A Small Time Mariner’s Voyage- Day 1: California Musings

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October 11, 2014, San Diego-I set out for San Diego on Friday night, actually, from this point in a town called Chino Valley, AZ, where a few of us played musical instruments and sang as a send-off for what I hope is my last journey out of the Four Corners region, for a while. I love the journey, but have a hard time with the backlash from those who don’t get that I actually care about them. The fact that these are family members doesn’t make it any easier. Maybe once they see that I am staying close to home, and am working as hard as they are, things will get better between us.

Now, back to the subject at hand. My friends, the Brehmers, were hosts at the jumping-off gathering.

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As I drove across Arizona’s Outback, it was notable that two towns with which I am familiar, Wenden and Salome, had been drenched by the remnants of Hurricane Simon. These towns in the western Sonora Desert are normally bone-dry. Yesterday and today were different, though.

I got to Blythe, on the Colorado River, and stopped for the night, at Relax Inn. It was a bit sultry, as the AC had quit, but I slept well, anyway. This morning, I got up, ate a quick breakfast at Steaks and Cakes, and blazed to San Diego- getting into town around 3 PM.

This weekend, America’s Hometown celebrates Oktoberfest AND Italian Heritage Days, so rooms were at a premium, and scarce. I got a spot at Premier Inn, on Pacific Coast Highway, near Old Town, and set out for Little Italy, taking my first ride on San Diego’s trolley. One of my favourite Italian restaurants, Filippi’s, awaited, as did the Chalk Art Festival, stretching from India Street to Amici Park.

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The presence of lilacs, and of Italian cypress trees, adds a grand ambiance to the already bellissimo Little Italy.

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After an especially fabulous meal at the never-disappointing Filippi’s, I ended the evening with a walk over to Horton Plaza, in the heart of downtown. The shopping mecca now has its own obelisk.

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San Diego is never a disappointment. The day ahead would bring me to another city which holds out promise in that regard: Honolulu.

The Secular Amid The Sacred: A Journey to Salt Lake City, Part IV

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September 19-20, 2014- I made the short drive from Salt Palace to the Utah State Capitol complex, on the Friday afternoon of the the convention. Like many Capitol buildings, Utah’s is built in the style of ancient Greece and Rome, with a cupola in the middle. It is smaller than some, but every bit as majestic in its approach.

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The area was deserted, save for a lone young Native American man, who had planted himself in front of the central vantage point for photographing the building. Thus, everyone who wanted such a photo would have to include him in the shot, or at least ask his leave, before photographing. I had no such designs, and chose the northeastern angle for making my photograph. Some days, I’m more isolationist than others.

Across the street are the Old Salt Lake City Hall, and the 18th Ward Chapel. Mormons refer to their “parishes” as “wards”. The ward building was moved here from further down the hill, so as to make room for a larger civic project, while preserving the older building.

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A two-sided memorial to the Mormon pioneers is also on the Capitol grounds.

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As another reader pointed out yesterday, Mormon families are especially proud of ancestors who were pioneers that pulled a hand cart, in the process of settlement. I set my vehicle towards one more night at Wasatch Inn, and a fish dinner at Coachmans.

The next day, once the Convention was officially over, I forewent a post-convention concert, and headed for home. One stop was left, at the well-lit LDS temple in Manti, a small, but thriving farming community, about two hours south of Salt Lake City.

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I learned immense amounts of information during those three days, all of it practical. Essential oils will loom large in my life, over the next several years.

A Gleaming Citadel: A Journey to Salt Lake City, Part III

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Sept. 19-20, 2014- Lunch hours at the the convention ran two hours. On Friday, this gave me the chance to revisit Temple Square, home to the grand edifices and garden of the Mormon Faith. The health systems and personal health regimen espoused by the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints are the impetus to the essential oils movement. So, although I follow another Faith (Baha’i) which prescribes strict adherence to healthy life practices, I am very appreciative of the Mormons’ dedication to a better world.

I first visited these buildings in 1999, during an educational seminar at the University of Utah. I got to engage a few people in the Tabernacle Visitors’ Center about spiritual matters, but did not photograph the complex. On the latest visit, I was able to enter the Salt Lake City Tabernacle and the Tabernacle Chapel, but, as is customary, I did not enter the Mormon Tabernacle itself.

