in top shape.
Back on board, next stop Brugge. I haven’t been there, but I have spent a lot of time in Brussels and am way too familiar with Belgian chocolate, so I am looking forward to laying in a supply to get me across Europe.
And I want to see the Michaelangelo sculpture housed in the Church of Our Lady. The sculpture, Madonna at Bruge, is reason enough to visit Belgium. Because it’s in a church and not a museum, there is no crowd; I can spend as much time as I want admiring the work of a master.
There is also success on the chocolate front – I pick up a kilo (I would get more but I know it will melt before I get to Greece), and head back to the ship. Our next stop is Harwich, then a short train ride to London, a taxi trip across the city to St. Pancras Station for the EuroStar, the luxurious “Chunnel” train that connects London and Paris in less than two hours.
Another taxi-ride, this time across Paris, Gare de Nord to Gare de Bercy, and an overnight train to Milano. As I’ve done in the past, I wake up in the middle of the night and peer out the window at the quiet Brig train station at the Simplon Pass, a last bit of Swiss calm before Italian anarchy. A few hours later, I am awakened by the conductor announcing Milano.

 

Italy and the Adriatic

The Milano train station at  6 a.m. is quiet, and my train for Bari, a primary port on the Adriatic Sea, doesn’t leave until 7:35. So I find a spot to sit. Unfortunately, the only place I can find is Smokers’ Corner, so I periodically have to put up with tobacco, the Indians’ Revenge.
As rush hour approaches, the station starts to get busy and I move to where I can see the schedule to find out the platform where I’ll board. I notice a black man, carrying a large plastic bag, as he keeps traipsing around a circle of his own making. Then he puts down his bag, next to a light pole, and goes back to his circling. By now there are a lot of commuters coming and going.
Suddenly the black man starts hollering as he walks, his comments in a dialect that only he understands. The other schedule watchers start watching him as well. A passing policeman, typical of Italian officialdom, studiously ignores him.
Finally, my train shows up on the schedule and I make my way to Platform 12. I’m in seat 54, car 2. I find car 2, but its seat numbers stop at 32. So I plop down in the nearest empty seat and stow my bags overhead.
As we pull out, four train officials claim the spots across the aisle and another passenger, also unable to find his reserved seat, questions them. They wave him off – “Don’t  bother us with your problem.” I stay put since the car is not crowded and plenty of seats are available.
But as we get closer to Bologna, the train gains more commuters at each stop. I have to move twice as passengers claim my seat. At least I’m able to stay in the vicinity of my bags so I don’t have to pull them down and then put them somewhere else.
East of Bologna the crowd thins as we speed through vineyards toward the Adriatic. At Ancona, we turn south and head down the coast. The towns are beach escapes, some with sleek new resort hotels, others with older, funkier facilities. Blue sky, blue sea, palms swaying in the breeze – interesting ride, until all the towns start to blur together.
I’m scheduled to catch a 10 p.m. ferry at Bari, an overnighter for Patras, Greece, with stops in Corfu and Igoumenitsa. The train is scheduled to arrive at Bari at 3:35 p.m. We make it at about 6, during a downpour. I’m beginning to understand the contention that Mussolini was popular in Italy solely because he made the trains run on time. And I’m glad I’ve got until 10 p.m.
At the port, I don’t have to worry with Italian officialdom – there isn’t any. Nor signs. But there are a large number of wet motorcyclists, apparently together and heading for Patras, too. With the help of the ferry folks, I find my way to customs and the ship. Pulling my bag, dodging puddles and tractor-trailer trucks pulling up into the boat, I make it aboard and am shown my room.
The facilities are nice, much better than I expected for a ferry. But, I soon discover, the smokers have the run of the ship, and most of the bikers are smokers. The bikers, male and female, are Harley-Davidson riders, sporting gear with home club information on the back. They are from Poland, Sweden, Slovakia, Germany, Denmark.
In the dining room cafeteria line, I opt for pastitsia, the Greek pasta casserole, and a salad. The servings are huge. Not paying attention to signage, I sit down in a section marked “Welcome Truckers” and soon find myself in conversation with a German driver from Hanover on his way to Kalamata, Greece, with a load of furniture. Our neighbors are two Dutch drivers and five guys from Romania. All have massive plates of fries that they cover with massive amounts of mayonnaise. The bikers display similar culinary tastes.
The German speaks fair English, and translates for the other guys, all of whom speak
some German. I ask why they drive through Italy and take the ferry across instead of traveling through the Balkans. The answer is quick – it’s less expensive because they don’t have to stop every 100 kilometers and pay a bribe, which they tell me is the norm through the Balkans.
When the others return to their fries and mayo, the German confides that he only makes this run about once a month, that he’s old enough to retire. Then, with a wink, he adds, “I have reasons not to stay at home.”
After the German takes his bottle of wine and retires, and the bikers get heavily into their cigarettes and Carlsbergs, I return to my stateroom and hit the sack, sleeping through Corfu and Igoumenitsa and only waking as we maneuver into port at Patras the next morning. Three days and three countries, by train and by boat.

