The Life in My Years

Taking Flight: From Purgatory to Madrid

Paul

July 17, 2023

“It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression, ‘As pretty as an airport.”
― Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
It’s a constant migration. Every hour of every day of every year. A single year’s migration consists of more than 200 million travelers on over 2 million flights. Short hops and long hauls, they pass through podunk airfields and airports that are self contained cities. Not unlike the Arctic Tern, the travelers are moved by an instinct. Unlike other species that migrate for food or reproductive instincts, the travelers are driven by an impulse to see new things and new places and to meet new people.
It all seems so chaotic. Imagine if a giant hand were to peel the roof off of San Francisco International Airport. From an airliner’s eye view, the observer might think he was looking down on an ant colony. A horde scurrying in all directions, each individual with his or her own mission.
Cora and I were gliding on a moving walkway in the Dallas Fort Worth Airport, one of those city sized airports. The long steel belts can seem like a Godsend after you’ve unfurled yourself from a cramped airline seat and are faced with a trek from one end of a boundless terminal to the other end. That’s when they work. If you’ve caught a walkway that’s worn out from hauling the migration then you pack it and hack it. We’d just deplaned from San Francisco (SFO) and were headed for another terminal far, far away to catch a flight to Madrid.
As we were swept along with the mass, moving without moving, I watched a hollow eyed multitude, confused and harried, being hauled unconsciously along the steel belt and I thought of parts on an assembly line. They dragged bags, kids and the elders who couldn’t keep up, and wore polar expressions of anticipation and exhaustion.
As I glided along in my own stupor, it occurred to me that there was something Orwellian about this airport migration. Directed by LED status boards and the instructions of a spiritless omnipresent voice from unseen loudspeakers, the weary travelers reminded me of automatons; silent, weary, eyes front, unflinching and unquestioning, conveyed from one unknown point to another.
The moment we enter the airport we give ourselves and our persons over to various agents, guards, attendants, handlers, assistants and machines. From one line to another and through detectors and into a scanner that sees through our clothes but, ‘not to worry,’ we’re assured, the scanner doesn’t reveal the goodies.
When was it that the excitement, the glamor and the romance of the airport turned into a temporary layover in purgatory? Was it when armed nuts demanded that planes be diverted to Cuba? Was it Bin Laden or that other nut who tried smuggling a bomb in his shoe? Maybe it was when the airlines decided that stock prices count more than the comfort of the flying public. I mean, what’s the traveling public gonna do about it? Take the bus? I guess it’s some measure of all of it.

Mourning The New York Times Sports Section, By Guest Writer Marc David

Paul

4 comments

July 14, 2023

My good friend Marc David is a journalist, author, avid runner (he has an outlandish, blows my mind, years long streak of consecutive running days without a day off), cross-country coach, teacher’s aid and traveler. When he learned that The New York Times killed its venerable sports section and shipped the body parts to its online site, The Athletic, Marc wrote the piece below. It’s a short poignant reminiscence about his years as a sports writer, the death of The New York Times sports section and the demise of sport journalism in general.

***

When I think of the New York Times, I think of a sports department teeming with legends. I think of Red Smith, Dave Anderson, Michael Katz, Roy S. Johnson, William Rhoden, George Vecsey.

I think of a young sports writer in the 1970s approaching Red Smith at a National League playoff game at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia and introducing himself. “Mr. Smith. My name is Marc. I just wanted you to know how much I enjoy reading your articles. It is great to meet you.”

Today, the Times sports department is a thing of the past, swallowed whole by The Athletic. The Times purchased The Athletic eighteen months ago, so it is not as if those perusing the seminal newspaper’s website will go sports-less … they will be guided to another website. Still, this is the latest blow to the written word and another in a long line of counter-punches that have rocked the newspaper industry since many readers chose the Internet to get their (sports) news.

It is a sign of the times. Thirty-six years ago, I had to make a choice of taking a sports editor position at a small Caribbean daily or becoming a copy editor at the Arizona Republic. I opted for the former. Today, even if I was 36 years younger and infinitely more talented, I doubt whether any newspaper offers would come my way.

Most of us have learned to adjust. It’s a brave new world we live in today. I still write sports articles occasionally for newspapers. However, I no longer consider myself a newspaper journalist. I gave that up 11 years ago.

Lens-Artists Challenge: Simplicity

Paul

17 comments

July 12, 2023

Philo is the host for this week’s Lens Artist Challenge and he chose the topic, Simplicity.

Simplicity isn’t necessarily such a simple thing, so I decided to take my cues from the host. In his post Mr. Philo suggests making a single subject the star.

Valve wheel on a vintage locomotive

My Independence Day 2023 Struggle

Paul

25 comments

July 4, 2023

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

It’s the most quoted sentence from the Declaration of Independence, the document that America celebrates every July fourth.

