A Healthy Obsession

I admit to being mildly obsessed with bicycles. I have a friend who is (or at least was) mildly obsessed with toucans. He once owned them, studied them, read about them and collected books about them. However it was now time for him to downsize and I willingly accepted his invitation to help sell a treatise of his, entitled Monograph of the Ramphastidae by John Gould. It quickly became apparent that this was not your usual eBay item and before long, I embarked on a sleuth’s trail to establish the book’s true value and to determine how best to sell it.

The value of this particular volume was hopefully enhanced by its provenance: it had been purchased by, or for, Philippe, Count of Flanders (1837 – 1905), 2^nd son of Leopold I of Belgium. The Count's Royal monogram was on the cover.

I talked to both Sotheby’s and Christies in New York, several dealers on the East Coast and Henry Sotheran in London. The latter dealer had purchased most of Gould’s residual inventory and lithographic plates etc. following his death in 1881 and is unquestionably the world’s leading authority on him. Although very valuable, the book was not of a rarity that would justify shipping it to London and, taking Sotheran’s advice, I then contacted Donald Heald in New York.

Heald is a specialist in 19^th century natural history lithographs. Based on what little pricing data I could find, I made the assumption that the “retail” value of the book was about $60,000. Given that an informed bidder would discount the book by the 25% buyer’s premium at auction and then taking the 11.5% seller’s premium/handling into account, that would result in net proceeds of about $39,800, assuming it sold as expected. It seemed to make sense to give Heald first “kick at the can”. Once I had convinced a reluctant UPS to accept the book for overnight delivery to New York, Donald Heald was able to make a cash offer of $40, 000 which I thought was fair. My friend duly accepted the offer and the cash was wire-transferred to his account within 24 hours. Mission accomplished.

A brief encounter with a civil war

After Sharon & I got married, our first overseas assignment together was to Mogadishu. At that time (1987), the Somali capital was a sleepy Arab-African port city on the ancient trade routes from Zanzibar to India via Kenya and Aden. It was a safe city, we had a pretty splendid house (less splendid when we had no water and/or electricity) and we were able to make friends fairly quickly.

The first sign of trouble for us was in 1988 with the bombing of the Isaaq population in the northern city of Hargeisa by South African & ex-Rhodesian mercenary pilots on President Siad Barre’s payroll. These air attacks claimed tens of thousands of casualties. Although there had been some trouble in Mogadishu when, in July 1989, the Italian Bishop Pietro Salvatore Colombo, had been killed, we assumed that Barre had things under control in the capital.

Later that month, Sharon was invited to a Somali wedding and I took a newly-transferred expat administrator and his wife to lunch at a beach restaurant in the city. One of the waiters mysteriously said that we should lay low that afternoon but I had no idea what he meant. Driving back to the Amoco staff house, we ran into a huge crowd of exited Somalis running towards us.  It soon became clear why. They were fleeing “technicals” (small trucks with mounted machine guns) that were indiscriminately firing on them. Amazingly, some Somalis took the time to stop and pick up rocks with which to stone our vehicle and that only added to the chaos. Deciding that this was no place to be, I spun the Landcruiser around, headed for ”bush” and then made a wide detour back to the staff house. Only hours ago I had been telling the new expats what a safe place Mogadishu was and so when I yelled at them to get down flat on the on the Landcruiser floor, my credibility suffered somewhat.

I found out later that Sharon had gone to meet some of her friends and co-workers at USAID before going to the wedding but once the gunfire started, the US Marines forbid any of the Embassy staff to leave the compound where they were relatively safe. It was the next day before she was escorted back to our staff house. Phone service in Mogadishu was always pitiful and so the Embassy allowed her to bring a VHF radio with her to allow us to keep in touch with State Department staff.

I managed to coral all Amoco personnel at the staff house and we implemented a Company curfew that was one hour “tighter” than the official one that was imposed in the mornings and evenings in response to the rioting by the Hawiye clan. It later transpired that hundreds had been killed in the protests. 

It was a surreal time for us. Gun and mortar-fire all around, a finite amount of food and minimal communication with the outside world and no knowing what the outcome of this crisis would be. Across the street we saw another foreigner's house being looted and I knew that we had no real protection in our own staff house. Neither the walls nor the “guards” would offer any protection if it came to the crunch. As it turned out the residents of the looted house were inside at the time, hiding in wardrobes. They later managed to get across to the street to us where I reluctantly offered them refuge. Reluctant because they were actually missionary workers purporting to be teachers; that is why their house had been targeted. Would the same thing now happen to us?