Run to Olympia

I don’t plan to spend much time in Patras – basically I want to get to the station and catch the train for Olympia, about 100 miles south. Olympia is the site of the ancient Olympics, described in the travel literature as an idyllic glade surrounding the ruins of the games’ facilities.
It’s also well off the beaten track. From Patras, the rail route is to Pyrgos, a center of the farming community that comprises this part of the Pelopennese. There’s a train change at Pyrgos for the short trip inland to the site where athletes competed  every four years for more than 11 centuries.
As I make my way to the Patras station, a few hundred yards from the ferry dock, I notice that my Harley friends have been joined by scores of their buddies. There are motorcycles everywhere. Then I find that the last train to Olympia – there are three daily – departed  at 11:30 a.m. It’s now about 3 p.m. Next train is tomorrow at 6 a.m., with the second at 9.
I walk out of the station, pulling and carrying my luggage as I dodge Harleys and cross the street. Luckily, there is a vacancy at the first hotel I walk into, the Astir, a large, well-kept edifice that looks to have been built in the 1930s.
Tomorrow, Saturday, will be the day for my Olympic run. Later, exploring, I discover that Patras is hosting a Europe-wide Harley-Davidson rally. The riders number in the thousands and they dominate the city. Greek kids are mesmerized by the big bikes, some of the more adventuresome clamboring aboard for photos. I don’t see any get caught by bike owners, most of whom I’m sure would not be amused.
The next day, I catch the 9 a.m. for Olympia. There are three cars. We ramble out of Patras, through a trackside slum that seems to be occupied mostly by black Africans. Next is an intensely cultivated agriculture area. There are expanses of olive trees, with citrus trees interspersed, fields of tomatoes and melons and cucumbers, and, of course, vineyards. The towns are small and clustered around tiny train stations. The only roads are dirt.
Finally, we reach Pyrgos and I get off for the short hop to Olympia. This time, there are only two cars. Besides a couple of Greeks who apparently have gone into Pyrgos for supplies, the only other passengers are a Dutch couple.
The train stops wherever  the Pelopennese want to get on or off, whether there is a station or not. The driver seems to know his passengers and where they want to disembark. He stops at one dirt track to pick up a woman and her child, then lets them off at the next road, maybe a quarter mile away. No one ever asks her for a ticket.
At another crossing, he stops to trade jokes with two acquaintances, who amble over from their back yard, and then continues. This train is truly a local.
Finally, Olympia. By this point the Dutch couple are my only fellow passengers. The town is tourist-oriented, but still quiet and quaint, only four or five blocks long, with residences arrayed around a hill overlooking the commercial district.
The ruins and accompanying museum are a short walk away, occupying space between two streams. The museum contains several true masterpieces, in a country where such relics are commonly unearthed. And yet it is uncrowded, though several busloads of tourists are present. I will appreciate my time here later when I’ve been hurried and harried through Athens museums.
Outside are the remains of the gymnasium, the stadium, the baths, and the temple of Zeus (original home of one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the sculptor Phidias’ statue of the god), as well as a dozen or so other buildings. One was Phidias’s workshop. There, archeologists unearthed a cup that is inscribed, “I belong to Phidias.”
An Olympian thunderstorm cuts short my visit and I return to the museum, taking shelter in its garden.
Time is short, and I return to the train station, where I’m soon joined by my Dutch friends. The two-car train returns to Pyrgos in the post-storm sunshine and I’m faced with two hours before the train back to Patras.
During the wait, I realize that no matter how exotic the locale might seem, Saturday afternoon in small towns is the same everywhere. The quiet is broken only by songbirds and church bells as everyone rests up for Saturday night.
On the trip to Patras, we pass groups of families and neighbors gathered in back yards alongside the dirt roads and the train tracks, tables and chairs pulled out in yards, games of backgammon and cards contested by adults, soccer balls being kicked by children.
Later, back in the middle of the bikers at Patras, I enjoy dinner at a taverna on the pedestrian walkway that dominates the downtown area, watching the motorcyclists as they posture and puff on cigars. A Harley club from Athens has taken over a nearby group of tables. It is dominated by two older men with much-younger female companions, females who have the appearance of being expensive to maintain, much like their chrome chargers.
The next day, as the bikes stream out and as the city cleans up from its busy and noisy weekend, I head to the train station, Athens-bound.

