Into the Sahara

"Do not lay a hand on the boy; do nothing to him.  I know now that you fear God, since you have not withheld your only son from me."  Abraham looked about and saw a ram caught by its horns in the bush.  He went and took it, and offered it as a holocaust in place of his son.
--Genesis 22: 12-13

This past weekend, Muslims in Morocco celebrated the feast of Aïd el-Kebir.   Each year, every family that can afford it ritually slaughters a sheep and offers it in sacrifice, commemorating the ram killed in sacrifice by Abraham in place of his own son.  (According to the Quran, it was Abraham's eldest son, Ishmael, who was to be sacrificed, not Isaac as stated in Genesis.)  For weeks before the feast's culmination, Moroccans have been purchasing and fattening sheep; on the feast day itself, each family slits the neck of its sheep, and dines on the meat, offering whatever it does not need to the poor.  The king himself offers a sheep on television, on behalf of the entire nation.

My nephew Doug and I returned Saturday from 2½ weeks in Morocco.  What we saw was not simply a strip of North African desert, but a country rich in diversity -- diversity in scenery, peoples, languages and cultures.  It was an impressive trip, and left me with the hope of visiting parts of the country again in greater depth.  And as a backdrop, throughout our time in Morocco, herds of sheep were being offered for sale in open markets, sheep were being brought home in wheelbarrows, carts, pick-up trucks, automobiles.  Or sheep were being taken home on foot, led by children who treated the sheep as pets.  In one case, we even saw a sheep riding on the back of a motor scooter. 

Doug and I landed in Marrakech on October 10, and had most of the day free to wander around on our own before meeting up with our group.  The next morning, we met with three other travelers for a pre-trek sidetrip to Essaouira on the coast.  Returning to Marrakech on the twelfth, we met the remaining members of our group.  Our eleven-person group consisted of  two couples, five single women, and Doug and me.  We spent another two nights in Marrakech, seeing the city and giving the newly arrived members a chance to adjust their circadian rhythms.  We then climbed into four-wheel drive vehicles and began driving south into the High Atlas mountain range that looms to the south of Marrakech.

The High Atlas is, in fact, high, with peaks climbing above 13,000 feet.  Portions of the mountain range are barren; others are carpeted with cedar trees and populated by inquisitive Barbary apes (tailless macaque monkeys).  The higher peaks of the High Atlas were covered with snow by the time our trip came to an end.

Once we left Marrakech, we were in Berber country.  Very friendly people with a pre-Arabic native culture, an ancient culture that's been influenced by more recent migrations up the caravan routes from sub-Saharan Africa.  Complexions came in every imaginable shade.  The kids get instruction in school, we were told, in Berber, Moroccan Arabic, classical Arabic, French and English.  They spoke mainly Berber, with varying degrees of fluency in French.   

We then drove down into the Dadès valley -- where we walked through oases studded with date palms, and explored fortified kasbahs -- and up again and over the Anti-Atlas mountains, down to the desert town of Zagora.  This was as far south as we traveled.  In Zagora, we encountered a billboard announcing that we were only 52 days by camel caravan from Timbuctu.  Tempting, eh?

The next day, we left paved roads and headed east on stony tracks into the desert, traveling off-road at one point up a dry river bed.  We made our first camp near the village of Remlia, within shouting distance of the frontier with Algeria. We climbed onto camels the next morning.  Or, I should say, we carefully sat on our kneeling camels, and then hung on for dear life as the camels rose, first on their rear  legs, and then on their front legs, pitching us camel-novices backward and forward.  Once up, however, the riding was easy and we quickly learned to enjoy the gentle swaying rhythm as the camels glided along.

We camped a total of four nights -- the first night, believe it or not, it rained -- with the last day and night at Erg Chebbi being the most surreally beautiful part of the trek.  The dunes, in light and shadow, looked exactly like the images of the Sahara that you no doubt have dancing around in your mind.  I found it impossible to take a bad photo.

After leaving our camels behind, we returned to four-wheel drives and drove to Erfoud.  Our hotel was in the form of a kasbah, a wall enclosing a meandering maze of stucco buildings and passage ways.  After the rigors (?) of our four-day trek, we recovered nicely with evening gin and tonics beside the swimming pool, a Berber band playing in the background.

The next day was one long drive north from Erfoud, back over the High Atlas, to Fez, arriving in the evening at our hotel.  Fez is the city I'm most eager to re-visit.  The medina is probably the world's most massive and most intact medieval city. The entire medina is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. We did do something of a shopping tour of the medina, meandering through it from one end to the other.  But, for my taste, we did too much shopping and too little meandering.

Fez's medina comprises shops, small industries and residences. It is not merely a tourist shopping destination, as is, for the most part, that of Marrakech.  It's a maze of tiny streets and alleys -- many barely wide enough to allow human passage -- in which one could easily become lost.  Our local guide joked that one of his clients from years ago is still wandering its streets, trying to find a way out.

Paul Bowles caught my feelings about Fez's medina in his 1954 novel, The Spider's House:

"What's very hard to believe," she said presently, "is that this can be existing at the same moment, let's say, that people are standing in line at the information booth in the Grand Central Station asking about trains to New Haven.  You know what I mean?  It's just unthinkable, somehow."

Indeed.  One day was all too short a time to even begin to comprehend the life that occurs in this amazing complex.

And all about us, in Fez even more than in Marrakech, frantic final preparations were being made for Aïd el-Kebir.  Sheep were everywhere, holiday spirits were high, one of the great annual celebrations of Islam was about to occur.  But not for us.  Although we had to leave on the very eve of Aïd, not everyone in our group minded missing the festivities.  The religious symbolism wasn't compelling to everyone -- and those gentle, woolly sheep looked so awfully cute

The lonely moor

Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there arose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream.
--The Hound of the Baskervilles

The Hound of the Baskervilles may be the most popular -- and best -- of the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle.  I first read it when I was about 15, shivering with pleasure -- and I read it again this week. 

I still enjoy it.  I'm perhaps less overawed by Holmes's powers of deduction than I was as a teenager.  But both then and now, I'm able to lose myself in Conan Doyle's vivid portrayal of the English moors -- their gloom, their loneliness, their desolation.  The gothic atmosphere painted by Conan Doyle is as memorable as his detective's solution of a bizarre crime, a ghastly murder apparently caused by a fire-breathing hound from hell.

