Thursday, March 28, 2024

Birthday surprises


Hear that whine?  That continuing whine over the years, as I tiresomely complain that my far-flung family members so rarely visit Seattle?  

Well, that whine settled down to a purr this past weekend, as I reached yet another in a succession of scary birthdays.  I had known for months that my sister planned to visit me for my birthday, much as good-hearted women have always visited the sick and the lonely and the bereaved.

And she arrived five days before my birthday, for a week's stay.  Her travel from central Idaho was not without incident, however, as her new car was crushed by a falling boulder not long after leaving her house.  Repairs would take days, if not weeks.  Luckily, the repair shop already had custody of her youngest son's ancient car, awaiting a new suspension system.  Yes, she could exchange cars, her son agreed, and so she engaged the manual clutch and lurched and bounded across two mountain ranges like a character in a jalopy in a 1930s cartoon.  

But she arrived safely, if somewhat dizzy and showing signs of shock.

That was on Wednesday.  So we had good times, good conversations, some hiking in nearby parks, some eating at Seattle restaurants.  And I awaited a quiet but enjoyable birthday celebration a deux

Then on Sunday, I awoke from a brief afternoon nap to hear voices downstairs.  I thought that either my sister was on the phone, or we had been visited by a mutual Seattle friend.  I arrived in the living room, and saw the back of a head on the sofa, a head that was quite unlike that of the female friend.  I cautiously walked into the room and -- it was my brother!  A brother who doesn't do all that much travel out of California.  He had flown up from Palm Springs, just for the occasion.  I was stunned and delighted.  We all three went out to dinner at a very good neighborhood Italian restaurant.  (Yes, the lasagna was excellent.)

The next day, Monday, my birthday, the three of us were chatting in the living room, in preparation for a dinner at a very good seafood restaurant overlooking Puget Sound.  I had been half expecting our Seattle friend to join us -- if not for dinner, at least to wish me a Happy Birthday -- so I wasn't surprised when I heard a loud knocking on the door.  I was surprised, however, when I opened the door.  There, grin on his face, stood my oldest nephew, up from San Francisco.  He had expected to join us the day before, but there had been mechanical problems with the flight from San Francisco, and he had departed a day late.  

I now understood the number of changes that kept being made at my sister's request to the number of guests on the dinner reservation -- changes that had been attributed to supposed questions as to whether our Seattle friend was able to attend.  Instead, both my nephew and his father, himself a resident of Seattle, joined the three of us.

The dinner was topped off with a birthday cake my sister had brought with her, which was put on a plate and  served for a mere $20 restaurant "corkage" fee.  Well worth it.  And I think there were five candles on the cake -- I was grateful that the full actual number were not displayed, which would, in fact, probably have violated local fire code regulations.

So it was one of the best birthdays I've had in years.  And it would have been so, even if we had done nothing but gathered together at my house and talked.  

You just can't beat a family get-together, regardless of the pretext.  Especially when you live isolated in the "Northwest Corner."



Wednesday, March 20, 2024

Septdecennial

 

Yes, today is the seventeenth anniversary of my first blog post.  On March 20, 2007, after several hours fiddling around with setting up a blog, I posted:

Ok, my friend. Now that you've spent too much time deciding how this blog page should appear esthetically, and even more time deciding how best to present to the indifferent world an idealized description of your ever-important Self, you really might want to decide what it is you're going to write about. Don't you think?

Gosh and golly ... I stare off into space ... and await inspiration.

After 1,580 posts, I still find myself at times asking myself the same question.

In calendar year 2023, I posted 52 times -- the worst showing in all of my seventeen years.  I can't explain it, even though it was the end result of a three-year downward trend.  I just hope it was, in fact, the "end" and that things will be looking up in the future

As for this past year, I'll follow last year's example and not provide a "most popular" list.  The constant activity of robots scanning blogs now makes those figures somewhat meaningless. 

I do have a few personal favorites, but this year those almost all were related to my personal travels, not to issues of general interest.  I'll try to be more generally appealing in the year to come.

 

Thursday, March 14, 2024

Friends again with my trusty bike



 

The photo above shows my road bike when it was still young and bright and shiny.  It was used to illustrate a short essay that I posted in June 2008, when I was considering joining a friend in a group ride across the wilds of Darkest Iowa.  My friend did it; I seem to have chickened out.

In my essay, while still pondering the Iowa boondoggle, I considered some preparation:

Ok, I'll dust my little friend off this weekend, fill his tires up (I see they've gone flat) and oil his chain, haul him upstairs, and take him out for a spin.

That was pretty much the last time that I gave my bike much attention; it has sat brooding in the basement, its spirits and its tires deflated, until now.

Today, I pushed it, deflated tires and all, some three or four blocks to the bike shop.  They will give it a careful examination -- cleaning, lubing, tightening -- as well as inflating the tires.  They will do this for only $90, unless the tires prove no longer sound enough to be safe for driving.  With new tubes, they would add another $70 to the bill.