On to Athens

The journey to Athens begins by rail, four or five cars headed northeast out of Patras toward Corinth. To the right are hillsides covered by vineyards or grayish-leaved olive trees with citrus interspersed, deep green leaves speckled with bright orange or yellow fruit. To the left are steep drops to the Ionian Sea, the occasional sienna-tiled house perched on a cliff side. Soon, the spectacular Rion-Antirion Bridge looms ahead, spanning the Gulf of Corinth to the mountains of Sterea Erada.
But the great Grecian transformation for the 2004 Olympic Games is still under way six years later, and the tracks end in a jumble of construction material midway to Corinth. We transfer to a bus, with seats that are more comfortable and air conditioning that is more effective.
Our bus ride ends after about an hour when we are discharged at a new rail station. There is no train, and the rail personnel disappear into their own quarters, leaving the rest of us to mill around on the platform. Two fellow passengers quickly distinguish themselves.
The first is a middle-aged man who takes exception to something a male teen has said or done and begins yelling at him. There is pushing and shoving. A passenger informs the railroad officials, who come out of their office and watch, apparently interested. But they do nothing. Finally, the man disappears, still yelling.
A few minutes later another teen, at the other end of the platform, becomes belligerent toward the woman with whom he is sharing a bench. He finally stalks off. Later, on the train, he will again create a scene, this time with his girlfriend. He is a brawl looking for a place to happen, and everyone tries to ignore him.
On the outskirts of Athens, a middle-aged man and a student-aged girl sit down across from me. The man, speaking passable English, proceeds in academic terms to regale the student with his views on mobile-phone use. The Greek woman sitting next to me, who is carrying on a conversation via her mobile phone, has apparently reminded him of a pet communications peeve.
He doesn’t approve of cell-phone use. The talker can’t understand his English and is too engaged in her conversation to pay any attention: Communication about a communication theory in the face of communication reality.
Finally, Athens station, surprisingly small. A short taxi ride and I am at the Cecil Hotel, one of those old European stops with a small entry way almost hidden between street-level shops. The elevator is an ancient cage model, suitable for a role in a 1930s Hitchcock movie.
But the room is clean and comfortable, and the Cecil perfectly located for my purposes, only a couple of blocks from the bustling Monastiraki square and, in the other direction, Omonia. The Agora is within walking distance, as are a major flea market, the city’s main fresh-food market, and Psiri, site of restaurants, nightclubs, and, I will discover, some of the more unsavory aspects of big-metropolis life.
After I tour the neighborhood (and lay in a supply of the excellent chocolates sold at Anassa), I make arrangements to join a bus tour that will culminate with the National Archeological Museum and the Acropolis. Neither disappoints.
The hill, despite the onslaught of tourists, the babble of guides explaining in a myriad of languages, the restoration work off to one side, dwarfs everything I’ve seen so far on this trip – even the hundreds of Harley-Davidsons at Patras. Simple, classic lines trump chromed excess.
The entry walkway to the museum features glass flooring revealing the active archeological digs below. Inside, it’s masterpiece after masterpiece. But one area stands out because it is empty – the space reserved for the return of the Elgin Marbles from London’s British Museum, source of friction between the two countries for decades.
The next evening I find a concert at Monastiraki Square, a six-piece brass band, its middle-aged members in black pants and white shirts, a horn case set out for donations. A crowd gathers, and an unexpected vocalist joins in – a large white mixed-breed dog sings along with the saxophone player. He’s a hit.
A Romani woman circulates through the crowd with her hand out, implying that she is collecting for the band members. The tuba player confronts her and a loud argument ensues. The show obviously over, audience members disperse after dropping a few euros into the horn case. And the vocalist wanders over to the edge of the square and stretches out in his usual spot, saving his voice for the next show.
The next day I discover an excellent taverna on tiny Iroon Square. After a memorable lunch (fresh fish with a sauce full of sweet peppers and tomatoes), I wander into Psiri, past homeless men sleeping on the porches of abandoned buildings. Just beyond a small church, I glance down at movement between two parked cars and see a junkie crouched on the curb, shooting up.
Early the next morning I go through Monastiraki, take a  quick tour of Hadrian’s Library, meet Hadrian’s three cats and his tortoise, and climb the hill toward an entrance to the Agora, onetime hangout of Socrates, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Paul and other ancient thinkers.
Along the way, on a quiet side street, is the office of the Melina Mercouri Foundation, the late actor’s organization to promote European arts and culture.
The Agora is peaceful, a true park of several acres stretching down the northeastern side of the Acropolis and home to another museum of splendid antiquities. Among the ancient Greek ruins is a quiet 11th-century Orthodox church tucked among old trees. But the gem of the park is the Hephaesteion, a temple from 400 BC, and one of the best-preserved edifices in Greece.
Atop a hill, it rises from surrounding greenery, a refuge in the chaotic world that is modern Athens. In fact, only a mile or so away, demonstrations have been taking place against Greece’s government and the austerity measures being implemented to help solve the country’s economic woes. Perhaps an ancient philosopher or two could help.
The few euros I’m spending aren’t going to make much difference, and it’s time to head for another country whose roots are in Mycenaean culture, Cyprus. But before my entries about the island of Aphrodite, I’ll report on a one-day detour to Cairo.