Here are some views of the sights in Temple Square. The first is the Tabernacle Chapel, approached from the west.

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Upon entering Temple Square, the first sight is the excellent Genealogical Research Center, open to all.

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The Mormon Tabernacle stands on the northeast quadrant of the complex, and carries its share of majesty.

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The Tabernacle Chapel is open to visitors, and young people serving their mission to the Church serve as hosts and guides. A couple of young women from Taiwan were hosts on the day I visited.

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I next strolled the garden, before taking a brief look inside Salt Lake City Tabernacle, a domed structure, which houses the headquarters of the local LDS community.

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Most of the statues in the garden are esoteric to the theology of the Mormon Faith. This statue of a Utah pioneer, however, speaks to the striving of many, regardless of Faith.

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This is the exterior of Salt Lake City Tabernacle.

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Here is its interior, similar to, but slightly larger than, the Chapel.

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There were many other visitors during this lunch period, including several of my fellow Conventioneers, but it was a serene and peaceful visit. Regardless of one’s personal creed, an appreciation of the gifts offered by such as the Mormons benefits everyone.

NEXT:  The Utah State Capitol and adjoining buildings

The Sheer Essentials: A Journey to Salt Lake City, Part II

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September 18-20, 2014- The Salt Palace, and Energy Solutions Arena (home of the Utah Jazz, are imposing, spacious edifices. We were able to switch from one venue to the other, on alternating days, this year. Next year, both structures will be used simultaneously, for each day of the Convention.

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I started off the day with a lovely breakfast of Swedish pancakes, stuffed with lingonberries, and sausage patties. Coffee was bracing and delicious. Though Utah is not known as a haven for coffee drinkers, or alcoholic beverage drinkers, for that matter, I had no trouble getting a satisfying cup of joe, nor did anyone desiring a nip or three seem to have to go without. Coachmans Diner and Pancake House is a large, clean establishment, with hearty meals throughout the day and evening.

The sessions on Days 1 &2 stressed the importance this company attaches to our voluntary adherence to safe preparation and use of essential oils. What makes these products Certified Therapeutic Grade is the total lack of additives in all our offerings. Here are some caveats: Parents using the oils on their children need to exercise common sense. Oils like oregano and peppermint, being harsh, need to be cut with coconut oil, before being given to people, such as children and seniors, with sensitive constitutions. Check the label, and if the oil is supposed to be used TOPICALLY, do NOT take it ORALLY.  More is not better; too much of an oil will counteract the desired effect.

The free market is a good thing, for essential oils, as well as most other products. No matter what brand you use, do exercise due diligence in your purchase. I, for one, will always vet my product, to make sure it’s worthwhile for the customer. Our mantra is: The long-term goal of essential oils use is WELLNESS. Essential oils are not snake oils.

Coming back from lunch on Thursday, I spotted a robotic plane (not a drone), controlled by a hand-held remote, coming in for a landing outside Salt Palace. No innocent bystanders were either scared or hurt in the lunch-time festivities.SAM_2831 Nearby, there is also the pleasant-looking Maurice Abravenel Music Hall.

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Salt Lake City spares no expense in providing cultural enrichment to the citizenry. In 1857, Devereaux House was built, as a literary salon and public meeting place. It remains an historic site, open to reserved, guided tours.

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Day 3 was another series of product demonstrations and celebrations of individual and collective personal achievements. This is as good a place as any to hone one’s self-sufficiency and health & wellness skills.

Here are a supply of prizes, a parade of hard working oils consultants, and a Youth Choir providing the closing songs. It was a solid three days of instruction for those like me, who are not always brimming with good business sense.

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Next, I will close with scenes from visits to Temple Square and Utah’s own Capitol Hill.

Navajo Tacos, Urban Nomads and Essential Oils- A Journey to Salt Lake City: Part One

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September 17-20, 2014– There are a number of interests which have presented themselves to me, in the past three years. The latest such is the wellness-inducing power of essential oils,when used properly. Let’s be clear: Therapeutic Grade Essential Oils can, and do, relieve many conditions. They cannot be said to cure communicable, or progressive-degenerative diseases. With that said, I share some snippets of my recent attendance at a business convention, in Salt Lake City.