I should have it back in my hands by tomorrow afternoon.  My test ride of an e-bike last Friday convinced me that the biking we plan for the Loire Valley in May will neither injure nor irritate my arthritic knee.  But it also showed me that my leg muscles -- those used for pedaling rather than walking  -- have been disused for too long.  They need a work out.

And that's what I plan to give them between now and May.  With my old pal, the road bike.  Who was already perking up at the attention I gave it before taking it to the bike shop.  He'll be beaming with happiness, like a puppy coming home from a kennel, all shiny and polished, when I go to pick him up tomorrow.

Me and my bike.  A team!

Monday, March 11, 2024

St. John Passion


On Saturday -- half way through Lent, and just three weeks before the Easter weekend -- I attended the performance by the Seattle Symphony, joined by the Symphony's Chorale, of the St. John Passion by J. S. Bach.

The work was  played by an orchestra considerable larger than would have been used in Bach's time -- a fairly full orchestra and a large chorale, with four soloists.  The Passion was sung in German with easily readable super titles provding an English translation projected high above the stage.

More so than do most concert pieces, even those with a religious theme, the St. John Passion tends to arouse actual devotional emotions in the audience, or at least it did so in me.

I was totally unfamiliar with the work; so far as I can recall, I had never heard it even from recordings.  The performance lasted for two hours, with a twenty-minute intermission.  As the title suggests, the "plot" follows the story of Christ's arrest, trial, crucifixion, and burial, as related in chapters 18 and 19 of St. John's Gospel.  The gospel is presented in sung recitative, with the voices of the major characters -- e.g., Jesus, Pilate, Peter -- sung by soloists.  

Most of us are well familiar with the gospel reading --  John ch. 18-19 is the traditional reading for Good Friday services.  But Bach's Passion goes beyond the words of the gospel, interspersing arias and choruses suggesting the proper emotional response from the congregation/audience,  and exhorting us to prayers of thanksgiving and of devotion.  Most stirring, perhaps, are the numerous chorales sung by the full chorus, based on Lutheran hymns familiar to Bach's original German audiences.

The music of at least one short chorale "Jesu Leiden, Pein und Tod" seemed clearly familiar to me, or at least reminiscent of a similar-sounding hymn.

A very full house in Benaroya Hall, with a larger than usual number of receptive children and teens in attendance with their parents.  I myself am sorry that I'd never heard this work by Bach before.  If I have the chance to attend another performance some day, I'll definitely do so.

The gospel story ends with Christ's body being sealed in the tomb.

Rest well, you blessed limbs,
now I will no longer mourn you,
rest well and bring me also to peace!
The grave that is allotted to you
and encloses no further suffering,
opens heaven for me and closes off Hell.
I left the auditorium looking forward to Easter morning. 

Sunday, March 10, 2024

Getting prepared


As discussed in my last post, I fly to France in May to join friends on an e-bike ride down the Loire river valley.  I leave Seattle on May 10, spend three nights in Paris, and then take the train to Orléans on May 14.  My seat will first touch the saddle after breakfast on May 15.

May 15, which is just over two months from now.

In my February 26 post, about two weeks ago, I sounded more convinced than I actually felt that the arthritis in my right knee would not trouble my biking.  Even biking of twenty miles a day.  I recalled  that last August, when the arthritis was still less a problem than was my left ankle Achilles tendinitis, I seemed to do fine biking ten miles a day for two days.

But in France, I'll be biking an average of 21 miles per day, with one day requiring 29 miles.

I needed some evidence that my confidence was not unfounded.  And so, on Friday I conducted an experiment.  I rented an e-bike from my neighborhood bicycle shop, and connected to the nearby Burke-Gilman bike trail, which parallels the west side of Lake Washington up to its northern tip.  My goal was to bike from my house to the small town of Lake Forest Park, a total of eleven miles.  With the return trip, I would have biked 22 miles, approximating the average daily ride required in France.

I didn't achieve that goal.  I turned around at the 6.5-mile mark, for a total of 13 miles.  But my knee (and my left Achilles tendon, as well) did great.  I had no pain in either location while biking, or that evening after biking, or the next day.  I met my Waterloo at 6.5 miles, not because of my knee/ankle concerns, but because of a very sore butt!

The rental e-bike came equipped with a very narrow, hard-surfaced saddle, which became increasingly uncomfortable on my un-calloused rear-end.  Also, I was wearing street clothes, just a pair of jeans.  I think I can handle the seat problem with a pair of padded biking shorts, together with a substituted padded saddle.  Plus a little more time acclimating to the experience.

Even more unsettling, although it didn't occur to me until the end of the ride, was the fact that my thigh muscles weren't used to prolonged peddling.  I haven't biked for years, and my daily walks have been severely shortened because of my knee problem.. By the next morning, it was difficult to walk when I first got out of bed, and painful the entire day.  By today, the second day after my ride, that pain has pretty well disappeared.  But I have to be ready to ride six consecutive days in France, so I obviously need to get in better shape.