But is Dartmoor -- where the action takes place -- really as dismal and gothic as the story would suggest? I don't know. I've never been to Devon, where the moor is located. It's a large (for England) tract of land -- 368 square miles of uncultivated peat and granite, bogs and tors, bisected by (reasonably enough) the River Dart. The treachorous swampland, the mire that ultimately claimed the life of Conan Doyle's villain, really exists -- Fox Tor Mires being its actual name, rather than Great Grimpen Mire. And the mysterious neolithic standing stones and stone huts are there to be seen, just as in the story.

But, as I look at the photos of Dartmoor that come up from a Yahoo! search, it's hard to see much that's sinister. In fact, the moorland is quite lovely -- the moors and tors looking much like parts of Wyoming. Come to think of it, my expectations of grimness and desolation while I crossed Rannoch Moor in the West Scottish Highlands were never quite realized. Rannoch Moor was also beautiful, and not at all foreboding.

Admittedly, the day I hiked across Rannoch Moor was exceptionally clear and sunny. And most of the photos I've seen of Dartmoor were taken on equally appealing days, days that would tempt the tourist -- from England or anywhere else in the world -- to come visit. In the fog, perhaps, during a wild and stormy night, I might feel different, especially if I were spending the night in a house overlooking the blackness of the moors, my room lit only by a candle.

Part of Dartmoor's grim reputation -- aside from its being featured in The Hound of the Baskervilles -- probably derives from the presence on the moor of Dartmoor Prison. One of the creepy plot devices encountered in the Conan Doyle story was the desperate and brutish escapee from that prison, at loose upon the moors, whom Holmes and Watson encountered. But I also suspect that the average, untraveled Brit -- after a thousand years of civilization and agricultural cultivation -- simply sees wilderness through eyes different from ours as Americans. (Howls of British protest will be cheerfully heard out.)

I'm thinking of our own English forebears, settling in New England. Recall The Scarlet Letter, in which Hawthorne causes the town to represent Christianity and civilization, and the wilderness outside the town to represent barbarism and the realm of Satan. This very early American attitude reflected European sensibilities, where men and women for centuries had strenuously devoted their lives to clearing the forests, exterminating the wolves, seeking out and burning covens of witches frolicking in the wildlands -- a long, continuous effort to replace the wilderness with safe, cozy towns; fortified castles; well-tended crops.

It wasn't until the nineteenth century that we ourselves, in America, began breaking free from this mindset, adopting in its place a romantic exaltation of wilderness. Any major American art museum will contain examples of the nineteenth century's Hudson River School, and later paintings of the American Mountain West. The Sierra Club and the photography of Ansel Adams arose out of this spirit of nature romanticism.

Which is not to say that the British don't also have a strong romantic attachment to nature. In general, however, British romanticism seems to value landscapes shaped by civilization -- the old mill, the arched bridge, the ruined abbey, the ancient Roman pathway -- more frequently than nature in the raw.

All of which is simply a long-winded way of saying that Americans have until rather recently lived in a country more undeveloped than developed -- as did the Europeans -- but have done so during an era when the forests were easy to clear and the wolf at the door didn't pose an existential threat. As a result, wilderness seems more natural and less threatening than it does, perhaps, in Europe. The photos I see of Dartmoor are beautiful, and I hope to visit it someday. But neither its size nor its wildness seem exceptional from an American's perspective.

Of course, as I mentioned in an earlier post, the entire Lake District would fit within the combined city limits of Minneapolis-St. Paul, and the Langdales within the Lake District never rise above three thousand feet. And yet -- last summer, I did manage to get lost in the fog, didn't I?

Play it, Sam

Time goes by.  It seems hard to believe, but one week from now my nephew Doug and I will be settling in, following dinner, at the Es Saadi Hotel in Marrakech.  A long distance, physically and culturally, from my allegedly "haunted" house here in Seattle.

I'm reviewing the clothing and equipment list sent to me by the "adventure company."  The fact that the list is much less extensive -- and thankfully includes fewer items requiring purchase -- suggests the difference between my Morocco trip and other trips I've enjoyed with this same provider.  No ice axe or sub-zero rated sleeping bag this time.  The oddest suggestion is for bicycle pants, to provide additional padding between a camel's back and my own backside. 

Somewhere I have that item, left over from a bicycle tour a number of years ago, but I can't figure out where the pants are stored away.  It's getting down to crunch time -- either find them soon or buy new ones.

The mental preparation is more difficult than the physical gathering of clothes and equipment.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, I've always been fascinated by desert lands in general, and Morocco in particular.  Certainly ever since I saw that ersatz Moroccan movie, Casablanca.

I doubt that I ever saw Bing Crosby and Bob Hope in Road to Morocco, and let's just say that I'm not viewing that particular film in preparation for the trip.  I am reading, however, Paul Bowles's novel The Spider's House.  I'm only about one fourth of the way through the 1954 novel, but it gives the reader a highly atmospheric feel for Fez -- where we end our trip -- during the period when popular resistance and violence were intensifying, agitation that would lead to the eventual end of the French Protectorate in 1956.

Over a half century has passed since Bowles wrote about his favorite city, and Bowles was already lamenting Fez's physical and cultural changes in 1954, but I suspect that the book remains a good introduction to certain physical and psychological aspects of that part of the world.  I probabaly will be finishing it during the flight over.

Doug will leave San Francisco next Wednesday, about the same time as I fly out of Seattle.  We meet at JFK, where we'll have a layover of several hours before departing for Madrid.  And thence to Marrakech. 

Rev up the four-wheel drives.  Cue the camels.  I'm on my way!

Exorcizo te ...

Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei (name), quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo.

It's an old house.  Oddly shaped rooms; old-fashioned, leaded-glass windows; a few interior doorways without doors; twisting halls usable only as wall space for bookcases.  A puzzling doorbell button outside the den (where I'm composing this post) connected to no actual doorbell.  Lots of strange creaks in the night, not to mention squirrels running across the roof, the occasional rats in the walls, the closet door in my bedroom that often makes a slamming noise when I step out of bed in the morning, and -- of  course -- the ever-intrusive raccoons.