When he penned those exalted words, “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness,” and the idea that “all men are created equal,” Thomas Jefferson didn’t have everyone in mind. Unalienable rights were reserved for free white men. During his lifetime, Jefferson owned over 600 enslaved people, whose “Life,” from cradle to grave, was not their own, who had no “Liberty,” and were given no opportunity for the “pursuit of Happiness.”

And while Jefferson may have put the words “all men are created equal,” to parchment, there’s evidence that Jefferson saw little humanity in the people he enslaved. Eighteen years after the Declaration, in a letter to Madame Plumard de Bellanger, Jefferson imparted some investment advice meant for a family friend, counseling the friend to invest “every farthing in lands and negroes, which besides a present support bring a silent profit of from 5. to 10. per cent in this country by the increase in their value.”

Jefferson’s apologists often turn to his public statements, calling slavery, “against the laws of nature,” “a hideous blot,” and “a moral depravity.” The problem with that is, talking a good game counts for nothing; not for those who lived in servitude nor for the historical record. Slavery may have been against nature’s laws but it certainly fit in nicely with 18th century Virginia’s laws of agrarian economics, and Jefferson was not above taking full advantage of those laws.

The Black man’s humanity didn’t come 11 years later when racism was baked into The Constitution with the three-fifths clause, stipulating that, for the purpose of representation, three out of every five enslaved people were counted towards the population of the slave holding states. It wasn’t lost on the southern states that counting a Black person as three-fifths of a man gave the southern, slave holding states, a huge leg up in the Electoral College (Five of the first seven presidents were southern slavers).

***

Monthly Monochrome: Portraits of Spain

Paul

16 comments

June 26, 2023

If I were asked to describe the face of Spain in two words I would offer, “joyful,” and “lighthearted.”

During three weeks of traveling throughout the country, whether it was in the metropolis of Barcelona or stopping for an hour in little Plasencia, I rarely saw anger or gloom or pessimism.

Okay, sure, there was that very first night in Spain and the sulky waiter at La Casa del Abuelo in Madrid. From seating, to the first portion of our meal he had the demeanor of a man who’d just sipped a bad batch of Tempranillo. It made us wonder if we’d stumbled into a nation of surly waiters. As it turned out, he’d apparently drawn the short straw and had to tend to the tourists; the greenhorns who didn’t know that in Spain, one doesn’t go to dinner at eight. He was a one man receptionist, bartender, maitre’d, waiter, cashier and busser. As reinforcements arrived, the man’s frown was turning upside down and by the time we left he was a happy chappy, bidding us a cheery “Gracias,” and offering a wave, as we left.

That half hour or so was the outlier. Everywhere we went we felt like we were in the presence of friends.

***

El Mercado San Agustín was a five minute walk from our hotel in Granada. One Saturday morning, just as the market was waking up, we wandered around the many kiosks and purveyors. Though there were few customers, the place was already bustling. As the early shift busied itself with opening, more workers streamed in. It would, like every day at the market, be a busy day.

We were standing around figuring out what to do when a young woman motioned us over and asked us if we were looking for desayuno (breakfast). She had a bright, engaging smile.
“Si,” I answered, in a tone that must have sounded a bit uncertain. What was she trying to sell us?
Almost as if by legerdemain, a menu appeared in her hand and she began pointing out the different offerings. Her smile and her joy were infectious and we followed her to a table as if she were some culinary pied piper.

As Cora and I ate our breakfast I was struck by the camaraderie and cheer. There was work to be done and the day would be long and busy, but I saw no sign of discontent or grousing. Everyone seemed happy to be there and pleased with the company of their coworkers. Shouted hellos between kiosks, gossiping with regular customers and greetings for newcomers.

The Highway 395 Chronicles: Lone Pine and The Western Movies

Paul

15 comments

June 18, 2023

The seventh in a series of occasional posts about tripping along U.S. Highway 395.

After our visit to Manzanar, Cora and I continued our trip south along Highway 395 to the last stop on our journey, Lone Pine, population 3700 and a visit to the Alabama Hills and the surrounding area.