I have a standard road bike that I haven't used for several years, but that seems to be in good condition.  Except the tires have gone flat with time.  Once the tires are pumped up, I plan to spend some time riding it around the neighborhood, just enough to leave me with a little discomfort in my thighs after each ride.  I've prepared for similar rides in the past -- although not since 2007 -- and had no difficulty being prepared by the time of the group ride.

But I'll be careful,  My nephew and I joined a group bike ride in China in 1998.  One of the members of our group lived not far from my home in Seattle.  He didn't appear for the trip, but his wife did.  Her husband apparently had been preparing for the ride conscientiously, with daily rides on Seattle streets.  At some point, disaster struck and he was thrown from his bike.  No permanent damage, but a severe enough injury to prevent him from joining our China trip.

I'll pretty much stick to bike trail rides, but even there something can always go wrong.  But life is full of risks.  As we like to tell folks scared of flying, their greater danger will be an auto accident on the way to the airport.

Further reports in the future, as events warrant.

Monday, February 26, 2024

Biking down the Loire


It's been two months since I last complained in this my blog about being afflicted by the one-two punch of  tendinitis in my left Achilles tendon and arthritis in my right knee.  Don't assume that my silence means that these afflictions have gone away like magic.  Or that I'm no longer suffering from all the disruption to my favorite activities that they cause.

Actually, the tendinitis is considerably improved, and I have hopes that the tendon and related muscles are gradually healing.  The arthritis, however, .... well, arthritis doesn't really "get better," so far as I know.  Most sources say that the best you can do is to slow down the degeneration until you either pass on to a better and less painful world, or pay for an artificial knee.  I'm nowhere ready for the latter, and hopefully am not looking at a near approach of the former.

These problems, taken together, kept me from taking part in a pre-paid  hike with friends in Scotland last August.  But, as reported to you, I nevertheless joined the group and traveled by baggage van each day, joining the hikers when they arrived at each day's target town.  

Except for two days, when I stayed with the group on a bicycle.  A bicycle.

I found that bike riding bothered neither my tendinitis nor my arthritis.  Unfortunately, the remaining days of the hike were over terrain too rough -- at least in my estimation -- to make for comfortable biking.

But now we come to 2024.  Same fellow hikers.  But this year we are planning to be fellow bikers.  My university friend Jim is an untiring biker, and has taken part in weeks-long group rides throughout the U.S.A. -- including one ride from the east coast to the west coast.  

So Jim has organized a bike ride through the chateau-infested Loire Valley in France, two and a half months from now in May.   As with our past hikes in Britain, he is working through an organization that arranges each night's accommodations, as well as provides maps and tour descriptions.  They also arrange for bike rentals.

We will be a group of seven.  Two of us -- Jim and his brother John -- are purists who will ride conventional road bikes.  The rest of us will ride e-bikes.  The entire group will ride from Orléans to Tours.  After a day's rest in Tours, the two hardy brothers will continue on to Nantes near the coast, and then south to La Rochelle.  The rest of us will return to Paris from Tours, and then home.

The ride as far as Tours is rated as "Easy."  We will be biking six days on mainly level terrain, with daily miles ranging from eight to 29 miles, averaging out to about 21 miles per day.

We plan to spend four days before the ride in Paris, training for the ride by consuming ample provisions of truffles, cassoulet, bouillabaisse, and coq au vin -- washed down with hearty French wines. 

 Getting to bed by 1 a.m.

Should be great. Wish me luck!

Wednesday, February 21, 2024

Chicago adventure


The whistle blew twice.  Exactly on time, at 4:55 p.m., Amtrak's Empire Builder moved slowly out of King Street station, plunged immediately into the tunnel beneath the streets of downtown Seattle, and emerged minutes later into early twilight along the shore of Elliot Bay.  I settled back in my roomette, smiling contentedly.  In forty-six hours I'd arrive in Chicago.

Hey, knock it off.  You're just giving the readers a quick summary of last week's trip.  You're not writing a lousy novel!

OK, OK.  I'll summarize.  It was dark by the time we reached Everett where the train turned right, heading east.  I had dinner (Atlantic Salmon) in the diner at 7:15 p.m.,  and was sound asleep in my bed long before we reached Spokane.  The section of the train arriving from Portland was hooked onto our train in Spokane, but -- as in my last trip on the Empire Builder in 2009 -- I slept soundly through the process.

I awoke at a predawn stop and several inches of snow in Whitefish, Montana.  I pulled on some clothes and enjoyed a few minutes outside the train in the crisp mountain air before proceeding to the diner for a French toast breakfast.  Altogether, Amtrak served me two breakfasts, two lunches, and two dinners -- all included in the ticket price.  The train proved unusually uncrowded --- maybe only half the roomettes and bedrooms were occupied.  

We crossed the Rockies just south of Glacier National Park, and then glided across the vast, flat, snowy expanse of eastern Montana and North Dakota.  The second morning, we pulled into St. Paul, Minnesota, by which time we were beyond the snows of the prairies, and headed southward uneventfully to Union Station in Chicago, arriving fifteen minutes early at 4:30 p.m.

The final trip of my three-year Chicago-by-Amtrak trifecta had been completed -- California Zephyr in 2022, Southwest Chief in 2023, and now the Empire Builder.  