Normal stuff.

But ghosts?  No. Not in the twenty-five years I've lived here.  Never.

Until now.

My housecleaning service called this morning.  The manager was apologetic. My latest cleaning woman, with me only since my August 3 blog on the subject, is flying the coop.  The reason?  My house's "paranormal activities."  She put up with it, she says, for one four-hour visit.  The odd noises. Noises without plausible explanation.  Noises that paused only when she yelled at them, demanding that they stop. 

But her last visit was too much.  The angry sound of someone pounding on the keys of my piano.  The "cold room" -- the room frigid beyond any natural explanation.  The "dark mass" she watched move toward the electric outlet and disconnect the cord of the vacuum cleaner she was using.  Who could blame her?  She's outta here.

 The manager was apologetic, as I say, but also somewhat curious -- humorously, but nervously curious. Perhaps, I had encountered phenomena of this kind before? Heard other complaints?  No, you say? In going back through the service's records, it appears that, about two years ago, another cleaning woman had declined to work further in my house for exactly the same reason -- odd, inexplicable occurrences that scared the bejesus out of her.

I, of course, initially suspected this to be merely a pretext. She just didn't like cleaning my house.  But following the first time she cleaned my house, in August, the service routinely interviewed her about any problems she experienced working at my house that she wanted to discuss. The cleaner reported that she loved my house, enjoyed working here, and was happy to continue with me as a client.  Then -- during her next visit or two -- things began to happen. 

The manager has had a long, in-depth face-to-face meeting with the service's employee. My housecleaner knows I've lived here a long time, and have had no problems.  She argues that, perhaps, she's more sensitive to the spiritual world than I am.  Or that the spirits who've lived amicably with me (wholly unbeknownst to me, yea, these 25 years) for unknown reasons hate and despise her.  Whatever.  She's had enough.  She ain't coming back.

And so, the search is on for another housecleaner. 

If this were a movie, of course,  you'd all be yelling at me to move out. Now! While I still have my sanity and my life.  Call upon Ghostbusters!  Consult with a priest!

But I'm a child of the Enlightenment.  Everything has a natural explanation. I certainly wouldn't be suspicious just because my pregnant wife had a sudden craving to wear a tannis root charm. I'd even go down into the dark cellar without a flashlight if I heard weird noises.  I'd even kee ........oh ... oh no !!!!!!!!! it can't be!! ............... aaaaaaghhhh!

" .... qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem."

Vintage Festival

Sonoma is wine (lots of it) and history (the founding of the 25-day-long California Bear Republic). Both are celebrated exuberantly throughout the Valley of the Moon Vintage Festival.  I'll be flying down to the Bay Area on Thursday for Sonoma's 115th celebration of the Festival.

My sister, despite growing up like the rest of us with strong roots in the timber and fish resources of the Northwest Corner, long ago abandoned the Fatherland for the wine-based culture of the Sonoma Valley.  As a result, much of my family, and their friends, now live in and about Sonoma.  My annual presence at the Festival is almost (but not quite) a given.  In any event, this year I'll be there.

The Vintage Festival dates back to 1896, as a celebration by local vintners of science's triumph over the phylloxera louse which had devastated grape crops for several decades.  According to a past issue of the local newspaper (Sonoma Index-Tribune):

To organize the celebration they created what they called The Bacchus Club of Rhinefarm, in honor of the Greek god of wine. Imaginative, witty and fun-loving clans (as their descendants still are), they wrote skits, composed humorous songs, designed costumes and practiced lively dances in preparation for the festival which was scheduled for Oct. 16, 1896.

The festival was Greek and Bacchanalian in many respects, with pageants, singing (drinking songs, naturally), "faux-Greek drama," and a re-enactment of "Sonoma's greatest social event" ever, the double wedding of the two daughters of General Vallejo in 1863.

The Festival remains a small town event, although perhaps less bizarrely unique in 2012, more sophisticated, and attracting far more visitors from San Francisco.  It can also be more expensive for the unwary visitor. 

The spiritual high point of the weekend is the blessing of the grapes in front of Mission San Francisco Solano.  The profit-oriented high point is the Friday night wine tasting.  More energetic events are the Firefighters' Water Fight, the Grape Stomp, and the picturesque 5k run through the vineyards, starting out at the Sebastiani winery.  And, of course, the Festival parade. 

I've attended this event for years, and somehow have never grown tired of it.  It's of course an excuse to get together with relatives, but it's also fun to join in the Festival's seldom varying traditions, watch the locals, observe with bemusement the tourists -- and sample a lot of wine.  It's a big event, supported by a major industry, but still never loses it's small town feel. 

I'm again looking forward to it.

No salsa, please. We're Americans.

I concluded (as did many of my colleagues) that the [Cuban] blockade was completely unnecessary and harms the Cuban people and Cuba's attempt to develop economically through tourism and trade with the U.S.  ... It is also difficult to see the Cuban flag flying over oil derricks outside of Havana indicating that the companies are joint ventures between Cuba, China, Spain, Russia and other countries.

So reads a classnote from a fellow alumnus and fellow member of the Washington State Bar, following his tour of Cuba, a tour sponsored by the bar association. 

Yesterday's New York Times contains an article advising that it will be increasingly difficult for the public to travel to Cuba in the future.  After loosening restrictions on travel in 2011, the Obama administration is now tightening up those restrictions and refusing to renew licensing of many groups that sponsor trips to Cuba.  These moves are in response to politicians' complaints that tourists are just "having fun" -- rather than engaging in serious "educational exchanges" -- while in Cuba, and especially to reports of tourists joining in salsa dancing (gasp!) with Cuban nationals. 

Many travelers respond that the opportunity to join in these spontaneous dances was a high point of their visit, their best opportunity to actually meet, mingle, and talk with the common people in Cuba.

The Cuban blockade, and especially its travel restrictions -- now having lasted for sixty years -- is one of the more bizarre chunks of American foreign policy.  It's the foreign policy equivalent of the federal crusade against marijuana -- both policies are ineffectual, neither would be worthwhile even if they were effectual, both are infringements on individuals' personal rights without reasonable justification.  Even if the embargo may have been a reasonable emergency response to crisis in the early 1960s, it's gone on for decades -- just like the marijuana campaign -- out of sheer, unthinking, unquestioning momentum.