Festus Rogers squinted at the boulder strewn ground in front of him and saw right away, that it was good ground for a man bent on ambush, and thus bad ground for him. The trail he’d been following was arrow straight as it passed through the sagebrush carpeted flats. Straight, that is, until it hit this hard land of rock-bound gullies. Here the trail twisted past boulders and around odd rock formations. The path narrowed, grew faint in spots and nearly disappeared in others, as it rose and fell with the contours of that hilly terrain. It was as if the almighty had thrown a tantrum sometime during creation and just decided to toss boulders around willy-nilly. After making his way through a few switchbacks, Rogers pulled up the reins on his horse Jaspar, “Woah.” Festus took off his wide brimmed hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dusty sleeve, leaving a streak of dirt on his brow. “It’s hotter n’ the devil’s griddle,” he said, before taking a pull from his canteen. Festus scanned the bluffs above. He’d been bounty hunting enough to know that his quarry, a named Kincaid, would probably make his stand in this Satan’s garden in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert. Kincaid was wanted for a string of robberies and killings from Tucson to Albuquerque to Las Cruces. Now he was on the run, headed for Ciudad Juarez, where Kincaid would be a free man, spending his ill gotten gains on tequila and senoritas “Helluva a place for an ambush, ain’t it, Jaspar,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. He pulled the Winchester 30-30, from its scabbard, double checked that it was loaded and then laid it across the pommel of his saddle. Festus then pulled his Colt revolver, and checked the six chambers to make sure the big pistol was loaded. He ran a finger along his gun belt feeling the lead slugs. He knew he was well armed, he just needed that tactile reassurance. Satisfied, Festus gave Jaspar a little nudge with his boot and rode on. Trusting Jaspar to make his way along the trail, Festus scanned the crags and natural hideouts and lairs. He knew Kincaid was lying in wait. It was only a matter of time before the outlaw would make himself known. Festus didn’t have to wait long. As Jaspar rounded a long curve in the trail, Festus heard the crack of a rifle shot and ducked instinctively. The ping and whine of the ricochet to his left told Festus that Kincaid was in the boulders off to the right. He jumped from Jaspar and took cover behind a boulder.
“That you, Kincaid?”
“It is Rogers. I been a feelin’ you trackin’ me. I’m gonna end it between us here and now.”
“Give yourself up Kincaid. Just make it easy on the both of us. I don’t wanna have to kill ye, but the reward money is just as green whether I bring you in dead or alive.”

Lone Pine, Alabama Hills, Hollywood and the horse operas
Ah, the old ambush scene. If, like me, you’re a fan of Westerns, then you’ve probably watched a similar scene played out in any number of movies and TV shows. The old box canyon ambush is a staple of Westerns, and there’s a better than even chance that the one you saw was shot in the Alabama Hills just west of the town of Lone Pine.

Warning: Use of this device could result in serious injury or death to the operator

Paul

16 comments

June 9, 2023

“Renowned Bay Area wildlife photographer robbed of camera at gunpoint outside of Oakland park.”

That was the headline of a story in the June 5th edition of The San Francisco Chronicle.

I was initially made aware of this story while watching the local television news (link here). Stories of photographers getting relieved of their prized, and very expensive equipment, while still relatively rare, are becoming more and more prevalent, and each new story gives me more pause.

This most recent story has left me shaken. Maybe it’s because of the fact that the photographer is in his early seventies and I’m right on the cusp of seventy. It wasn’t so many years ago that I felt less vulnerable. Now, in my older age, I’ve begun to appreciate the feeling of vulnerability that can dog those of us who are getting up there. In retrospect, whatever fearlessness that I might have felt during my younger days was grounded in a large measure of foolishness. Regardless of age, we’re all potential victims, especially when we’re packing around thousands of dollars worth of photographic equipment. Or maybe it’s just that, over the years, trying to go about a normal life has become more and more dangerous.

Maybe it’s the location of the incident that’s left me rattled. Joaquin Miller Park is high in the hills above Oakland’s urban center, part of a chain of forested regional parks where I used to go running. That I’ve always considered the regional parks to be crime free havens is another example of misplaced assurance (just ask any female jogger who carries pepper spray or has as her running partner a large dog with a large set of teeth).

There are few things that I enjoy as much as going out on a photo excursion, but, as I hear more and more stories of photographers being mugged, the enjoyment wanes as trepidation increases.

SPAIN: BEGINNING AT THE END. The Photo Tour of El Born

Paul

8 comments

June 6, 2023

A photo accompaniment to the post Spain: Beginning at the End

It’s Sunday, our last day in Barcelona. Cora is sitting in on Sunday mass at Iglesia De Santa Maria del Mar, a grand 14th century church in the Ribera District. It’s an opportunity for both of us. It’s been three weeks since she’s been able to attend mass and what better place than in such a grand and splendid church. For me, it’s an opportunity to strike out and explore.

After walking a few blocks I glance off to my right and see a narrow street that’s barely more than an alley. It’s another of those tight lanes that have attracted me since we arrived in Madrid three weeks ago. In America, I might hesitate to step into such a mysterious, narrow, sun starved little street. Here in Barcelona, there’s no anxiety. These little streets have always led to some treasure or another and on this early afternoon, I’m not disappointed. I’ve discovered the portal to El Born and its outdoor gallery of street art.

Spain’s cities and towns contain webs of little streets and alleys and I’ve found that it isn’t hard to get lost. And that’s a good thing. Getting lost is the best way to discover hidden gems and accidentally wander away from the places where tourists roam. Within minutes, you’ve gone from a noisy street to a stone quiet passage where all you hear is the splish of your footsteps in the remnants of the previous night’s rain, and maybe a few stray notes of a conversation coming from a window above. You round a corner to hear the clatter of plates and glad voices coming from a little bar. Round another bend and it’s quiet again.