 

Westward ho

In the mid 1980s I worked at The Kansas City Star as editor of the Sunday magazine. Though I had lived and worked in the South – Knoxville, Miami, Charlotte, Louisville, Dallas – Kansas City was my first extensive experience in the Midwest. I worked with talented people and we produced some excellent work.
One of the more memorable stories we published was a thoughtful essay by Don Hoffmann, one of the newspaper’s arts writers. The coverline of the story was designed to grab the attention of the reader, and it did: Why Is Kansas City So Dull?
Hoffmann’s premise was simple – during the city’s founding years, it was a starting point, the jump-off place for those seeking their fortune to the west, adventurers heading out on the long journey to the Pacific Northwest, California, or the Southwest. Among the wagon-train trails that began in Kansas City were the Oregon, the Overland, and the Santa Fe. Those who settled in Kansas City had either tired of the journey west to an uncertain future or saw opportunity in service to those heading onto the Great Plains and what lay beyond.
Frequently, partly because of my own ignorance of, and interest in, that part of the country, our stories looked west, too. Jim Kindall re-traced the Pony Express routes. Brian Burns took the train west to Dodge City for an article that echoed that town’s storied past. Kindall explored Kansas’ Flint Hills, where nature created the grasslands that became fattening fodder for cattle driven north from Texas before they were shipped to the slaughterhouses of Omaha and Chicago.
But I didn’t explore much of the country myself, and after a year and a half, I moved to Atlanta.
So this past spring I decided it was time to take a look at the northwestern part of the U.S. – by automobile. I have friends in Boise, Idaho, in Bellingham, Washington, and in Santa Fe, New Mexico, so my plan included those stops. I would take the northern route to Vancouver, British Columbia, south to San Francisco, east across the Mojave, on to Santa Fe, then a dash across the Texas panhandle, Oklahoma, Arkansas and home. (When I lived in Dallas I had explored west Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, so those areas were not on my to-see list.)
The route I took to Kansas City was via Nashville, southwestern Kentucky, southern Illinois to St. Louis, then across Missouri to Kansas City. It was uneventful, though the river casinos were new from my last trek through those areas. At St. Charles, just west of St. Louis, a billboard-sized Debbie Reynolds invited me to a casino on the Missouri River.
The casinos and their headliners would become a point of interest; as I got into the western states, Indian-reservation gambling would dominate billboards. Upcoming headliners included Gary Puckett & the Union Gap, Anita Baker, Kenny Rogers, Slash, Rod Stewart – quite a lineup of old rockers.
In Kansas City, I checked out my former residence in an apartment building on the Plaza, the city’s famous and still-hopping residential, dining and shopping complex. Built in the 1920s, the Plaza is touted as the nation’s first planned shopping mall. The apartment building, the Cezanne, was still there.

The Cezanne

The Cezanne

Because of its proximity to a host of entertainment, it was one of the best places I ever lived. Besides convenience, the amenities of my first-floor apartment included spacious rooms and lots of storage. My next-door neighbors provided a regular Sunday-morning wakeup – with noisy sex.
Most of the restaurants and many of the retail establishments had changed – there was no sign of the sports bar I had frequented, a raucous joint that had been owned by former Royal Lou Piniella. But I found a substitute and had a quieter – and healthier – lunch than I would have had at my old haunt.
Another stop was Andre’s Confiseire Suisse, where I had been a regular customer. I loaded up with several favorites, enough to get me to the West Coast, and to my relief found that the elegant sweetshop is still in the family of Andre Boller, the native of Basel who founded the business with his wife Elsbeth in 1955.
After realizing that I had enough daylight to make it halfway across Nebraska, I headed northwest, past St. Joseph and on into Iowa. (I hadn’t noticed it before, but Missourians seemed to favor Catholic saints when it came to naming settlements.) I only caught a corner of Iowa before crossing the Missouri River into Nebraska. Deciding that Grand Island would work as the first overnight stop, I skirted Lincoln, though I did not escape the ubiquitous Cornhusker fanaticism.
But first I was startled from my interstate reverie by something looming over the highway in the distance. When I was close enough, I beheld the Great Platte River Road Archway, which spans Interstate 80. The city fathers at Kearney had come up with a way to bring their town to the attention of interstate travelers. Adorned with fanciful metal sculptures of winged horses at each end, it houses “two stories of interactive exhibitory.” That promise, as fanciful as the sculptures, was not enough – I kept driving.
Grand Island wasn’t memorable, except for the name. In a part of the country where any middling stream, no matter how small, is tagged as a “river,” an island that is truly “grand” seems out of the question.
Early the next morning, back on Interstate 80, I passed a motorcyclist being ticketed by a state trooper. I could not miss the biker; he was wearing neon-green leather to match his crotch rocket. A few miles on down the highway, he passed me. I was cruising at about 65 miles per hour, more interested in good mileage then making time, so the biker was not much above the speed limit when he went by.
My car is a hybrid Camry, with a gauge that keeps me informed as to my mileage. Usually, on the highway I get 43 or 44 miles per gallon, but I noticed that I was only getting about 37 or 38. When I next stopped for gas, I discovered why. The wind nearly knocked me down when I exited the car – I was driving into a formidable headwind, a phenomenon that would be constant through much of Nebraska, Wyoming and Idaho.
At the stop, about 50 miles east of where Interstate 76 split south for Denver, there was a large map on the wall. As I stood there looking at it, the biker walked up. “Can you show me where we are?” he wanted to know. I showed him, and then asked if that was him I had seen being ticketed several miles back. “Yeah, that was me,” he said. “He clocked me at 93 miles per hour.”
Then he said that he had left Lansing, Michigan, the morning before and had also gotten a speeding ticket in Illinois. After studying the map, he said he was hoping to make Las Vegas, via Denver, by nightfall. He was headed to a motorcycle show. With a little measuring we determined that he was more than a thousand miles away, and I pointed out that he was going to cross the Rockies. He added that he guessed he would have to slow down.
“Have you ever driven that way at night?” he wanted to know. I told him that it had been years ago, and, though he would be on an interstate, he would still be going through the mountains and that he would be crazy to push it. He looked resigned.
Outside, I noticed that he was riding a Kawasaki Ninja, frighteningly fast. I hope he made it.
I drove on to Sidney before stopping for lunch. Sidney, about 70 miles east of the Wyoming state line, is on the Pony Express route and on the old gold-rush trail to Deadwood as well.