Siad Barre cracked down hard on the Hawiye dissidents in Mogadishu with dozens of extrajudicial executions on Jezeira Beach. For the next few months, things quieted down but still with odd outbursts of unrest and violence although we were able to return to our own houses. Ironically and somewhat surprisingly, I do not recall being really “scared” during the tumult although we certainly should have been. Before too long my own transfer to Denver was announced and we did manage to ship our belongings out of the country. With the help of a “facilitator”, we eventually got permission from the teetering Government to bring in the Amoco plane from Kenya. It quietly slipped in before dawn one morning and we left just as the sun was rising.  An Amoco administrator in Nairobi had gone over to the pilots’ house the night before with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. It made an oddly surreal breakfast as the small plane climbed away from the doomed city and we left Somalia behind forever. Not too long thereafter, the country collapsed into total anarchy from which it has never recovered.

David Hockney and Me

Back in the “Days of Noah” (mid-60s) I used to hitch-hike up and down the M1 from university to my mother’s house in Yorkshire. Generally a safe and uneventful mode of transport, usually aided by the wearing of a college scarf to reassure drivers that I was harmless. I have various memories of these days but the one that I like to share is as follows. I was picked up by a guy in a fairly non-descript car that turned out to be a rental. Making conversation was part of the “deal”; it was a reasonable assumption that most drivers wanted company. The driver looked vaguely familiar but it was only after he told me that he lived in the USA and was an artist that I recognized David Hockney.

He was also on his way to see his mum ..… in near-by Bingley and he was gracious enough to drive me all the way to Riddlesden.

Coincidentally, he and I had gone to the same grammar school (at different times) though he had left at the earliest opportunity and transferred first to to Bradford College of Art and then to the Royal School of Art in London. He did remember “Jock” Gross, an English teacher who was perhaps the only member of staff at school who truly appreciated Hockney's genius.

There was at one time a large oil of Hockney’s on a school classroom wall. I assume it is now in a safer place. One of his paintings fetched almost $8 million in 2009. What a pity I did not finagle a signed sketch from him.

La Crema is what it takes: true espresso

There are, in my opinion, precious few coffee shops in Austin that truly know how to make espresso drinks.

One common denominator between those that do, is that they all use “La Marzocco”machines. The company was founded by Giuseppe Bambi in 1927 and with their professional machines costing around $12000, they are not for the fiscally faint-hearted.

For the consumer, one critical characteristic that distinguishes “OK” from “Exceptional” espresso is the Crema. “It is part of the visual allure of espresso, the aromatics, the mouth-feel, the flavor and long-lasting aftertaste of espresso. In its technical definition, crema is gas bubbles suspended in a liquid film that has high surface tension between the water molecules. Crema should be compact and persistent: it should last a full two minutes before the suspended water molecules drain, the entrapped gas is released and the liquid underneath shows through.”

Sadly, nearly all coffee shops offer just froth which is a pathetic imitation of the true product.

And the winners are:

Café Medici (1101 West Lynn & 2222 B Guadalupe St)

JP's Java (2803 San Jacinto Blvd.)

Once Over Coffee (2009 South First Street).

Its rather sad that so many wonderful children’s’ books do not appear to have survived from one generation to another. Of course there are endless examples of those that do: Peter Rabbit, Pooh, Wind in the Willows, all the Edith Nesbit titles, Frances Hodgson Burnett (very yuky though the Secret Garden was OK; set in Yorkshire, of course), Tolkein and Noel Streatfield.

Some, such as Rupert, Swallows and Amazons, Little Grey Rabbit and the Just William series seem to be kept alive only by those who were childhood afficandos years ago. Other titles were shamed into oblivion such as Epaminondas, Little Black Sambo and most of the Enid Blyton material (though the latter seems to have remarkable resilience).

But what about the others? I was lucky: I grew up in a home with three siblings and all of us were encouraged to read, read, read. From my elder brother’s books I was able to enjoy My Friend Mr. Leakey, The Log of the Ark and Golden Island.

All minor classics in their time but now most likely out-of-print.

My favorite from my sister’s titles was the Family from One-End Street which does seem to be a survivor though heavily criticized for its class stereo-typing.

From my own childhood there are Ditta’s Tree, the Meeting Pool and Roger Lancelyn Green’s retelling of the ancient classics. Now long disappeared from most bookshelves. My younger brother added Stig of the Dump, also a survivor, to my inventory.

“Children Catching Criminals” seems to be a favorite theme that transcended all our generations: Emil & the Detectives (1929), the very similar Otterbury Incident (1948) and A Hundred Million Francs (1958) all tell essentially the same tale and these three seem to be still around.

And what of the more recent material? Will Harry Potter be around fifty years from now?