I have a strange attraction for long distance railway travel, obviously -- at least when I can do it in sleeper accommodations -- but I was excited to arrive in Chicago.  My friends Jim and Dorothy had taken a Greyhound up from West Lafayette, Indiana, and had arrived at their (and my) hotel on Wacker Drive about two hours before my arrival.  Rather than hunt around for the station's inconvenient Uber stop, I decided to take an available cab to the hotel.  Bad Decision.  The cab was unmetered, and the fare for a ten-minute ride was a shocking $56.  (It would have been $12 by Uber.)  Be warned.

We had arrived Tuesday evening.  On Wednesday, we took an interurban Metra train from Union Station to suburban Aurora.  Aurora may be a suburb of Chicago, but it is also the second largest city in Illinois, and is full of theaters and other activities devoted to the arts.

We attended an excellent performance of the Billy Elliot musical -- unexpectedly good dancing by the thirteen-year-old star, good singing and acting by all, and very good production values in general.  

On Thursday, we visited the Chicago Museum of American Writing.  It's a little difficult to imagine how you could make a museum of writing, but it was done well, and I walked away feeling like I'd had a quick refresher course in American Literature.

Dorothy then went off exploring on her own, and Jim and I took a rail transit -- after some absurd walking around in circles attempting to find the station -- to the south shore and the Museum of Science and Industry.  After caffeinating ourselves in the museum cafeteria, we spent all our museum time exploring the exhibit of the German U-505, captured by the U.S. Navy during World War II.  The first capture of an enemy ship in battle since 1813. 

It wasn't easy to capture a German sub.  It would have been far easier to simply blow it out of the water.  But extensive planning had gone into the capture of this submarine, forcing the crew to abandon the ship before they had time to successfully set the explosive charges that would have scuttled it.  The capture gave us valuable information about German technology -- not only the ship itself but a large number of documents and cryptology information, including an Enigma decoder.

I enjoyed most the museum's documentary exhibits in the corridors leading to the ship itself -- which seemed huge from the outside -- but we also toured the interior of the sub itself, giving me a gut appreciation of what it would have been like to find myself cooped up with a large number of fellow crew in what was actually a very small tube, while depth charges were going off all around us.  Not fun.

We all got back together for dinner, and then walked to a nearby theater where we saw a stage production of Highway Patrol -- a three person cast in a play about the heartbreak of fake identities on the internet.

Then, the next morning, we bid each other farewell -- Jim and Dorothy returning to Union Station for their Greyhound ride south, and I taking the CTA to O'Hare airport for my Alaska Airline flight to Seattle.

A lot of fun, and enjoyable adventures with two enjoyable friends.  I'm ready for more travel.  But then -- when am I not?

--------------------------------------

Photo -- Train stop at Whitefish, Montana.

Saturday, February 10, 2024

Travel to Chicago. Blog visits from Singapore


Just a brief notice that I leave Seattle tomorrow, on Amtrak's Empire Builder, and will arrive in Chicago Tuesday afternoon.  I'm meeting my friends Jim and Dorothy, who are coming all the way up from West Lafayette, Indiana, to hang out with me.  We plan to see a couple of theater performances during my visit -- Chicago being in the midst of its annual theater festival.

I'll return to Seattle by plane Friday afternoon.

While I'm away from Seattle and from my blog, I'd like to ask the person or persons or organization -- or whoever you are -- in Singapore who has been visiting this blog repeatedly during the past three weeks to explain what on earth he, she, they, it is doing.

The last two hours have been typical -- about sixty visits.

I love being visited, but it's a  little disturbing when the visits are spaced evenly throughout all 24 hours of each day, every day for three weeks.  The total so far is something like 9,160 visits -- compared with a typical 545 from the USA during the same period.

  

Friday, February 2, 2024

Cuppa Java?


When I was a kid, my home town had a doughnut shop that I frequented on occasion.  I could get a large, tasty doughnut for just five cents.  I remember noting in passing that a cup of coffee to wash it down would have been another five cents.  Not that I ever bought coffee.

I tasted my mother's coffee once or twice, and was nauseated by the taste.  I was 23 before I began sipping an occasional cup of coffee -- to stay awake, in lieu of  my usual No-Doz tablets.  Finally I walked up to a fast food counter and ordered a cup.  I don't remember what I paid for it.  More than five cents, I'm sure, but not much more.

What I do know is that I now pay $4.91, including sales tax, for a cup of Starbucks coffee.  An article in this week's The Economist persuades me that I'll be paying much more in the years to come.

As is so often the case, nowadays, the villain is Global Warming.  Coffee -- especially Coffea arabica, by far the most popular species today -- is fussy about the temperature zones in which it grows.  Studies quoted by the article indicate that by the end of this century, depending on how much warmer it gets, between 35 and 77 percent of today's coffee-growing cropland will be unsuitable for growing Arabica coffee.  Even by 2050, the unsuitable cropland will be between 43 and 58 percent.