I set out around 10 AM, on September 17, with the goal of getting up to Salt Lake by 10 PM. The first stop, for lunch at Cameron Trading Post, about 50 miles north of Flagstaff, brought me back to an old stomping ground. I worked in the Tuba City Public Schools for five years, in the early 1980’s. We had several visits to Cameron, an interesting Navajo crafts center situated on a bluff above the Little Colorado River and always enjoyed the traditional dishes available at the restaurant there. It has become a favourite stop for busloads of retirees, as well. On this day, there were seventy people in a group ahead of me, so I moved to the side of the scrum that was closest to the Host’s station, and got him to seat me at a table by the west wall. Time was a factor.

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The interior of the dining room, in which I enjoyed a “fill-you for the day” Navajo taco, is preserved from its Victorian-era beginnings. Not wanting to disturb other patrons during their lunch, I took these shots of the wall near my table,and of the glass ceiling- one occasion when that term is not offensive. By the way, a Navajo taco is a hybrid dish, using fry bread (itself devised by enterprising Native Americans of various tribes, as a use for the worm-shot flour given them as ration, during the 19th Century.), pinto beans, diced tomatoes, shredded lettuce and shredded Cheddar cheese, with salsa or hot sauce available on the side. Some people add ground beef to their tacos; the Navajos usually do not.

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I made it through the northern Arizona and Utah back country, not stopping, save for a picnic supper from my cooler, at the Hoovers Rest Area, north of Panguitch, UT. The area was deserted, save for me and a skittish deer, which took off as I got out of the car. There is a small restaurant and store across the road, but I ate my fill of my own stock, and kept going.

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As you can see, Utah has lots of beauty, and I will be back in the intervening areas, over the course of the next two years or so. Salt Lake City continued to beckon, though, and I drove on, arriving at 9:30 PM. I settled into a cheap motel on South Hwy 89. It turned out to be owned by fellow members of the Baha’i Faith, and I was warmly welcomed, and was safe among the urban nomads who reside there. There were conflicts between a few of the people, which were resolved by the Baha’is getting the contending parties to sit down and talk it out, rather than having to get police intervention. Nobody was anything but kind to me, though.

The first session of the convention began bright and early on Thursday morning, and included some Samoan fire dancers in performance.

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Considering that Salt Palace was host to upwards of 18,000 people, I was quite happy to have even this vantage point. The overriding message was clear: The translation from Mandarin was “God helps he who help himself”. This was how I was raised, and it is a major tenet of the company. I will have more to say about the oils, in Part 2 of this series.

An Eastward Homage, Appendix: Two Washington Area Gardens

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August 2-3, 2014, Arlington, VA So as not to belabour the point, this post will be concerned with my visit to two beautiful gardens, while in Washington, last month, for the interment of my father-in-law. The first is solemn, and relatively new: The Pentagon 9/11 Memorial, which is a five-minute walk from my hotel in Arlington. The second is a golden oldie: The United States Botanic Garden, an arm of the Smithsonian Institution, with plants from around the globe.

First, the Pentagon Memorial. It is, somehow, the most controversial of the three memorials to the fallen of that horrific day. I think that those who disbelieve it ever happened are just not capable of processing a real-time tragedy, on such a grand scale. The same is certainly true of the Holocaust. Yet, these events did take place, and innocent lives were lost. The plane disintegrated into tiny fragments, the wall was decimated on the west side of the Pentagon, and the area is now a suitable memorial for those who took off, and never landed, on September 11, 2001.

Here are some of the scenes, starkly beautiful.

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The scene below shows a small memorial in the far background, a three-pronged steel sculpture set up by the Marriott Corporation, near its Pentagon-area hotel.

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No matter who one thinks is responsible for these heinous acts, the important things to me are the loss of innocent life, and the need to say, and mean, “Never again!”.

On Sunday, August 3, I spent a more joyful hour at the United States Botanic Garden, along the Smithsonian Row, south of the US Capitol. Here are several scenes of that exquisite place. As you can see, there are plants from rain forests, English and Japanese gardens and deserts alike. I was drawn to the Mistletoe Cactus, though I can’t envision two lovers embracing in its midst.