Sidney memorial

Sidney memorial

There is a monument to the former, and much mention of the latter in the town’s commercial literature.
At the Buffalo Point Restaurant & Bar, my waitress was a leggy blonde, a real looker in bluejeans and cowboy boots. She told me her name was Dakota. I thought I was in a Bob Dylan song.
On to Cheyenne, then north on Interstate 25 toward Yellowstone, where I planned to spend some time. More winds across Wyoming, but not much of interest – smelly cattle feedlots and sparse grasslands. I did notice that the group responsible for keeping one section of the highway spruced was a local nudist club. And I spotted a couple of working cowboys driving a lone steer up a draw. They were riding ATVs.
In Casper, I spent the night in a motel a couple of blocks from the Dick Cheney Federal Building. The next morning I decided to leave the interstate and head west on U.S. 26, after being assured that it was a good road though there would be highway construction up in the mountains. A few miles out of town, I saw the first pronghorn antelope of the journey. Then it was mile after mile of pronghorn antelope as I drove through the Wind River Indian Reservation, shared by Shoshone and Arapaho.
At Crowheart Butte, site of a decisive battle between Crow Indians and a confederation of Shoshone and Bannock tribes, I stopped to stretch my legs and read up on the butte, which was surprisingly pronghorn-free. Then on into Dubois and a stop for gas. Next to me at the pumps was a booted cowboy pulling a horse trailer with two mounts aboard, both saddled and ready to ride. He was talking on his cellphone.
The highway started climbing outside Dubois; I was in the mountains. True to my advisor in Casper, I was soon stopped by construction. And it was a serious re-do of the road: one lane only, with traffic being led around massive earthmovers by a pilot truck. We took our turn waiting, then followed the truck through gravel and mud, for a couple of miles or so, before we were back on pavement and heading toward the western slope.
At Togwotee Pass, I got my first look at the Tetons, snow-covered and majestic in an area dotted with spectacular peaks. As I drove down toward Moran and Jackson, the Tetons provided a looming marker.

Storm aftermath

Storm aftermath

Then a quick-moving storm dropped over the top of the mountains and into the valley, moving east toward Togwotee and in my direction. At a pull-out I stopped for photos, joining a lone motorcyclist already there with his camera.
There was lightening just ahead of the cloud front and we both were trying to capture that ever-elusive element. The storm was moving a bit to our left – it looked as if we would be spared its brunt. Finally we gave up, though the biker said he got one image of lightening. I warned him about the upcoming construction over the mountains (he was heading east) and continued on down toward Jackson. At the next pull-out I stopped for more photos as the storm had left the air clear, the Tetons razor-sharp. As I turned back for my car, I noticed an incredible cloud formation, the back end of the storm, and got what will be my best photo of the trip.