Of course, certain cooler lands now unsuitable for coffee will then become suitable because of Global Warming, but maps included in the article show that those newly suitable lands will be far fewer than those lost.

Several remedies are suggested, all of which present problems.  Another species, Coffea rubica, is sturdier and less dependent on a narrow range of temperatures.  But Rubica coffee doesn't have as appealing a taste, and is used at present mainly for instant coffee.  For consumers like me, who drink coffee primarily as a hot drink, and secondarily for caffeine, this probably won't be a problem.  But many or most coffee drinkers are more discriminating when it comes to taste.  By analogy, some of us may also drink jug wine, but many others gladly pay large premiums for high quality wine.

Coffee agriculturalists are examining other lesser known species.  Coffea affinis and Coffea stenophylla, both rare and both found primarily in Sierra Leone, have pleasant flavors, and are less dependent on cooler temperatures than either Arabica or Rubica.  Another possible candidate is Coffea dewevrei, commonly known as Excelsa, a species with a good flavor, that was once grown extensively in the Congo region, but in 1931 fell prey to disease, wiping out many growers.

All of these alternatives show promise, but each presents its own difficulties which would have to be dealt with by coffee growers.  The article seemed cautiously optimistic that one or more solutions would be found, and that coffee would continue to be drunk by future generations.

I, myself, of course, will drink almost any liquid that is hot and black.  Coffee drinkers like me, however, aren't the consumers that concern growers and roasters of coffee in today's world.  It's that fellow ahead of you in line at Starbucks, the one who demands to know in which part of Sumatra his coffee was grown, who offers both the challenge and the rewards to tomorrow's coffee industry.

Tuesday, January 30, 2024

"Please. Enough with the cawing."

 

We get plenty of crows in my neighborhood.  I suppose they infest most Seattle neighborhoods.  I posted an essay back in 2018, describing the existence of a gigantic crows' roost in Bothell, at the north end of Lake Washington.  Every day, crows spread out from that roost to all parts of Seattle, seeking food and entertainment.

This morning, I was awakened from my daydreaming or reading or whatever I was doing by a clamor of crow-calls near the front of my house.  I ignored it for a while.  Crows flock together, and tend to get disturbed and/or excited by all sorts of things.  A stray piece of bubble gum on the street.  A small animal.  Years ago, they held an extremely loud crow funeral in front of my house for a dead compatriot whose body I found lying on the ground.

Crows are intelligent, and at times seem almost human.  For better or worse.

But today's uproar, though not quite as frenetic as that crow funeral, was very loud and showed no signs of easing off.  I looked out the window, and saw masses of crows circling my front yard, with others coming from around the neighborhood to join in the excitement.  They continued circling, but at first I couldn't see what their problem might be.  No dead or dying fellow crow.  No small morsel of food.  

I have a medium sized tree in the middle of the yard that they seemed to be circling, occasionally swerving closely to its bare branches. 

And then I saw it.  Or should I say "him"?  My black cat Castor had found a cozy spot to cuddle against the tree limbs, about half way to the top.  He was curled up, and seemingly unconcerned by the uproar he was causing.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.  "Hey, hey, hey!" I exclaimed authoritatively.  Castor ignored me, of course, but, worse, so did the crows.  I guess I finally got on their nerves, however, because, gradually, by twos and threes, they began leaving the area, flying to other trees in the neighborhood.

Castor remained serene.  He made no attempt to jump into my arms, exclaiming, "Oh, master, thank you for saving me.  It was so horrible!"  My cats aren't exactly like that.

I went inside.  Fifteen minutes later, Castor ambled in through the cat door and suggested that a small snack might be in order.  The crows weren't mentioned, and I knew better than to ask.

My cats like to chew on small birds, but I doubt they'd attack a bird as large and gregarious as a crow.  Especially when they gather as a gang.  I do understand, however, that cats and crows sometimes get friendly enough to play together.  Or at least the crows play.

Why do crows and ravens like to harass other animals for no obvious benefit (biting at tails, especially in pairs)?

While it can be a form of territorial aggression, like many intelligent animals, crows and ravens play just for the fun of it.

--Quota

Castor was not upset by this form of "play."  But he was not amused.

Friday, January 26, 2024

So long, old pal


It's been seven weeks since I bought a "new" car.  "So what?" you ask.  People buy new cars all the time.  

But I had not bought a "new" car in 21 years.  And it had been a "new" car, the quotation marks meaning new for me, but well broken in by others.  It was a 1996 Toyota Corolla, and it had been driven by many people over its first five years, because it had been owned by a rental car company.

It served me well for the next 21 years.  But, like all of us, age takes its toll.  Its mileage was still low for its age, and its engine still worked well.  But problems were beginning to accumulate, and I had shown little interest in maintaining its cosmetic welfare.

So it was time.

I bought another "used car" -- I guess now we use the kinder term "previously owned car."  Another Corolla.  I bought it from a Toyota dealer, so it was spiffed up and looked totally new to my undiscerning eye.  Most important, I knew where to find all the various bells and whistles one needs to use while driving -- when it starts raining, for example, I don't have to fumble around trying to remember where the windshield wipers control is located.  