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This was the perfect counterpart to my secular pilgrimage along the National Mall. I think the saner members of Congress must find there way here, on a regular basis. My Eastward Homage would end the next day, as I said farewell and see you again, to one of the most powerful men I’ve ever known.

An Eastward Homage, Epilogue: Arlington and DC

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August 3-4, 2014, Washington, DC-No sooner had I landed in Phoenix on July 7, than I received an e-mail that my Father-in-Law’s interment at Arlington National Cemetery would be August 4. It didn’t take long for my airline and hotel reservations to be made, and a budget drawn up for the four days I’d be gone.

I used to live at Fort Myer, VA, in the days when I was an Army postal cerk. I was always challenged by the Third Infantry sentry at North Gate, to tidy up this wrinkle or straighten that fatigue cap. They never liked my hair, which was understandable, since none of them ever got to have any.

Pop was laid to rest in Arlington, on schedule-actually, three months posthumously, but it was a scheduling issue, and the ceremony was dignified and befitting of his service. I don’t take photographs at funerals. I did, however, have the waiter at Sky Lounge, Doubletree Crystal City, take a couple of family photos at our Sunday night dinner. BIL (in ball cap) pronounced the photo useless, but hey,I can see his smiling face, just fine.

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Earlier in the day, I meandered around Washington, DC, visiting a few old haunts from the Capitol grounds to mid-Pennsylvania Avenue to the southern edge of the National Mall. Here are a few of the scenes, which I found preserved on a different SIM card than the one I thought I’d used.

The Capitol is closed on Sunday, but the grounds are worth a visit, in and of themselves. The Empty Edifice does look grand from the outside, and across a Reflecting Pool.

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Here a few other views from the south lawn.

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Then, I went around to the north side.

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In light of recent events at the White House, this barrier from 2001 seems more prudent than ever. Of course, the Capitol is not exactly frenetic with activity right now.

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I spent some time at the United States Botanic Garden, the National Museum of the American Indian, Smithson Castle, and along the National Mall. The Garden will be the topic of an ‘appendix”, next post. At the American Indian facility, I focused on the Indians of Central America. I had read about Minor Keith and United Fruit Company, and the sacrifices forced on the indigenous people of Guatemala. Ironically, Keith’s smiling face is featured in an exhibit on “Benefactors of the Smithsonian”. So, at least some of his money went into preserving the very culture he saw fit to plow under. Below, is the entrance to the building.

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Here is an homage to those instances when Europeans and Native Americans got along. Since I have ancestors on both sides of that fence, I only wish the Europeans had been a bit less hasty in seeking “assimilation” of the indigenous folks.

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A second spot I visited briefly was Smithson Castle, the original facility of the Smithsonian Institution, now a Visitor Center for the entire complex.

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Washington is second to none, with its gardens. The verdure outside the Castle is a prime example.

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I paid my respects at the World War II Memorial, especially important, given the circumstances of my visit.

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Constitution Garden, a misnomer at present, seemed to be calling to Congress to address its condition.

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I paid my respects, privately, at the Vietnam Memorial Wall, then went by the Korean War Memorial (below).

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A good long-term remedy to constant warfare is a proper education.  Washington has had some good schools, and some mediocre. This was the first public school in the nation’s capital.

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On July 4, 2007, Penny and I had the bright idea of taking our son to the National Mall, and hopefully viewing the fireworks. The weather was horrible, the Mall was evacuated, and in trying to get my wheelchair-bound wife out of the rain, I met a fair amount of resistance from “security” along Massachusetts Avenue. We finally found refuge, at the White House Visitor Center.

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The last place I stopped in Washington, on August 3, was the DC Africa Festival. This year marked the third year of this lively event.

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As is my wont, I will post two more pieces to this series: United States Botanic Garden and the Pentagon Memorial.

An Eastward Homage, Day 34: Europe in the Rear View Mirror

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June 29, 2014, Boston- The writer, Froma Harrop, in discussing the need for balance between travel and homing, mentions the Shakespearean character, Jaque, from As You Like It, as having bemoaned his own constant travel. She muses about seniors, who give up everything binding, and make perpetual travel their endgame.