The Tetons

The Tetons

Through the National Elk Reserve and into the town of Jackson, home to one of the West’s oldest and most famous ski resorts, Jackson Hole. The town square is dominated by arches built from antlers – and on the day I arrived, by a group of abortion protesters and law-enforcement officers insuring that the protest stayed peaceful. I found a room at the venerable Jackson Hole Lodge, facing the now bare slopes.
A stroll around the town revealed an appealing Old West ambiance, from the 1950s’ look of the Million Dollar Cowboy saloon to the luxurious Wort Hotel, with its bar inlaid with more than two thousand 1921 silver dollars. And there were those antler arches. This place could lead a younger person to ski bumdom. The desk clerk at the lodge later confirmed my impression, admitting that he had spent several years doing just that. “My little sister,” he added, “still spends most of her time on the slopes during the season.”
But there was no snow now, at least at the elevation of Jackson. But I found plenty when I re-traced my route and drove into Grand Tetons National Park and then Yellowstone.

Gotta travel on …

Travel writing has been around as long as travel — which is to say from the days when it first became possible to put ink to papyrus. Besides being called the “Father of History,” the Greek Herodotus has also been called the first travel writer. He was working from 480 to 425 B.C.

In those days, travel was truly adventure, and the travelers had to be fearless. Those we know about — and we only know about them because they wrote about what they did — were intrepid, adaptable, and curious.

They also didn’t have pressing duties that would keep them at home. The great Islamic traveler Ibn Battuta took 24 years on one of his voyages. He is estimated to have trekked more than 75,000 miles during the 14th century. And he wrote all about it.

The tradition continued through imperial England; many great novelists of the 18th and 19th centuries wrote non-fiction travel pieces as well. Jonathan Swift, Laurence Sterne, Lord Byron, Charles Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, D.H. Lawrence — all left colorful accounts of their travels.

And there were adventurers who were travelers first and writers second. They relished poking around the more remote corners of the world, enduring hardships and hostile inhabitants just because they were curious. This group included women who were not afraid to venture into places where solo females were looked upon with surprise if not disdain. Freya Stark, Isabella Bird, Mary Kingsley, Edith Durham — all wrote knowingly and brilliantly about their encounters in obscure corners of Africa, Europe, and Asia.

In today’s world, the actual logistics might not be as arduous, and the adventures might not be as hair-raising, but, for most of us, there is still much to be learned in the parts of the world that are foreign to our own. And that is the reason behind this blog entry, to set down my own thoughts about places I am headed or have been, and display photographs that I have taken. This is an attempt to explain my own wandering.

***

Except for occasional forays into the flatlands, my first 20 or so years were spent within the confines of East Tennessee, in the broad hill-and-range valley of the Tennessee River and its tributaries. The valley is hemmed between two arms of the Appalachians, the Cumberland Plateau on the west and the Great Smoky Mountains on the east. And hemmed it is, both topographically and culturally. As much as we like to think of our world as a small one — thanks to good roads, air travel, the Internet, television — it is still bound by topography.

The Smokies

The Smokies

Knoxville, the heart of the Tennessee Valley, is much more attuned to the urban areas up and down the valley than it is to the closer cities, Asheville or Nashville, on the other sides of the Smokies and the Plateau.

All this is by way of trying to explain how I came to be a traveler. I was born and reared in the confines of that valley, went to college there, worked for seven years with a newspaper there. But I have always been curious about the rest of the world. While in college, I made up a list of places and events I wanted to see and attend: Munich’s Oktoberfest, Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, Wimbledon’s tennis matches. I did not want to miss anything.

In the summer of 1972, after deciding it was time to set out, I quit my job, took my life savings and caught the cheapest flight to Europe, to Luxumbourg. I stayed until my money ran out. My last night was spent shivering in 32-degree temperatures on a church bench in the tiny German hamlet of Zweibrucken. The next day I reluctantly gave up, using my expired train pass to get back to Luxumbourg and my return ticket on the next flight back to the States. I didn’t want to return home (though I will admit to a hankering for a glass of iced tea and a real cheeseburger), but I leavened my disappointment with the certain knowledge that I would return to the road.

Though I boarded that initial Luxumbourg flight with considerable trepidation, my arrival in Europe went smoothly — the bus to Luxumbourg city was waiting at the airport and getting the train for Brussels was easy. But when I got off at the wrong one, I discovered that Brussels had more than a single, central train station. And it was late. Luckily I found the center of the city and a hotel. But I realized that Europe wasn’t the United States, that two years of high school French was of no help, and that I was alone and scared.

The next day brought a new dawn. The sense of adventure that sent me out overcame my fear, and I was roaming the city at an early hour. From then on, every day was a wonder. I bounced across Europe without worry. So what if I was in Bergen, Norway, at 11 at night and had no place to stay? Something would turn up. And it always did. I had made an important discovery. As long as I kept the ideal of adventure foremost, I could cope. Look on the moment’s occurrence with the wonder of discovery, and it can bring only excitement.

My adventures might be more mundane than the 19th-century trips explained by Philip Glazebrook in his book Journey to Kars: “The ordeal proved to the traveler that he possessed the qualities he had been taught to admire.” But they were adventures nevertheless, and the sense of accomplishment was real.

