Elba is part of Italy -- officially a Tuscan outpost -- though it's easy to get confused because its most famous occupant was (more or less) French and because it's pretty close to the Balearic Islands, which are Spanish.
The main city is Portoferraio. It, like the rest of Tuscany, was once ruled by the Medici family. The juxtaposition of Medici and Bonaparte is a fascinating element of Elba's culture. We had fun in Portoferraio -- once again getting off the boat with no real plan.
A block from the port entrance, we encountered Oscar, who had a cute three-wheeled jitney (sometimes called an auto rickshaw) and offered to drive us up the steep narrow streets to the big forts (one built by the Medici dynasty), then back down through town. For 24 Euros, and to avoid having to climb all the way, we took him up on his offer.
That was a very cool ride! Oscar, whose command of English was limited, zipped around the switchback turns and, whenever we came to a spot with a nice view, would screech to a stop, point, and say "picture!"
Here are a couple of those pictures -->
Oscar knew the staff at the old fort, so they let him take us into a few places not normally open to tourists, including a narrow corridor inside the walls where archers would fire arrows down onto invading armies. Oscar pointed to a set of wooden doors at the end of the hallway: "Five hundred years old!" he said proudly. Oscar also advised us to buy a day pass -- a ticket that would allow us into various buildings and galleries maintained by the historical society. We did, and it proved to be a good deal.
After poking around the fort/castle, Oscar took us to the house where Napoleon lived, past a theater that Napoleon built, and to a nearby chapel dedicated to Napoleon.
He pointed at the small dome above the altar and had me use the cell
phone camera to zoom in on the very top of the dome, where there is a
small pyramid with an eye looking out of it. "Just like US dollar bill!"
said Oscar. He couldn't explain the coincidence and neither can I.
Oscar took us back down through town to the waterfront, where we ended his tour and began the hunt for lunch. We had been advised by the nice ladies at the fort to go to the Piazza della Repubblica. Almost every Italian town has a Piazza della Repubblica, usually a lovely town square with monuments and churches and shops and restaurants and pigeons.
We found the square easily but it had been entirely given over to cars. The piazza was a damn parking lot! Well...
We knew of a restaurant next to the theater, having done a little research before our visit. It's called Teatro (check the web site here) and has a nice patio with a view over a small park, the sparkling sea in the distance. We found it easily (having zipped past with Oscar) and had a very nice lunch, including of course the local beer.
On the menu at Teatro, the owners are listed as Antonio and Fiona de Medici!
The day pass got us into the theater, which Napoleon ordered built
inside a church. Several tiers of luxury box seats were sold to rich
Elbans and Napoleon used the proceeds to finance his escape. The theater
is still in use.
The obligatory visit to an
archeological museum and shopping at a couple of nice pastry shops
rounded out our visit. Fun and educational day!
This was, unexpectedly, a highlight of our trip along the coast.
Hyeres: From the port of Le Lavandou, we took a bus ride to this medieval village, passing through Bormes-Les-Mimosas on the way. Both are known for their flowers, although this is also wine and olive country. Hyeres is lovely, with its ancient ramparts and narrow streets and flowers.
One of my pet peeves is the use of fake shutters on modern buildings in a failed attempt to give them character. Here, of course, the shutters are very real and very practical and, almost always, very charming. I took a close-up photo of a window in an old house -- planning to use the picture in a forthcoming magnum opus (read: rant) about fake shutters. As soon as I had snapped the picture, an old gentleman leaned out the window and yelled at me. I apologized, or tried to, using my very poor French. In spite of his protests, I'm still going to use that photo in the forthcoming shutter screed. You've been warned.
Wandering narrow cobbled streets never gets old. In Hyeres, the views were stunning, looking out over groves of olive trees to the glittering sea.
The lanes, as advertised, are lined with flowers, blooming even in late October.
Of course, Hyeres boasts a town square with an old church and nice restaurants. I don't know quite what it is about these places, but I feel very peaceful (and a little snobbish), pretending vainly to act like a local, just hangin' out.
Domaine de l'Anglade: From Hyeres, we went back through Bormes-les-Mimosas to the outskirts of Le Lavandou and stopped at a small winery. A brief tour and a short presentation about winemaking and the history of this winery, then into the tasting room. Kathy's California cousins, because they are Californians, are wine experts. They pronounced the white wine very good (even ordering a few cases shipped back to California), the rose very good, and the red just so-so. I enjoyed the toast with tepanade (well, yes, and the wine, too.)