Cuba is ninety miles from the U.S. mainland.  We shun it as a pariah.  Can anyone claim that Cuba is uniquely evil and deserving of such treatment?  Anyone with a visa can travel to Iran.  Is Cuba more dangerous to American foreign policy interests than Iran?  I actually can't think of any other country -- not even North Korea -- from which American citizens are barred from travel, by their own government, unless they are part of a licensed travel group.

We all know why.  Florida politics.  And perhaps, at least originally, the fear that Cuba might prosper under communism, and thus make a communist economy attractive to other South American countries.  So we demonstrated our confidence in our own economic system by systematically reducing Cuba to poverty and ensuring -- for sixty years, now -- that it remain impoverished.

This state of affairs won't last forever.  There is already a softening of attitude among ordinary Americans -- except among the old guard of Cuban exiles -- now that Fidel has stepped down as leader.  But our foreign policy toward Cuba is not a shining example of American diplomacy.  Not something our grandchildren will read about with pride in their history books.

Meanwhile -- if you are able to visit Cuba -- don't let anyone photograph you smiling. And no salsa.

Lecturing world-wide

In a digital, twenty-first century world, do we still need universities?  Or, rather, do we still need universities as large collections of buildings occupying physical space?

Universities originally formed around men learned in their fields, who offered to teach any students who cared to hang around and pay for the instruction.  Couldn't scholars provide similar instruction now -- not just to a handful of young people who gather together from distant homes to receive it, but to the entire world via the internet?

Providing university-level instruction over the internet is a "hot issue" in educational circles at present.  Stanford has taken a lead in offering such free courses -- or more precisely, in permitting and encouraging its professors to offer such courses.  Stanford President John Hennessy is particularly enthused about such efforts, at least to the extent of having his school experiment with both the necessary technology and the development of course work amenable to presentation on-line.  Stanford professors are now offering certain lecture courses, complete with interactivity between the professor (or his teaching assistants) and the individual student. 

Stanford's alumni magazine this month contains a lengthy article discussing the issue.

Opinion on campus is mixed. Many professors, understandably, don't care for the idea of providing individual assistance -- or even examinations -- to several hundred thousand students around the world.  The courses so far offered have been ones capable of computer grading -- and have been offered primarily in the computer sciences.  Furthermore, the students tend to work together on-line cooperatively in response to the lectures, largely obviating the need for the faculty to hold, metaphorically, their hands.  Grades and university credit, at present, are not given.  The student who successfully completes the course receives a letter or certificate of completion, but not one written in Stanford's name.

I doubt that these courses will ever replace the experience of "going to college."  Much of the "learning" that I received as a student came from being around fellow students who shared my own interests, or students who had totally different interests and whose enthusiasm was contagious.  It does seem possible, however, that even matriculated students could benefit from viewing large lecture courses on-line, rather than sitting in a huge auditorium.  In experiments of this sort at Stanford, attendance at lectures in some large courses has dropped to thirty percent when the lectures are also available on-line.

The feeling was, "Why should I wake up at 8 in the morning to come to class when I can watch it at 2 a.m. in my dorm room?

The Stanford Magazine article begins with the example of a 16-year-old boy in Greece who joined 100,000 other students worldwide in taking a Stanford professor's on-line course in "applied machine learning" -- defined as the "science of getting computers to act without being explicitly programmed."  The Greek youth received no Stanford credit for the course, just a letter of completion.  But he wrote:

Andrew Ng is truly one of the best teachers I have ever had, even though I've never met him.  I want to thank him from the depths of my heart for offering these amazing learning opportunities.

He's now taking courses in natural language programming and algorithms.  He plans to apply to Stanford in two years.

A moving testimonial to the impact of excellent teaching -- especially when it's received from a youngster on the other side of the globe.

Other students included "a 13-year-old budding physicist, a recovering addict, an unemployed librarian, a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom, and a 72-year-old retiree who once built a computer from scratch."

Obviously, there are a vast number of problems and concerns to be resolved before such courses are offered routinely.  Will professors receive extra pay from their institutions for preparing lectures specifically for on-line use?  Can universities spare the faculty resources when these courses become routine, not experimental?  Is there any way to make money from these courses, or at least defray their expense? Does a university like Stanford "dilute its brand" by opening its instruction to the entire interested world?  (But is this really different from publishing a professor's textbook?)  Will the availability of such courses, taught by world renowned authorities, hurt the ability of smaller schools with less capable faculty to draw student applications? 

Many of these issues are discussed in the article -- discussed, but not resolved.  But, along with Stanford's provost, we can contemplate the potential effects of such innovative teaching methods.  He compared on-line courses to the development of the printing press in the 15th century, which "led to an explosion in the number of universities by radically increasing the efficiency with which knowledge could be transmitted." 

As the cost of a college education skyrockets, any innovation that reduces costs without damaging the education being received is worth our consideration.

Cellist

Five years ago, when this blog was still pushing its tender young shoots up from the soil, I wrote a rather silly post about Joshua Roman, the then 23-year-old principal cellist for the Seattle Symphony.  I noted that while most Symphony musicians seemed stiff and subdued while sitting on stage waiting for the conductor to appear, "Mr. Roman, on the other hand, looks like a high school student goofing off before class, waiting for the teacher to arrive."

I saw Roman perform again last night.  The white Afro was gone, the fidgeting and grinning were now under control, and he has aquired a pair of dark rimmed glasses that he kept shoving back up onto the bridge of his nose.  He no longer looks like a mischievous high school student.  At 28, he now looks like a relaxed college student.  He almost resembles a younger and slimmer version of another Seattle icon, Bill Gates. 

After two seasons with the Seattle Symphony, Roman has performed  as a soloist with numerous groups internationally.  But although an Oklahoma native, he obviously retains a soft place in his heart for us Northwesterners -- since 2007, he has served as Artistic Director for Seattle's Town Hall.

Town Hall is a former Christian Science church, modified for the presentation of lectures and musical performances.  It's a beautiful venue, within a short walking distance of the business district, but far enough up First Hill to be surrounded by tree-lined streets.  The larger of the two auditoriums, in which last night's performance was presented, has an audience capacity of about 1,500 (compared to nearly 2,500 in the Symphony's Benaroya Hall.