I have been tempted, now and then, to engage in just such an endeavour. There are, in fact, a few years in the offing when my travel will be of a long-term nature. The first such will be 2017, in fact. Nevertheless, my meanderings are always going to be rooted in purpose. This past June’s journey had three themes: Seeing the ancestral home town of my father’s paternal lineage (Rouen); paying respects to my late father-in-law and other veterans of the two World Wars (Normandy, Brest, Amiens, Bastogne, Metz and Berga); and connecting with my fellow Baha’is (Paris, Rouen, Brussels, Luxembourg, Strasbourg and Frankfurt). Of course, there were cultural stops, fun restaurants and parks, great architecture and wonderful, captivating people in the mix. These, I find everywhere, though, and they may be found in abundance, in Home Base- Prescott. My Baha’i friends are my tap root, and will remain so, regardless of how often I am in and out of town. A dozen or so others are my branch roots, also keeping me focused.

Let me get back to the journey. The flight back from Frankfurt was smooth as silk. It was in the delightful company of a young baker, from Frankfurt to Montreal. She had many stories of her own travel, across France and Germany, from Paris to Berlin, with Frankfurt as base camp, and as a vegan. Taking a night bus from Berlin to Frankfurt sounded a bit rough; but there she was, happy and fully in the moment. I have kept in contact with her, in the months since, and wish her a long and happy series of life experiences, as I do with all I met, east of the Atlantic.

There are those I will see again, and those whose lives will probably not intersect again with mine. There are the people with whom I experienced mutual joy and there are folks who saw me stumbling about, now and then, and threw up their hands in exasperation. There were times of great exhilaration, quiet reverence, stern admonition- both given and received, physical and emotional near-exhaustion, and momentary confusion. It was all worthwhile.

So, here’s to you: The gate keepers and window clerks at each train and bus station;the desk clerks and maids at each of my hotels; the seat mates on trains and buses; the taxi drivers in the areas of Mont Saint-Michel and Carnac; my friends in the standage on the train from Rennes to Paris, all the restaurateurs who served me so graciously,from the brasseries and kebab shops to the high-end New Colours, of Luxembourg and Leo’s, of Bastogne; the people manning the natural and historical sites; the performance artists and street musicians; the scammers and the schemers, who got precious little, if anything, from me; the people who earnestly tried to help me, even when I was in a momentary state of suspicion; the lovers whose space I may have momentarily crowded; the police who kept us safe, without resorting to brute force; the grand musicians at Luxembourg’s National Day; the young folks whose energy and antics were invariably heart-warming; and, most of all, my brothers and sisters in faith, who were anchors throughout. All of you made this, my fledgling solo voyage abroad, a memorable and reaffirming occasion.

So, I’ve been back in the home ground that is North America, since the date above. There was a revelation, though: Europe is also my home. The rest of the world will be, as time goes on. I can go from home, to home, to home, as the circumstances of this wonderful life lead me. Prescott is like my room, Arizona, my domicile and North America, my neighbourhood. Home, though, is where the heart lives, and my heart is with all of you.

An Eastward Homage, Day 33: The Frankfurt Boomerang

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June 28, 2014, Frankfurt-am-Main- I awoke at 6 AM, on this bright Saturday morning. PentaHotel has amazingly comfortable beds, and an exquisite breakfast buffet. There were all food groups, not just the breads and pastries you see here.) See, it’s not just Americans who like grand portions. 🙂 We could all learn to distribute food more equitably- and if there were these types of meals in small villages, around the globe, we’d feel better- though we’d also have to work harder to burn unwanted fat and excess calories. That work could be service-related, and we’d have a better world in that way, as well. (Photo courtesy of http://www.hotels.com)

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I left Gera, promptly at 9 AM. The train to Frankfurt involved only one stop this time, at Erfurt. It was, I’m told, a special Saturday train- not to be missed, without a penalty. Ja,voll, Herr Kommandant! So I made it back to Q Green Hotel, the first place I stayed in Europe, and was given a 6th Floor Suite, as a token of Melia Group’s appreciation. For those who have forgotten, Q Green looks like this. (All remaining photos courtesy of ME!)