And my neighbors fully endorse my purchase.  Not having the old 1996 model parked in my driveway probably caused a leap in property values throughout the neighborhood.  Several neighbors have congratulated me, with joy in their eyes.

But still -- you develop a relationship over 21 years.  I didn't try to trade the old car in.  Not after having gotten an on-line estimate of its minimal trade-in value.  Instead, I donated it to a charity.  It's as dignified and respectful an end of our relationship as I could manage.

Still, if you've ever had to take an aged pet to the veterinarian for euthanasia, you know how I felt as I watched my old friend being loaded onto a tow truck.  We'd been through a lot, and it had performed well.  Its deficiencies in its old age were more a matter of my lack of care than of any inherent flaw in the car itself.  To continue my analogy, if you don't take your cat in for its annual shots, eventually your lack of "maintenance" is going to catch up with you.  And with the cat.

But the old Corolla never criticized me.  It served me cheerfully and as well as its age and maintenance allowed.  It smiled bravely as I signed over the title documents, and the tow truck machinery pulled it up onto the back.

The driver was kind of a tough looking guy, and I didn't have the nerve to hug my old friend and kiss him goodbye.  But I know he appreciated that I would miss him,  I only hope they find a good new owner for him.  Maybe a teenager, with little money, but with all the enthusiasm of first car ownership, who will give him the care he now needs?

I hate to think of his becoming an involuntary organ donor.

Thursday, January 25, 2024

Sephardic Judaism in Seattle


"Sephardic Jews" is a term that had echoed in my mind for a number of years, but it wasn't really until I read André Aciman's memoir, Out of Egypt, that I had developed a feeling for who these people were and -- to a lesser extent -- how they differed from the (to me) more familiar Ashkenazi Jews. 

Aciman grew up in Alexandria, Egypt, in a large, prosperous Sephardic Jewish family, a family well integrated into Alexandria society until they were expelled from Egypt by the nationalistic government when the boy was 14.

In his memoir, Aciman explains that Sephardic Jews were descendants of the Jews who had been expelled from Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492.  They ended up in various parts of the Mediterranean, some in Italy, many throughout what was then the Ottoman Empire, which, at the time, included Egypt.  Their language was a form of Spanish, closer to fifteenth century Spanish -- called Ladino -- that had over time picked up bits of vocabulary and variations in pronunciation from the ethnic groups with whom they had associated, in the Ottoman Empire or elsewhere. 

I later learned more about the community of Sephardic Jews in the memoir of Leon Sciaky, Farewell to Salonica.  Leon grew up in the Ottoman city of Salonica (today Thessaloniki, in Greece).  His memoir emphasizes the extent to which Salonica (like Alexandria) was a highly cosmopolitan city under the Ottomans, and how he grew up with close friends in all ethnic groups in the city.  His closest friend during his teen years was Shukri, an ethnic Turk.  Leon moved to the United States in his early 20s, as the less tolerant Greeks took over Salonica from the surprisingly tolerant Turks.  

After his move, Leon contrasted the vibrant acceptance of new ideas in America with the stagnant conservatism of Ottoman society.  But he also looked back with fondness on the closeness of friendships and the peace and quiet of his Ottoman childhood, the rituals of hospitality that were more than rituals.

I mention these two books as an introduction to my impressions of a lecture I attended last night at the University of Washington.  It was the third in a series presented by the History Department, focusing this year not on ancient or medieval history, but on various areas of interest in the history of Seattle and the Pacific Northwest.  Yesterday's lecture focused on the history of the Sephardic Jewish community in Seattle, and was delivered by an excellent speaker, Professor Devin E Naar, who received his history doctorate from Stanford in 2011.

In his hour and a half of allotted time, Dr. Naar discussed a number of topics related to the Jewish community -- emphasizing that Seattle has always had the second largest percentage of Sephardic Jews in its population of any American city, second only to New York.  His lecture was accompanied by his presentation of useful and persuasive visual displays on the screen behind him, including copies of early twentieth century articles from Jewish New York newspapers that had reported in detail problems and achievements of the growing Seattle Sephardic population. These articles demonstrate the close continuing relationship between the New York and Seattle Sephardic communities in those years.

A large portion of Dr. Naar's lecture related to the difficulties all Jews, but especially Sephardic Jews, had in immigrating to America and in obtaining citizenship once they had immigrated.  Jews in general were described as dangerous scum by some of the more extreme haters.  Beginning in the 1920s, up until 1964, America had a quota system designed to maintain through selective immigration the same proportion of ethnic groups as had existed in the late nineteenth century.  Thus British and Scandinavian citizens had a tremendous advantage over other groups in moving to this country.  Certain of today's politicians would have felt very comfortable with the arguments that were made about which ethnic groups were desirable, and which were not.  While Ashkenazi Jews could squeak through the immigration quota by describing themselves as Germans or French, Sephardic Jews -- despite their fifteenth century Spanish origin -- were often barred as "Turks" by immigration authorities.