Roman played as part of a piano trio (piano, violin, cello). He stood before the crowd and gave a very relaxed and entertaining introduction to the program, also throwing in enticements and encouragement for us to come back and enjoy later performances (by other performers) during Town Hall's 2012-13 musical season.  The trio gave very moving performances of Beethoven's Trio in B-flat major and Schubert's Trio in E-flat major (originally scored for clarinet rather than violin), performances that were applauded ecstatically.  The trio also premiered a short contemporary work, Lonesome Roads by Dan Visconti, that was also well received.  Philistine that I am, I found it merely "interesting."  ("I know what I like, and I like what I know.")

For whatever  reason, I've come to enjoy chamber music more and more as I grow older.  Maybe I no longer need the adrenaline rush that results from  having a full symphonic orchestra come at me full tilt; or maybe my ear has just grown more attuned to the intimacy that listening to individual instruments playing in a small group permits.

At any rate, it was an excellent concert, and it's reassuring to watch Joshua Roman's career develop successfully over the years.  I look forward, obviously, to hearing him again.

The two swords

On December 29, 1170, Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, was hacked to death in his own cathedral by four minions of Henry II: murdered by four knights inspired -- whether intentionally or accidentally -- by the king's exasperated exclamation, "Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?"

Most of us are familiar with the outlines of the story, if only from viewing the 1964 movie Becket (based on the Jean Anouilh play), or from attending T.S Eliot's drama, Murder in the Cathderal. 

As a college student, required to produce a thesis for my mandatory junior-year historiography seminar, I chose to examine the life of Becket.  Specifically, I addressed the issue of whether the Church had a reasonable basis for declaring Thomas a saint, just two years after his death.  Unfortunately, I didn't make a copy of my (doubtlessly) brilliant paper -- over thirty pages in length with voluminous footnotes -- probably because, following my normal custom, I had sat up all night, the night before it was due, typing it out on my old Smith Corona, and had hurriedly handed it in the next morning.  Somewhere, however, I still have the nearly illegible manuscript from which I did my typing.

I remember more about the process of research and writing than I do about the analysis contained in my magnum opus.  I'm confident, however, of my ultimate conclusion -- Thomas was indeed worthy of sainthood, although his acts and motivations often remain ambiguous  and confusing -- and certainly infused with the politics of his time.

As the play and movie suggest, Thomas Becket's life is the sort of stuff that popular history thrives on.  And today's New York Times presents a book review of a new look at the saint's life:  Thomas Becket, by John Guy.  The book is suggestively subtitled: "Warrior, Priest, Rebel: A Nine-Hundred-Year-Old Story Retold."

My research paper was a primitive attempt at the analysis of history as an historian, drawing no conclusions not based on reliable original source material.  A popular history, on the other hand, has the advantage of not being so restrained by documented facts -- the author can fill in the blanks, based on his empathy for the characters and for the times he is describing, so long as he doesn't actually contradict known facts.  This advantage makes the popular history more readable and exciting than the scholarly analysis; it also, however, if the author isn't careful, allows him to speculate freely, to impute today's motivations and concerns into the minds of those who lived in a totally different intellectual and emotional climate.

I haven't read Guy's book (although I intend to do so).  But the NYT review devotes some of its brief allotted space to discussing possible homosexual relationships between Becket (as a teenager) and an older friend and mentor, and -- later -- between Becket and Henry II himself.  Thomas Becket's life has been a subject of fascination to both friends and enemies, both religious and secular, for nearly a millennium.  I don't recall ever having read any such speculation until now, the sort of speculation that has seemed to permeate obsessively almost every biography -- of almost every person -- written in the past 50 years or so.

Judging from the review, Guy's work focuses on the conflict between the king and his former close friend and chancellor as "more like a chess match than a morality play."  To understand that conflict, and Becket's ultimate assassination, it's certainly critical that one understand the politics of the time.  The church's role in England was that of a major player, a force constantly at odds with the monarchy (when not acting, at other times, in its support).  But to us, those conflicts appear as merely cynical struggles for political and personal power, as in some cases they were.  But in the world of the eleventh century, the struggle for political power was never wholly divorced from the parallel struggle for personal salvation. 

The bishops and papacy thus strove for power for their own political ends, but at the same time sincerely believed they were fighting for God and the salvation of the souls entrusted to them.  And the king himself could never forget that any conflict between him and the church endangered not merely his power base, but also his own hopes for eternity.

As the review concludes, "Guy's biography is a portrait of a saint with plenty of shadows."  Those shadows have intrigued historians for centuries.  They were the reason my college paper seemed worth writing. 

I look forward to reading this new examination of the life of St. Thomas Becket, trusting it will offer  new insights into the life and world of this most complex of men.

'Tis the voice of the Midshipmen

’Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.
--Lewis Carroll

Midshipmen at the Naval Academy probably get annoyingly noisy occasionally, fired up by androgen hormones, compulsively showing off, singing off-key and strumming guitars -- in any way possible trying to attract dates.  (I merely conjecture.)  But now their namesakes, the midshipman fish, are being blamed for vocalizing so noisily that it's annoying the good people of West Seattle.

The midshipman fish, of which fourteen separate species have been identified in the Porichthys genus, are known for their vocalizations.  Their name comes from luminous spots (photophores) which someone, sometime, fancifully thought resembled the buttons on a midshipman's uniform.  The male makes all the noise (as in so many species), a sound mediated by androgen and estradiol steroids (also a relationship we can appreciate). No "voice of the lobster," merely a series of grunts and an underlying hum.

Typical Type II male calls are divided into: short grunts that last for milliseconds or are produced in a series of grunts called a “grunt train,” mid-duration growls, and long duration advertisement hums that can last up to an hour.

--Wikipedia.  These sounds understandably excite the female into a frenzy of egg-laying.

The voice of the love-sick midshipman fish has been known to wake houseboat owners.  And that brings us back to West Seattle.  The reported hum has been so loud that experts suspect that it may have been amplified by the metal hulls of ships in the Duwamish river.  Other experts, more skeptical that the hum of the midshipman fish could be heard not merely by houseboat dwellers, but across the land mass of West Seattle, blame the noise on cement plants, ferry engines, or street sweepers.