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The rest of the day involved: No laundry (Launderettes in Germany close at 8 PM, Friday and reopen at 8 AM, Monday.); a light meal at a kebab place, and a walk around the periphery of Frankfurt Messe. This undertaking took me past a parade of Working Girls, up over a short Autobahn, through several deserted, but perfectly safe parking lots and along der Messe’s west side, where a couple of billboards in German, and in Portuguese, pierced the horizon. I ended up in a familiar neighbourhood, with such streets as Funckstrasse to remind me of my locus. Note: What looks like a B with a tail is really pronounced ss.

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Once back at Q Green, I took in the rest of a World Cup match, and was actually happy when Germany took it all, a few days later. The next day, Sunday, I would head for the airport and back to North America.

An Eastward Homage, Day 32, Part II: The Two Faces of Berga

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June 27, 2014, Gera-The wait for the train to Berga, while standing on the platform at Gera Hauptbanhof, was almost as long as the time I actually spent in the former prison camp town. It was due at 1:15, and came at 2:15. In the meantime, I was amused by a man chasing his 9-year-old son around the platform, as the child giggled and hid behind the concrete posts. This became the child’s fault, when the train actually did pull in, and Pater-Meister was embarrassed that the boy was almost hit. The boy took his tongue-lashing quietly, but I could tell he had no idea what he had done wrong.

The Jews who were taken prisoner, and given unwanted special attention by the Nazis, had no idea what they had done wrong, other than to be distantly related by blood to the Rothschilds and a handful of money lenders and grifters, who had contributed somewhat to the collapse of the European economy- a collapse which would have happened regardless of the level of mercantilism in any one country.

I digress, however. Berga, a small town southeast of Gera, was a satellite station of Buchenwald, the much larger Concentration Camp in northern Thuringia.(Photo courtesy of http://www.freerepublic.com)

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Here were brought Jewish soldiers from the US, Canada and Britain, especially after the Battle of the Bulge, in late 1944, when Buchenwald itself was at saturation point. One of these was my future father-in-law, Norman Fellman, 6’3″ tall, weighing into the camp at 175 pounds. He was part of a group assigned to work a gypsum mine. He and his fellows walked up a trail like this, (Photo courtesy of http://www.thirdreichruins.com)

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through a door like this, (Photo courtesy of http://www.kilroywashere.com)

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to a place like this (Photo courtesy of http://www.tripmondo.com), every day, for a hundred days. When General Patton’s men found him, in April, 1945, he weighed 87 pounds.

Old gypsum mine, near Berga

They spent time, after coming back from the mine, in this “work station”. (Photo courtesy of http://www.thirdreichruins.com)

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The camp where they were held, from their capture in the Vosges of southern Lorraine, to the date of Gentle George’s arrival, looked something like this. (Photo courtesy of http://www.channelnationalgeographic.com)

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Now, the area looks like this. (Photo courtesy of en.immostreet.com)Prison camp for Jews, Berga

I walked around this decrepit, southern edge of Berga, even walking the periphery of the abandoned V-1 Rocket Factory, now closed off by a fence, with only a small security team allowed inside. (Photos courtesy of andrea-kublitz.de)

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Old rocket factory, Berga

Understandably, Pop never went back to Germany, and the less said about that country in his presence, the better. I told him, two months before he passed on in May, that I intended to go to Berga, to try and put the ghosts to rest. Ghosts, demons, visionaries of Hell- they seem to hang over this part of the town, in a way that the giggling school children who were waiting at Berga Train Station can only dimly imagine. The kids, of course, were waiting for their families, from the north end of town. Few people live in the old camp zone- a farmer or two, perhaps even an aging former guard, released from prison to live out his ignominy.

Berga today remembers its victims and its enslaved “guests”, with this memorial. (www.en.wikipedia.org)

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North of the train station, Berga could be Everytown, Deutschland. There is a bright, red Rathaus. (Photo courtesy of http://www.commons.wikipedia.org)

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A small square sits in front of the Town Hall. (Photo courtesy of http://www.stock-clip.com)

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Not far from here, I guided a mother and small child to an ice cream parlour, where I had just stopped, perhaps to comfort myself and return to the more benign reality of this “new” Berga. There are churches nearby as well. I can only imagine what the churches, and the schools, impart to their patrons. Below, is the legacy of Marxism for Berga. These apartments are still highly occupied. (Photo courtesy of http://www.amberrom.org)

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