During closing hours, most storefronts are shuttered with corrugated steel rollup doors, and most of those doors are turned into after-hours canvasses by would-be artists, from taggers to accomplished muralists.

In El Born, as in many other of Barcelona’s districts, it isn’t just the corrugated doors that get a coat of urban art. Below, two works of art compliment each other; a fine old door polished by age and the work of a street artist.

Monthly Monochrome (and LAPC): The Messages in Buildings

Paul

21 comments

May 30, 2023

Anne, of Slow Shutter Speed may have been reading my mind when she came up with this week’s topic for the Lens-Artists Photo Challenge. For months I’ve been rat holing my photos of buildings, all the while meaning to incorporate them into a Monthly Monochrome post.

This week, Anne chose the topic — Buildings.

Maybe Anne was saying, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?”

At least that’s the message that I got.

Buildings. They don’t simply house people and businesses and things. They also house messages. Certainly, the architect had a message in mind when he/she was sitting at the drafting table or in front of the computer. And just as certainly we have our own interpretation of a message when we look at a structure.

Trujillo, Spain.
Sometimes the message is clear, concise and straightforward.

High on a hill, a castle looms above the town of Trujillo, in Spain. Built between the 9th and 12th centuries the message encased inside the castle’s huge blocks is, ‘proceed at your own peril.’

It was less than a month ago that Cora and I visited this castle. On a hot day, it’s a prodigious climb from the modern and, frankly less interesting, flatlands to the promontory. In a sense the climb is like time travel. Once the flats were around the corner behind us, it was as if we’d crossed into the Middle Ages. As we proceeded up the hill, through a maze of narrow streets, we passed buildings that got progressively older.

Trujillo castle

Spain: Beginning at the End

Paul

12 comments

May 26, 2023

It’s early morning in Barcelona. Without looking out the hotel window I can tell by the sound of cars sloshing through puddles 3 floors below on Via Laietana that it rained again last night,

We’re staying in the Hotel H10 Cubik in Barrio Gótico, just around a long corner from La Rambla. Like its name suggests, the Cubik’s decor and brutalist architecture plays with geometric shapes, and, in the lobby, plenty of mirrors. There’s also a vast library in the lobby that is more for show than for guests to actually select books from to read. I mean, you’re in a four star hotel in Barcelona and you’re sitting in the lobby reading? The lobby is also dotted with glass vessels that contain gummi candies. During our first two Barcelona mornings, before Cora gets up, I’ve been going down to the lobby to have coffee, rob the glass jars of handfuls of candy and read. So there you have it. I’m staying in a four star hotel in Barcelona and I’m having coffee and candy and reading in the lobby. Loser.

Beginning on the third morning the serve yourself coffeemaker has disappeared from the lobby. That’s a problem because I’ve found that in Spain it can be hard to score an early morning cup of coffee. True, early morning can be a relative thing, but my morning clock is clearly at odds with Spain’s morning clock. For me, early is 4:00, 4:30 is tolerable, 5:30 is just about right and if I’m rising at 7, well, I’ve overslept. Unless you’ve got a personal coffeemaker, 6 AM coffee in Spain is as hard to find as a bologna on white bread sandwich (not that I’ve had occasion to seek out the latter). This morning, I’ve gone beyond oversleeping. It’s 7:20 and Google tells me that there’s a Starbucks that opens at 7:30 and just a few minute’s walk from the hotel (Yes, not satisfied with exporting the king, the clown and the chicken colonel, America has also exported the siren).

The skies are clear as I step out onto the sidewalk. It’s been intermittent rain for all four days that we’ve been in Barcelona and the forecast is for rain later in the afternoon. Still I’m hoping, but not too confident, that the day will be free of rain. I’m also hoping, but not too confident, that Google Girl will actually lead me to Starbucks. It should be easy an easy shot, just up Via Laietana and across Ronda de Sant Pere, but Google Girl can turn easy into impossibly lost, within the space of half a block. I’ve dutifully, and foolishly followed her instructions and right in the middle of a dark block, Google Girl announces, “You have arrived.”

“Google, you’re such a dumbass.”

I do a reset and run another fool’s errand that takes me to another mysterious corner of Via Laietana. One or two more runs at it and once again I’ve proven that old definition of insanity as “doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

Bag the coffee.

By the time I’m back to the room, Cora is up and ready to go.

Go where? That’s the question.

From the start, months ago, when I was laying out an itinerary, this last day in Spain would be an open, let’s just do something on the fly, kind of day. And it still is.

Quirky but comfortable. The H10 Cubik

Lobby at the H10 Cubik

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