But how prosaic! Everyone really prefers the midshipman fish theory.  They are ugly little devils, but, as a local fish expert put it lyrically: "These fish sing like birds at night to attract females."  It ill-behooves the citizens of West Seattle, whose own adolescent offspring sing their own amorous tunes, to begrudge our fishy friends a little love-struck humming.

Honey, can I have money for a new razor?

Wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.
--Colossians 3:18

In Alabama, many residents rely on the literal words of Scripture to guide their lives and to shape their views of society.  An article in Sunday's New York Times Magazine analyzes the lives of several families in Alexander City, Alabama, revealing how difficult in today's world it's become for the husband to assert his traditional leadership of the family unit.   Wives are becoming the breadwinners.  "Welcome to the new middle-class matriarchy," the author asserts.

I grew up in a small town dominated by several large timber and aluminum based industrial mills.  Men worked at tough, dirty jobs, paid their union dues, and received decent paychecks.  Wives generally -- although not always -- stayed at home, taking care of the house and the kids.  (My own mother worked in what would now be called "data processing," from the time I was 11 or 12.  Her being employed was not considered freakish.  It was, however, atypical.)

Now, those factory and mill jobs are gone.  Unemployment is high.  I haven't kept in touch with my home town, so I don't know the employment statistics.  I suspect, however, that most of the work now available is in the clerical, retail, health care, and education fields.  As the NYT article observes, these are not considered "manly" areas of employment.  And in the South, in particular, a man's ability to be "manly," to be the strong face his family presents to the world, remains critically important.

The men in Alexander City now find themselves floundering around, trying to find jobs in which they can use the skills they learned working for the large textile mill that was once the town's major employer.  The women, on the other hand, have developed new skills and found new kinds of jobs.  Women are being flexible and climbing the economic ladder; the men are unemployed and stagnating.

The NYT article attempts to find reasons for this disparity between the sexes.  One significant factor is that the textile mill had been highly patriarchal.  Men, unlike female employees, were made to feel part of a family, of a structure that provided them a place in the universe; women, handling more mundane clerical tasks, saw their work merely as jobs.  Men, therefore, feel today like children abandoned by their parents.

In addition, Alabama men don't -- according to the article -- consider the jobs most available in the new economy -- in schools, retail stores, hospitals -- to be jobs suitable for "real men."

But I think there's something else going on, something that I don't understand and that needs more research.  The article mentions in passing that among Alexander City teenagers, it's the girls who seem to display ambition and focus.

Around Alex City, she said it seemed that it was the girls who were full of energy and eager to see the world.  Her own brother, Alex, who was 17, seemed to want to stay in town forever and raise his family here.  But Abby was enrolled in Southern Union State Community College, attending on a show-choir scholarship.  Her plan was to go there for a year, as many girls in Alex City do, to save money, and then head to Auburn University.

Perhaps this disparity derives from the teenagers' observations of their parents' lives.  But there have been a number of articles recently about American teens in general -- kids not necessarily influenced by the same blue collar malaise experienced in Alexander City.  In general, it seems to be the girls who have the greater drive to get ahead, to go to college, to get advanced degrees, and to fight their way up the corporate ladder or establish themselves in the professions.  The boys, on the other hand, would rather hang out together with their high school friends, play computer games, and enjoy addictive substances.

An unfair generalization, to be sure.  I can walk across campus any day and observe thousands of male students who clearly defy this stereotype.  But most stereotypes have some basis in fact.  Fifty-eight percent of college undergrads are now female; 47 percent of law school students are women (up from virtually zero 40 years ago), as are 49 percent of medical students.  Even in engineering -- that most macho of the major professions -- 18 percent of the students are female, a percentage that keeps rising.

In a way this is cause for self-congratulation, the disappearance of gender bias from our society.  But the rapid entry of women into formerly male occupations -- in just one generation -- suggests more than a natural result from the collapse of barriers.  To me, at least, it suggests that women are progressing much more quickly than men in adapting to fundamental changes in our economy, that they are showing greater energy and initiative in pursuing the more cerebral and less physical occupations that will provide the job opportunities of the future.  We may, in fact, be seeing something that St. Paul could not in his worst nightmares have envisioned -- development of a matriarchal society.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, I suppose.  But it would be good to understand better why.

Golden days

The last day of August!  All prior complaints about Seattle weather should now be deemed inoperative.  The last few weeks have been so beautiful that ... well ... that I wonder how the rest of the nation can live anywhere else?

My sister visited Seattle for four days, a couple of weeks ago.  Her visit coincided with the hottest days of the year, which -- in Seattle -- means the low 90's.  We ate all our meals outdoors.  On my deck, yes, but also at lots of small cafés.  Yes, for the few weeks feasible, Seattle restaurants and coffee houses convert themselves virtually overnight into small European sidewalk cafés, giving the illusion that we live most of the year in the dry, hot, sunny weather of Rome or Athens.

Today, the eve of the long Labor Day weekend, I took a long walk from my house down to the lakefront at Madison Park, and then looped back home on Lake Washington Boulevard.  If you don't know Seattle, it doesn't matter.  You get the picture.

The air was relatively cool -- just under 70 degrees -- but the sun was hot.  Typically "early pre-autumn" around here, inspiring the same sensation you get at higher elevations during the hotter days of mid-summer.  I strolled into a Starbucks in Madison Park, bought a latte, and sat sipping it at a sidewalk table -- watching and eavesdropping on the pedestrian crowds.  

Passers-by in Madison Park don't live on food stamps.  I overheard much talk of friends just getting home from Europe, of winter plans for escapes to Hawaii, of kids heading back east to college.  Sitting at the next table were a couple of boys in their early teens with orthodontia, Lakeside School t-shirts, and nicely modulated voices -- self-confident kids who initiated a friendly chat with a passing woman about the pedigree of her small leashed dog.

All seemed well at Starbucks, so I meandered onward another couple hundred yards to the waterfront.  The beach was less crowded than when my sister was here, but the temperature today was also 20 degrees cooler.  Even so, the offshore diving float was well-occupied with tanned swimmers; younger kids were splashing around near shore, inside the rope safety barrier; and parents and other sun-lovers of all ages were sprawled all over the grassy slopes that separate Lake Washington from the modest but expensive housing for which the neighborhood is known. 