From a Seattleite's perspective, some of the most interesting parts of the lecture were descriptions of the areas of the city, block by block, where the Sephardic community had settled -- in a portion of the International District -- cheek to jowl with blocks occupied by other ethnic communities (Chinese, Blacks, Japanese, Ashkenazi Jews). All of these minority groups were barred from residing in much of the city through use of enforceable restrictive covenants in property deeds.  Despite these barriers, they nevertheless often became successful small businessmen, restaurant owners, and so forth, often owning well-known businesses to whose original owners' background we never give much thought.

Congratulations to Dr. Naar and to the History Department for presentation, in an all-too-short lecture, new insights into an unrecognized aspect of Seattle's history, and discussing some distressing issues, transcending Judaism, that still burden our political debates at present.  Next Wednesday's lecture will discuss Seattle's relationships with people from Russia and the USSR.

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Photo: Professor Naar

Thursday, January 18, 2024

Italy: January dreaming


It was the adverbs that did me in.  The adverbs that caused me to flunk out of the Duolingo on-line Italian study program.  Not the meaning of the adverbs, but their positioning.

I had finally figured out anche ("also").  At least for Duolingo's purposes, just put it at the beginning of the sentence.  But it was spesso ("often") that gave me problems, and then sempre ("always") that finally did me in.  I couldn't remember whether to put it before or after the verb.  "I always work," or "I work always."  I'm pretty sure now it's the latter, but my mind kept boggling.  And still does. 

Actually, I didn't flunk out.  But I finally received enough demerits that I was told I'd have to pay to continue, or at least to continue with all the symbols of merit I had received to that point.  I'll  just start over -- not caring about my medals of merit -- and I'm sure they'll start me out at the place I left off.  Worrying once more about sempre.   

The fact I even signed up is remarkable.  I took three terms of Intensive Italian in college, two of them while in Italy itself.  It didn't stick.  It didn't stick despite all the visits I've made to Italy since college, including my visits to Lake Como the past three years.  One problem is that Italians are so fluent in English now.  At least, those Italians that I'm apt to talk to as a mindless American tourist.

But I love Italy, and am constantly drawn back.  As I've mentioned, I plan to return to Lake Como again this August.  I've been re-reading -- browsing through, mainly -- Frances Mayes's Under the Tuscan Sun, her account of the efforts, by herself and her husband, to renovate as a summer home a dilapidated stone house outside Cortona in southern Tuscany, near the border with Umbria.

Of course, I'd never renovate a house myself.  Not after reading the months of work Frances and Ed put into their own project, as well as reading similar accounts by other expatriate writers, British and American.  I'm too lazy.  But if I had the money, I'd gladly pay workers to do all the work, while I moseyed around getting in their way.  If I had the money, I'd gladly buy a house -- such as the one I stay in each year at Lake Como -- that someone else had renovated, with modern wiring and plumbing, while preserving in its entirety its rustic charm.

My attitude is that suggested by my long-time motto: "Why buy a boat when you have friends who own a boat?"  Or "swimming pool."  Or "beach home."   

But I didn't sit down at my computer to point out my character flaws.  I just wanted to emphasize how much I like Italy -- as apparently do a large number of my fellow countrymen.  I like the scenery.  I like the history.  I like the people.  I like its architecture.

I love the food.  I love not only the food, but the Italian belief that eating is not just a consumption of necessary nutrients, but is almost a sacrament, a source of life's enjoyment worth lingering over.  And that it is also a social act, to be shared with friends and relatives.  As Frances marvels, eating outdoors with her husband, early in their ownership of their Italian property:

He piles the bread board with our cheeses, salami, peppers, and on our plates arranges our first course, the classic caprese: sliced tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, and a drizzle of oil.
... The cicadas yammer in the trees, that deeply heart-of-summer sound. The tomatoes are so intense we go silent as we taste them. Ed opens a celebratory bottle of prosecco and we settle down to recap the saga of buying and restoring the house. ... We dream on about other projects. The sun through the flowering trees bathes us in gold sifted light. "This isn't real; we've wandered into a Fellini film," I say.

Her husband replies that maybe Fellini hadn't really been all that creative.  Maybe all of Italian life actually resembled a Fellini film, and Fellini was just telling it as it is.

I wouldn't go that far.  But when I'm in Italy, and everything is going relatively smoothly, it seems almost too good to be true.  Is this real, I ask myself?  Life back home seems like a crazy madhouse, from the vantage point of an Italian lunch -- whether a feast, or simple rustic food.  Yes, things that work in America may not always work in Italy.  You may get irritated, just like you do at home.  But the irritation is over, and you move on.  You don't brood and simmer over it  until -- joined with other daily irritations -- it affects your entire personality.

These may be merely the ravings of a guy who's tired of January and dreams of the warmth of the Mediterranean world, the Italian sun, a guy who's never actually experienced Italy in winter.  But I don't care.  I'm hungry for "intense" tomatoes.  I want to pass a bottle of prosecco around the dinner table.

I long for yammering cicadas!

I'll be back to Lake Como in August.  If it's too hot, as it may well be in August, I may long for the cool, moist zephyrs of January in Seattle.  That's human nature, right?