One Big Mother

Sharon claimed that she had seen the biggest turtle in Texas down on Shoal Creek. Ever skeptical, I had to wonder. Sometimes her Patrick genes resulted in just a few teeny-weeny exaggerations. I never saw him. I took friends to see him and he was never there. However, lured by the mandatory stale bread he finally did appear today . Maybe not the biggest but certainly One Big Mother. Check out his smaller buddy who was no midget. p.s. the last guy in the pictures was another guy ..... quite big but not a true giant.

Reflections on a week in Tibet

Two weeks business in Beijing in April meant that Sharon and I could plan for something we never did when living there in the 90s …… visit Tibet, the Shangri-La of literature and film. We had made a decision not to visit South Africa in her apartheid days but had made an inconsistent trip to Myanmar in the 1990s. Would not visiting Tibet make any kind of statement? Presumably not.

The first week in the capital allowed us to reacquaint ourselves with the cultural nuances of China. The highlight was when Sharon, her excellent Mandarin notwithstanding, failed in her attempts to persuade officers of the local police station to wash and iron our clothes. The laundry was actually two doors further down the street. As the week progressed, her team of playmates gradually gathered.

The flight for me to Lhasa was memorable in only two ways. In Beijing airport I saw the Mongolian farmer who has at one time been the world’s tallest man, authenticated by the Guinness Book of Records. http://www.thetallestman.com/baoxishun.htm

I refrained from asking for my photograph with Bao as I felt sorry for him and did not want to perpetuate the freak-show environment that he must constantly live in. Dozens of other airport users were not so restrained.

The other thing that was very noticeable was how many of the young, petite and attractive Air China cabin attendants had “round eyes”. That particular brand of cosmetic surgery must have become “de rigor” in China these days. Yet another reflection on our media-driven perception of beauty.

The Peoples’ Republic of China invaded Tibet in 1951 (officially the “Peaceful Liberation”) and have been pursuing a policy of assimilation with the Han ever since. This effort was compounded during the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) when Red Guards wreaked havoc on many of Tibet’s Buddhist temples and monasteries. Things got worse after the completion of the Qinghai-Tibet rail link (the world’s highest railroad) in 2006. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/5133220.stm

The counter-argument, of course, is that the Tibet of old was truly a brutal and repressive feudal system and that the opening of the country has indeed created a more egalitarian society and fostered economic growth.

Central Tibet presents an arid and seemingly barren countryside. The magnificent Himalayas were too far to the south for us to see, although some of the hills surrounding Lhasa were still capped with late-spring snow. Most of the sights we visited were Buddhist: the Dali Llama’s Potala winter palace, the temples and the monasteries. The Chinese are masters at wholly convincing restoration. Although many of the institutions were founded as far back as the 7^th century, it was often difficult to distinguish sections that were original from those that have been restored in the 80s and 90s. Perhaps a period of remorse?

We did develop a better appreciation of Tibetan Buddhism but the role of the monks in society appears to be becoming more confused, perhaps even controversial. Whereas the monasteries were traditionally centers of learning and medicine, it is becoming harder these days to understand their place in modern Tibet. The monasteries and temples are funded by contributions from working people, most of whom can ill-afford it but who are willing to make the sacrifice for spiritual insurance. We were told by our Tibetan guide that the monasteries’ incumbents make little practical contribution to the earthly well-being of their “flock”. It was not uncommon to see bored monks texting their friends during the chanting sessions. Hardly earning their keep. The exception seemed to be the one nunnery that we visited, where we did get a sense that the nuns were perhaps more engaged with the country’s society of today.

Our visit to Tibet was probably at least twenty years too late, at least as far as Lhasa and the surrounding towns are concerned, with the PLA now patrolling most major streets. Seeing a recent documentary on Tibet convinced me that it is still possible to see the “real thing” but that this needs to be done with an adventure tour group which takes you way beyond the Lhasa region which is gradually converging on becoming a typical mainstream Chinese city. Of course there were the little cultural vignettes. The yaks and the yak butter:

Our idiosyncratic (and sadly lacking) Cool Yak hotel and the oddities in the market. I bet the teeth are cheaper than Texas.

Our return to Beijing was via the two-day train ride on which we saw small herds of both the Tibetan wild asses and small grey antelope. Other than having to negotiate constantly-flooded toilet-facilities, it was a smooth and relaxing experience, allowing me to read the whole of Bill Bishop’s “The Big Sort”. The cultural vignette that closed this trip to China, perhaps our last, was when Sharon and I went for an Italian meal on our last night. She picked up two breadsticks and absently-mindedly tried to use them as chopsticks.

People Like Us

In 2008, Sharon and I spent a considerable amount of money to move from San Antonio’s 78209 zip code (the affluent and very conservative Terrill Hills/Alamo Heights subdivision) to the 78256 zip code (Rosedale, one of Austin’s more liberal enclaves). Voluntarily relinquishing our supposedly elite “09-er” status, we had just “sorted ourselves”.