This is great, I thought!  Why don't I come down to this area more often?  I probably would, I replied with cold rationality, if it weren't usually so  so chilly and damp.

My route home -- south on McGilvra, past large, tasteful homes that engender nervous feelings of financial inferiority and past the Seattle Tennis Club (whose waiting list for admission, last I heard, was about ten years); then up winding and heavily forested Lake Washington Boulevard, cutting across switchbacks on nicely groomed trails; past the woodsy Bush School; skirting the Arboretum; and eventually back to my own neighborhood.

When Seattle wants to dazzle, it really knows how.  And because the days per year when such a stroll is enjoyable are numbered, my sense of joy and exhilaration today was intensified.  The old joke about hitting yourself over the head with a hammer because it feels so good when you stop rings true to some extent.  We (or at least I) need those months of Seattle gloom and rain to really appreciate the days we are experiencing now. 

You can only stare at a sunset with admiration so long before you get bored.  That's my justification for living in Seattle rather than San Diego or Honolulu.  I have to believe residents of those cities are jaded, weary of paradise, impervious to perpetual beauty.  Otherwise, why don't they walk around with permanent smiles pasted on their silly faces?

I really need to believe this.  Really, really badly.

Mr. Chairman, the proud State of Alabama ....

So here we are, two days into a hurricane-truncated Republican National Convention, and I haven't yet bothered to click on my television to watch.  Not because of  revulsion against Mitt and Paul, although I certainly feels some of that.  ("No one's ever asked to see my birth certificate!")   I probably won't be paying much more attention to the Democratic gathering, next week (I actually had to look it up just now to see exactly when the Democrats were holding theirs).

What a change over my lifetime.  I was at the beach with my family -- a skinny little kid with glasses falling down my nose -- when I first learned about conventions.  We didn't have a TV in our beach cabin, so my dad and I listened to it on the car radio.  I was mesmerized.  To me, it was as exciting as the World Series would be to more typical 12-year-olds.

Four years later, I virtually turned our basement TV room into Convention Control Central, with desk and chair, convention delegate forms and scorecards, various other written resources, and even an adding machine.  I lived in that dim room for both weeks of the two conventions, yelling at the chairmen when their rulings displeased me, hanging breathlessly onto the reports of the Credentials and Platform committees, keeping track of simmering rebellions in various state delegations and negotiations between leading candidates and "favorite sons" -- governors or senators who largely controlled their state delegations -- about swinging their states' votes to one candidate or another.

I was a 16-year-old political nerd.  It was so cool!  When did it all start to go wrong?

Blame it on the rapidly increasing use of primary elections to choose bound delegates, making surprises at the conventions less and less likely.  Blame TV announcers who found the long delays while politicians argued and bargained behind the scene -- with floor time occupied by prolonged noisy demonstrations, band music and long-winded speeches -- a waste of expensive TV time -- and thus intolerable.  (I remember Walter Cronkite grumbling  that the public (meaning himself) wasn't going to put up with this sort of nonsense much longer.)  Blame the increasing idealogical polarization of the parties, wiping out  the function of conventions as a gathering of a highly diverse party faithful from far-flung regions of the country, giving them a quadrennial opportunity to get together, talk shop, whoop it up, disagree good naturedly or bad naturedly, ultimately settle on a platform and a candidate, and go charging forth into the election, more or less united.

We don't live that way anymore.  The primary system (supplemented by those bound delegates chosen in caucus states) pre-determines the winner.  The whole process, after the primaries, could be done electronically.  Except that the two major parties have learned to love the free publicity given them by the TV networks -- the free national platform from which they can solicit the affections of the electorate -- publicity freely given back when what happened at a national convention was truly news, truly a critical step in the election of the president.

And so what we have left is a few vitriolic political speeches, in addition to the "acceptance speeches" of the two nominees.  All polished, pre-packaged, and plucked clean of any possibility of surprise.

This year, I find myself hardly bothering.  I'd rather read about it all in the paper the next morning.  And wallow, meanwhile, in nostalgia for a by-gone era of messy but meaningful national conventions.

Welcome to Everlost

Allie and Nick are 14-year-old passengers in two cars that hit head-on.  They find themselves flying through a tunnel toward a bright light. Their "bodies" collide, and they wake up in a forest.  Welcome, kids, to the world of Everlost.

When I blundered onto the Hunger Games trilogy last winter, my interest was re-awakened (moderately) in the young adult fantasy genre.  As an indirect result, this past week I finished reading the Everlost trilogy -- Everlost, Everwild, and Everfound, known more formally as the Skinjacker trilogy -- by author Neal Shusterman.

Everlost is a shadow world that overlies our own.  It's occupied only by children and teenagers, kids who for one reason or another didn't "get where they were going."  Adults apparently have better defined personas, and always "get where they're going" -- i.e., when they die, they always arrive at that bright light, whatever that bright light may portend for them.

Everlost has complex rules, as we learn together with Allie and Nick as the story progresses.  "Afterlights," as Everlost's inhabitants are known, can see what the living are doing, in a somewhat shadowy way, but the living can't see them.  Afterlights can feel objects -- like freeway traffic -- as those objects pass through them.  The sensation is a bit uncomfortable, but doesn't hurt.  Afterlights are beyond being hurt.

Allie is part of a small minority of Afterlights who can interact physically with the living world by entering the body of living humans or animals.  She "skinjacks" them. (Old fashioned folks would say she "possesses" them.) She can do so because, unlike Nick, she wasn't actually killed in the accident.  "Skinjackers" have bodies that either lie in a deep coma or are kept alive in hospitals in a vegetative state. They exist in both worlds. Until Allie's body dies, she can skinjack.

Afterlights have to keep moving, or find "dead spots" on which to stand, or gravity gradually sucks them into the earth. Once beneath the surface, they fall deeper and deeper, ultimately to the molten core where they'll remain as long as the earth remains intact.  This sounds horrible, but the Afterlights in the core, like the great majority on the surface of Everlost, find increasing delight in finding one simple but interesting activity and repeating it day after day.  One Afterlight in the core taught many of his neighbors to begin singing "One Trillion Bottles of Beer on the Wall," a song calculated to keep them amused for some years.  (This is juvenile fiction, don't forget!)