Maybe not.  Meanwhile, I need to remember where to place my Italian adverbs.  Sempre!


Sunday, January 14, 2024

Cold days in Seattle



 

This lovely photo (photo credit: Seattle Times) was taken a couple of blocks from my house, in the Arboretum.  The skating rink is normally a quiet, woodsy pond occupied by ducks swimming about in a placid and proprietary manner.


The past few days have been cold in Seattle.  Lows around 13 degrees (minus 11º C.).  Highs not exceeding 32 degrees (0º C.).  And it will remain cold for several more days, although the high may creep up a degree or two above freezing tomorrow afternoon.  Some of the coldest weather on record for a January.


It's not that we're California.  We generally get some snow most years, sometimes up to a foot (30 cm) of snow.  I've taken pictures of snowy scenes about my neighborhood, some taken in this same Arboretum.  See, for example, Another February snowfall, which documented eight inches of Seattle snow as recently as 2021.  (Photograph below-right, taken in the Arboretum.)


What we rarely get, however, is ice.  I mean, sure, we see puddles freeze over.  But we rarely see ice thick enough for kids to be playing hockey on.  I can think of only once in my lifetime that ice on a lake (down near sea level) was deep enough to warrant crowds of people walking, skating, and otherwise frolicking on it.  And that was in the mid 1950s.


Hockey in the Arboretum!  Where did they even come up with hockey sticks?  Indoor rinks, probably.  It looks like the sort of scene we see in comic strips or paintings, showing "typical" American fun, or that we read about in books (Hans Brinker!).  It ain't Seattle.  But, this year at least, it is Seattle.  


So enjoy it, kids.  It may be a while until you can skate again in the Arboretum.  With global warming, maybe the last time.  But it's great to see it while we have it.

Monday, January 8, 2024

Tragedy in Houston


Hail! Hail! to Michigan
The champions of the West.

Yeah.  Well. 

The idea of the Michigan Wolverines being the champions of "the West" seems a little bizarre, to those of us in the Northwest Corner.  Or I suspect to anyone living west of the Mississippi.  A bit like Spokane's Gonzaga one day claiming to be champions of "the East."

But let's not quibble.  As of tonight, they are the champions of American college football.

They won decisively, 34-13, against our local Huskies.  Huskies who in game after game had shown themselves able to beat the odds -- literally -- and to pull themselves out of scoring holes in the final minutes of close games.  Not this time.  They were behind Michigan the entire game, start to finish.

I sadly admit it.  Tonight, at least, Michigan was the better team.  Their win wasn't a fluke.

Washington isn't my undergrad school, but it is something of an adopted school -- both because I live several blocks south of its campus, and because I received from it both a graduate degree and a law degree.  In all sports essentially a fair-weather fan, I rooted for the Huskies most of this season, awestruck by their ability to pull wins out of seemingly sure losses.  Sort of "anti-couging" their games, as it were.

But beyond my personal attachments to the school, I rooted for the Huskies because they represented the Pac-12 in its last hurrah before it committed conference suicide.  I grew up watching the nine-team Pacific Coast Conference mutate into the Pac-5, then the Pac-8, then the Pac-10, and finally the Pac-12.  It was the conference of the West Coast, despite those later questionable additions of the two Arizona schools, and then the even more questionable addition of Utah and Colorado.  

In my fantasies, at least, the Pacific Coast conference valued academic performance more than most other conferences, and tried to hold on to the archaic belief that college football games were played by ordinary students who merely had athletic interests and abilities.  Students who played football as recreation, in the same way as lawyers and businessmen might play squash or golf.

Let's all have a good laugh, before I continue.

So, as of next fall, Washington joins Michigan in the Big Ten, and the Pac-12, now reduced to two members, probably fades away into the mists of history.  At least the UW joins the Big Ten, not certain other conferences I could snarkily name.  I've always believed that the Big Ten was a midwestern brother of the Pac-12 -- not just because their two champions met annually in the Rose Bowl, but because the Big Ten was composed of schools with equally high academic reputations.

And Michigan's academic reputation was (and is) near the top of the Big Ten.  So we lost to a team from a school I respect for reasons other than football prowess.  

My own undergraduate school has slunk off to the Atlantic Coast Conference -- despite our campus's being located a few short miles from the Pacific Ocean.  Aside from the geographical absurdity of its new affiliation, in my opinionated opinion it will be hanging out with a fairly shady group of schools (Duke and a couple of others excepted), like an innocent child whose parents have lost money and have moved to a more dangerous neighborhood -- but what do I know?  Who knows what goes on back there on the Atlantic coast?  I guess I'll learn some of the answers in coming football seasons.

So, I'm sad about tonight's loss to Michigan, and I'm sad about the dissolution of the Pac-12.  The football seasons to come will have their interesting moments, I'm sure, but overall I suspect that everything is falling apart.  The television industry has a talent for ruining everything to which it turns its mercenary attention.

Sort of the anti-Midas touch.  The death of the Pac-12 is but the latest example.