So I rode the rails north to Copenhagen and Goteburg and Oslo and Bergen. On my way back south to Heidelberg I noticed my scheduled arrival time was late and that my train’s final destination was Vienna at 8 o’clock the next morning; it would be better to arrive in Vienna early than in Heidelberg late. So I simply stayed on the train, incidentally saving the price of a room for the night.

Deciding I wanted to see Spain, I badgered a stationmaster in Zweibrucken into figuring out how to get me to Malaga (he managed, with a 60-hour trip incurring five train changes).

And along my crisscrossing way I heard American ex-patriot jazzman Dexter Gordon blowing his saxophone on a Copenhagen street corner; participated in Oostend, Belgium’s Slufferbal, a beery good-bye to the tourist season; and laughed with a young mortician as he shared tales of his trade in a London pub.

I had the first of two teary good-byes with a WAC friend in Zweibrucken (there has to be a reason to go to Zweibrucken). In Brussels, I got stuck in an elevator. In Paris, I was thrown out of Montparnasse cemetery for taking pictures.

Montparnasse, Paris 1972

Montparnasse, Paris 1972

In Lyons, I laughed with a Frenchman as, teetering from too much wine, he waved his handkerchief and sang “La Marseillaise” to two departing compatriots. At the Olympics in Munich, I stood by in anger and frustration as terrorists held Israeli athletes captive.

I feasted on just-picked wild blueberries in Myrdahl, Norway; looked on as an obnoxious and foolhardy young Moroc was thrown off a Spanish train after he complained about a noisy young couple; spent an entire morning at Chapparel, which consisted of one building, while a new engine was summoned for the same Spanish train.

There was a brief stop in the Swiss city of St. Gallen, which my ancestors had left on their great adventure to America in the 19th century.

Since that initial journey, true to my vow, I have returned to Europe seven times, and have traveled in the Soviet Union, Chile, Israel, Australia, Egypt, Cyprus, Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean. And the U.S., too.

I’ve stood on the shore of a roiling Angara River in Siberia as dawn broke, my reverie shattered by the clatter of a horse-drawn wagon and the good-natured shouts of its Buryat drivers. Hanging over the waist-high back door of the tail-end train car at midnight, high in Mexico’s Sierra Madre Occidental, I’ve peered down at the fires of the Tarahumara Indians twinkling on the floor of the Copper Canyon.

I’ve clambered halfway up Australia’s remote and humbling Ayers Rock. I’ve been stopped and examined at an Israeli military checkpoint beside the Dead Sea two weeks after that country’s 1983 invasion of Lebanon.

I’ve watched as a lone tuba player, the last standing member of his oompah band, tried beerily to keep up the music and the spirit of his position in an Octoberfest tent. I’ve traversed stretches of the Silk Road, following in the central-Asia footsteps of Marco Polo, and watched as a dust storm rolled over the oasis that was home to Timur the Lame in ancient Samarkand.

On the floor of the Grand Canyon, exhausted after a day negotiating the rapids of the Colorado River, I’ve been awakened by the braying of wild donkeys. In Australia, from my perch astride a camel, I’ve watched wallabies scamper out of the way as we ambled around a desolate island. In Ralun, Chile, I’ve trusted a horse to get me through the fog-besotted low-tide flats of a fiord. I’ve been overwhelmed by another kind of horsepower on the starting grid of the 24 Heures du Mans, actor Paul Newman in his Porsche only a few feet away.

But I haven’t yet been to Wimbledon, or Mardi Gras, or seen the Himalayas from either the Nepalese or Tibetan side. And I haven’t reveled at Rio’s Carnival, or played chemin de fer at Monte Carlo, or watched the foolhardy tempt the bulls at Pamplona with their rolled-up newspapers. And I still don’t want to miss anything.

Miami in 1972

    I worked at The Miami Herald in the mid 1970s, the newspaper my introduction to big-time journalism, Miami my first foray into big-city life. The Herald then was fat with pages and news and ambition.  Besides several metro-Miami editions, there were a half-dozen aimed at different sections of the state, plus two for Latin America that were flown each night to Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Caracas.

New York City journalism had recently experienced a major upheaval with many of the dailies closing, sending dozens of staffers heading south for jobs in Florida. Many landed at the Herald, adding to what was already a diverse group of wily veterans, including a refugee or two from pre-Castro Havana.

There was Gene Miller, two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for investigative work. When he was present, his loud and dogged phone interviews dominated the newsroom.

At the other end of the spectrum was demure Edna Buchanan, her appearance belying her skill with grisly stories from the police beat; and Jay Maeder, whose laconic demeanor masked a rapier wit which eventually found fruition in a column.