Although the great majority of Afterlights grow increasingly passive as time passes in Everlost, some preserve the ambitions and passions of their earthly lives, and by force of personality contribute to great dramas that sweep Everlost.  Allie and Nick both have their critical parts to play in these dramas -- dramas that, because of the ability of skinjackers to interact with the living world, have potentially huge consequences for the lives of both the living and the dead.

Of course, most of those who die never see Everlost.  They fly down the tunnel to the light the instant their life on earth ends.  Almost all Afterlights feel somewhat stranded in Everlost, and look forward to reaching the light. But Afterlights have no better idea than we do what they'll find, once they're there.  Afterlights wonder if the light is really Heaven of some sort, as they hope.  What if the light they remember seeing at the end of the tunnel is a world of eternal hellish fire?  What if both living and dead are ruled over by malignant deities?   Is there a deity?  Or are both Earth and Everlost parts of the fabric of an uncaring universe, a universe governed impersonally by implacable natural laws?

Shusterman tells us a lot about life and about Everlost.  But even the author doesn't know what awaits us all at the end of the tunnel. Afterlights sooner or later "get to where they are going," but no one knows exactly what that means.  Shusterman's only hint is the observation that each Afterlight, just before entering the tunnel on his way to the light, suddenly remembers everything about his earthly life that he's forgotten, and that he's observed by others to have a look of peace and delight on his face.  An instant later, before reaching the light, he vanishes from sight in Everlost.

These are highly imaginative books.  They touch on serious philosophical issues.  They describe the passive world of most Afterlights -- memories of whose pasts are failing, each absorbed in his or her own thoughts and repetitive activities -- in a way that calls to mind a vast nursing home.  But a nursing home where the falling away of ambition and curiosity brings a strange peace and happiness, and may in fact be part of the preparation for an early voyage to the light.

The books are imaginative and philosophical and moving, but they are also full of adventure, of monstrous beings, of reflections on our own society, and of at times rather funny dialogue.  In the third book, especially, Shusterman's writing sometimes calls to mind the ironic and outrageous humor of Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

What can I say?  It's "kid's lit," but I loved it.  Sometimes, youth really is wasted on the young.  You don't have to be a teenager to enjoy the Everlost trilogy.

Late summer mountain hiking

Mt. Fremont Lookout

It's been that kind of summer in the Northwest Corner.  While the rest of the nation sweltered from Global Warming, we've been chilly.  Two weeks ago, I finally did my annual climb of Mt. Si, a climb I usually do in May. 

Today, I went prowling in Mt. Rainier National Park.  It had to be one of the few really nice days we've had for hiking -- not cold and/or wet, but also not sweltering in the 90's as it was for a couple of days a week ago.  In Seattle, the forecast was for 77 degrees, and it was of course cooler at altitude.

Sunset Lodge and parking

Rather than hike in the Paradise area, as I usually do when I visit Rainier, I drove around to the northeast corner of the park and explored the trails around Sunrise Lodge.  Despite a lot of hikers, the traffic and parking were far more manageable than they are on a similar weekend at Paradise.  I arrived a little after 10 a.m., found a parking spot close to the lodge, and relaxed over a roll and coffee at the lodge's small snack bar.

Sunset Lodge is situated at an altitude of 6,400 feet -- a thousand feet higher than its cousin at Paradise.  The lodge is the highest point reachable in the park by automobile.  My goal, this year, wasn't to undertake a rigorous climb, as I did last year trudging up to Camp Muir, but simply to wander the trails, enjoy the views and wildflowers, and be glad that I lived in the Northwest.  All goals were duly accomplished. 

Frozen Lake, looking south

My planned destination was a fire lookout at Mt. Fremont, a climb to only 7,181 feet -- but because the trail goes up and down, the gross elevation gain is about 1,200 feet.  The round trip was about 5.5 miles. 

The trail is heavily traveled as far as Frozen Lake, about 1.5 miles from the lodge.  At that point, it intersects the Wonderland Trail in a five-direction intersection, so the crowds get divided among various destinations.  Also, many walkers simply make Frozen Lake their destination -- which judging from their shoes, clothes and general physical condition appeared to be a good idea.  (I hate to sound snarky -- I'm actually happy when anybody, in any physical condition, gets out of his or her car and walks any distance at all.  And Frozen Lake does provide beautiful views in itself.)

Trail to lookout (viewable in upper left)

I took the northbound trail to Mt. Fremont.  The gradient was gentle for the most part, and the hike not at all tiring.  The trail follows a ridge -- generally uphill with some areas of ups and downs.  The majority of the trail consists of easily walkable packed earth, but there is a significant portion that works its way through rock slides -- a section that requires some attention to what you're doing with your feet.  The rocks you're dancing over look like granite, but must be, in fact, broken shale.  My footsteps rang out like those of a person walking over millions of broken coke bottles at some recycling dump.

Emmons Glacier,
viewed from Second Burroughs Mountain

I had lunch at the lookout -- unmanned, but still maintained and occasionally used -- along with a number of other hikers with similarly unimaginative ideas.  Good views of Mt. Baker and Glacier Peak to the north, despite slightly hazy horizons.  The Olympics were merely a blue shadow on the western horizon, although The Brothers was discernible from the sun's shining off patches of white snow.  Someone loudly claimed he saw the Columbia Center (76 stories) in Seattle; then again, someone else probably thought he saw a flying saucer overhead but had the good sense to keep quiet about it.

It was still only about 1:00 or 1:30 when I got back to Frozen Lake, so I decided to try out another trail from the five-point intersection.  I took the Burroughs Mountain trail to the southwest.  The trail climbs to a plateau called First Burroughs Mountain, and then dips slightly before continuing upward to a much more impressive view at Second Burroughs Mountain (7,400 ft.).  Total round trip distance from Frozen Lake is only 2.6 miles.  From Second Burroughs, you feel you can reach out and scoop a snowball off the side of Rainier, and you have an excellent view of the Emmons Glacier tumbling down the east side of the mountain. 

Both trails are easy, and there were lots of children climbing along with their parents.  (And some fathers carrying pre-schoolers, which strikes me as far beyond the normal call of paternal duty.)  Enjoyable day, not all that tiring, but still a nice workout.  Total walking distance for the day: 8.1 miles.