Fast forward to April of this year when we took the two-day train ride from Lhasa to Beijing. This, the longest railway journey I have ever undertaken, allowed me to read Bill Bishop’s “The Big Sort” which documents the dramatic acceleration of the cultural and political division of America society over the last thirty years. This has been a process of self-selection whereby those that have the means to do so, have chosen to live in areas where everybody thinks and lives like they do.

This process manifests itself in many ways: voting preferences, educational beliefs, principles of child rearing, opinions on major social issues, environmental concerns etc. This is not a new phenomenon, people have been seeking out their own for millennia. However it is the pace and degree of this segregation that Bishop claims is so remarkable. Savvy advertisers, the Evangelical church and the Republican Party in 2004 have been quick to understand and exploit the Big Sort, effectively identifying and targeting potential customers and constituents.

Another manifestation of this change is that the rule of “all or nothing” is now rigorously enforced. If you are to be embraced as a true conservative then you must subscribe to all their tenets. The same is no less true to be considered a reliable liberal. Having a diverse range of opinion seems to be becoming less acceptable to both sides. Ironically, this leads, perhaps, to a valid accusation of hypocrisy on the part of the left. Whereas the more liberal sections of society claim to embrace diversity in all its forms (gender, age, race, sexual preferences), they are often unwilling to consider the opinions of their political opposition. One could argue that much of the far right make no such claims of diversity in the first place. In either case, it makes it extremely difficult (sadly) to engage in intelligent discussion of the issues without rancor or even hatred.

Things get worse. Sociologists and psychologists argue that tribal grouping in of itself can lead to even further intolerance, conflict and eventually self-destruction. At the very least, in means that reaching a consensus on the major issues of the day becomes increasingly less likely. True moderates and independent voters are becoming endangered species and straight-ticket voting becomes the norm.

Though a well-researched book which presumably relies on sound statistical data, “The Big Sort” was clearly written by a liberal. Bishop has, of course, already sorted himself into Austin’s Travis Heights. What is not quite clear is whether he “blames” the right wing for the “Sort” or whether he acknowledges that it is indeed a truly bi-partisan phenomenon.

"Appalachian Clogging Board" Prototype I

Built to withstand the rigours of an Appalachian Clogger doing her thing.

Internal and external steel reinforcing brackets. Not a nail in the whole thing.

Now if only we could get the Coefficient of Friction of the wood surface just right ..........

Greener Every Day

I guess being in (very green) Austin, it was only a matter of time before composting took its place in our lives.

Relatively high tech ??????

Box for the Owl Family

Here is the new owl box thanks to Steve (construction) and Chris (installation)

Now we just have to wait for Mr or Mrs Owl.

Silly Songs

What else do you do while in the last stages of a 55-mile bike ride and you are struggling into a ferocious headwind? Sing silly songs of course. And then you enter into a debate as to whether more of these silly songs originated on one side of the Atlantic or another. Check them out and see how silly one can be.

Pink Toothbrush Blue Toothbrush. Max Bygraves (UK). From the London Docklands. Sharon claims I sang this to her during our courting days but the Truth-o-meter might have a problem with that.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4l-NrckIJk

Seven Little Girls. Paul Evans (USA). Would these lyrics even pass the censors today? Evans was also well known for morbid car-crash songs!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwREhIEhIuE

Telephone Man. Meri Wilson (USA). A song with “with suggestive lyrics and a breathy squealing voice”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qO18k215gpk

Lollipop. Chordettes (USA).

canon.com/support-hub/win/redirect?pr=ij&id=sfssetup

And I can’t bring myself to link “Yummy Yummy Yummy, I’ve got Love in my Tummy” so I will close with a rhyme that is not on YouTube:

I wish I were a little grub

With whiskers round my tummy.

I'd climb into a honey pot

And make my tummy gummy.

PLEASE RAISE YOUR GLASSES TO THE MEMORY OF IGUANA

Crowder and Sylvia are two of our best friends in Austin. Unfortunately, Christmas brought sadness to their household because the Iguana died. Crowder “inherited” him (her?) on the Rice campus back in the mid 90s and Iguana (no name?) had lived with him ever since. At Rice, Iguana had been famous:

http://www.media.rice.edu/media/NewsBot.asp?MODE=VIEW&ID=4955&SnID=2

No knowing how old Iguana was ….. maybe fifteen years or so which is older than the “norm”, no knowing where it was born or from whence it came. It occupied Crowder’s bathroom for a while but eventually was promoted to its own cage, courtesy of Craig’s List ….. ….. perhaps at Sylvia’s insistence (wanted: one Iguana cage)?

Anyway, Iguana has now left Crowder with an empty cage and for that we are truly very sorry. RIP, Iguana.