Jim Dance, a talented and eccentric editorial writer, was a fellow native of southern Appalachia. He was from Middlesboro, Ky.

Then there was Ben Hunt, a Brit who had been declared persona non grata in Ian Smith’s Rhodesia for refusing to vote, a requirement for all white residents. He had worked for papers in London, Johannesburg, and Toronto.

It was an interesting mix, making for an interesting publication.

At that time, South Beach wasn’t exactly seedy, but it was years removed from today’s glitz. The atmosphere was traditional beach-boardwalk. A Coney Island habitué would have felt at home – and many of them did.

The south end of the beach gave way to a greyhound-racing track. Many of its patrons were regulars at a bar/restaurant a half block away. The Turf was dark and smoky, an escape from the sun, sand and surf a short walk away. It was close enough to the Herald via MacArthur Causeway that it became one of our regular dinner-break spots. Our usual waitress was a Brooklyn escapee with an accent that was thicker than the burgers.

Another favorite, within walkiing distance of the Herald on Biscayne Boulevard, was the Lobo Lounge, a place that could have been a mainstay of many Brooklyn neighborhoods.

Most often after work, we headed to the North Dade Athletic Club, where the only athletic equipment was a pool table. The hours were the main attraction – as a private club ($5 to join), it stayed open until 3 a.m.

The Herald building was on Biscayne Bay, which meant spectacular views from the east-facing windows. We could watch the seaplanes of Chalk Airlines as they landed on the water. Or the Goodyear blimp, tethered next door to the Chalk facility on Watson Island.  A bit farther south, there were usually several cruise ships tied up at the Port of Miami pier.

That was 40 years ago, and now, in May 2010, I’m beginning a two-month journey by returning to Miami, where I’ll be boarding one of the successors to those ships. But I’ll be checking out the old Herald neighborhood before sailing. I’m sure my favorite views have changed, my old haunts have disappeared, the tropical funk replaced by sparkle and glamour. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to seeing Miami again.

Sex in the park

September 29, 2011
Wildlife photographer Jim Bennett and I traveled to Cataloochee, a remote valley on the North Carolina side of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Our object was not so much to commune with nature as to be voyeurs. There is an elk herd in Cataloochee and this is rutting season, when the bulls gather in the meadows to claim their cows and then mate with them.
The viewing spots are limited – much of the area surrounding the meadows is forested and, until they head out of the woods in late afternoon, dangerously occupied by large, horned animals in rut. So we chose a weekday, when there would be fewer two-legged, camera-armed animals jostling for sightlines.
The bulls are heard before they are seen, bellowing periodically from the woods to announce their presence to the cows and other bulls. The sound – usually compared to a bugle call – is surprisingly high-pitched. Jim described it as the sound an 800-pound mouse might make.
The elk, acclimated though they are to the valley’s tourists, keep to their own schedule, and we realized that we had arrived early. So we shot pictures of wild turkeys until the thickening road dust kicked up by vehicles indicated more arrivals.

Lord of his realm -- Photo by Jim Bennett

Lord of his realm — Photo by Jim Bennett

We claimed a spot at the end of one meadow, set up chairs, got out sandwiches and listened. After a few minutes a bull obliged, bugling from the woods. But he didn’t draw any cows – just more watchers. Soon, the side of the field was thick with picnickers sitting in folding chairs, cameras at the ready.
Finally, the bull nonchalantly walked out of the trees as if he had been waiting for the theater to fill before making his entrance. He was adorned by a magnificent rack – obviously a veteran of many ruts. He skirted the edge of the field, headed in the direction where we had seen cows grazing earlier. But at the far end, where trees lined a small stream, he paused, acting as if he was more interested in grazing than sex. Then he headed back the way he had come, staying in the shadows and making photography difficult.
We decided to go down to the next field, in the direction of the cows. There we saw the reason for his hesitation – another big-horned bull had claimed the females. We joined the audience there, Jim finding space for his telephoto-equipped camera. Soon the small area was crowded, dominated by one naturalist and his heavy, tripod-mounted professional-looking video outfit.
The bull took no notice. He kept trying to climb aboard the cows – without success. Coy, they moved out of reach whenever he got too close. Occasionally he would manage to briefly mount before they slipped away.
The audience found this amusing, uttering appropriate comments along the lines of “not now, I’ve got a headache”.
Periodically, a young bull would slip out of the woods and move toward the cows. But the old master would have none of that, chasing him back to cover.
The audience, frustrated by the lack of action, began clamoring for the other contender to cross the stream into our bull’s territory for some horn-clanging battle. The mood was one of “If we can’t have sex, we want combat.”
I went back up to the other field to see what the holdup was. And found our other bugler lying down, apparently bored with the entire scenario. Soon, as the sun slipped behind the trees, a park ranger told us that, late as it was, there would probably not be anything else happening.
The elk, I guess, wanted that big weekend audience for their performance.