The winery was founded as a hobby by a family that had made its fortune in the reed business: reeds for clarinets, bassoons, oboes, saxophones, and English horns. The plants from which the reeds are made grow well in this microclimate. Vandoren reeds (sold exclusively from their Paris outlet) are, we were told, famous.
The hillside setting and the friends and the wine and the lovely weather -- such a pleasant afternoon!
Le Lavandou: Back to Le Lavandou and a stroll through the busy waterfront district. It's a warm Saturday and the place is busy but not crowded.
Sttraying a little from our usual practice of eating lunch in a small outdoor restaurant. We got street food instead -- a very nice big crepe with some kind of chocolatey fruity filling, from a one-man stand next to some boules courts (like bocce except the French use steel balls).
The pedestrian walkway was a delight because someone had constructed a half-dozen interactive sculptures which also served as games, made from reclaimed lumber, tree limbs, springs, string, tennis balls -- all kinds of clever and cool stuff.
The coolest was a contraption that had a long metal arm balanced on a stack of old books. On one end of the arm a full-sized upright piano was suspended. On the other end, a platform with a red plush carpet on it. The operator would seat four or five people on the carpet, crank up the machinery to make the whole thing rotate, then climb onto the piano bench and play sprightly music as the magic carpet made slow circles. I took a video but I'll be damned if I can find it now. The still photo here doesn't do it justice.
Everybody was smiling and taking photos. Pretty neat!
I'd heard of Cannes and Marseille and Toulon and San Tropez -- famous places on France's Mediterranean coast where rich people go to play in the summer. But I had never heard of Sete or Le Lavandou. When we decided to join Kathy's California cousins on this trip, these two places were intriguing precisely for this reason.
From Menorca, Spain, we sailed the short distance to Sete, France. Pronounced "set" (emphasis on the only syllable), it's a quiet port known for its fishing, its canals (billing itself the Venice of France is a bit of promotional hyperbole), and its oysters.
Our plan, after doing some superficial research, was to go the market (Les Halles de Sete), buy some fresh produce and bread and cheese and pastries and have ourselves a picnic. It almost worked!
Using a fairly detailed map, we walked to where the market should have been but found instead a clothing store fronted by a small plaza where some musicians were playing. That was nice. We figured we'd misread the map so walked around in ever-widening circles until we had given up.
During the stroll, when our heads weren't buried in the map, we saw some cool murals, which the guidebook failed to mention. This is Kathy in front of one mural, looking intently (again) at the map.
Back to the square (square one?). The market really should be right here! On a hunch (and driven by hunger) we walked through the clothing store and, sure enough, the huge indoor market was there, filled with fish and bread and cheese and pastries and a couple of tiny bars and meats and lots of people. I mean LOTS of people. We abandoned the picnic plan, a decision I now regret (especially after having visited the web site of Les Halles de Sete) but at the time we were intimidated by the crowds and the noise.
Instead, we sat at a nice bakery next to a park and had some pastries, which would hold us until we could track down a real lunch.
Our second idea was a canal boat tour. Some of our traveling companions had booked one through the cruise line, but we are stubbornly independent and cheap, so we figured we'd find one ourselves. And...we did!
A local company called Sete Croisiers runs three canal tours. BUT..the ticket offices were closed for siesta, so we had to wait, which was fine, so long as we could get some FOOD. Across the street from the shuttered ticket booth was a restaurant called, incongruously, the Hippie Bar, with its own bizarre mural (see below).
I ordered oysters (the famed local delicacy) and tried to order beer, but somehow the server and I failed to communicate, so I ordered a glass of white wine instead. The oysters were very good, with a kind of raspberry vinaigrette for dipping. The wine never came. Hey, we're in France, for heaven's sake! No wine? Merde...
Anyway, after lunch we got on the canal boat. The tour was inexpensive and interesting. We saw a bunch of oyster beds in the bay, some cleverly engineered drawbridges, lift bridges, and bridges that pivoted.
The narrator, who looked like Jean-Paul Belmondo, spoke only French, but we followed along with an English illustrated brochure, and that worked OK. Each time we went under a low bridge (so low we really did have to duck), Jean-Paul would lean into the microphone and genially use the only English phrase he was sure of: "Oh my God!"
Despite the lack of wine at lunch and the market that was strangely hidden from view, we liked Sete because it was kind of funky and unpretentious and accessible.
The medium-sized cruise ship took us overnight from Mallorca to the neighbor island of Menorca. Menorca, as its name implies, is the smaller of the two. When it comes to islands in the Mediterranean, small is good!
From the port of Mahon (sometimes spelled Mao) we took a drive around the island. First stop, the tiny resort town of Fornell (pronounced FourNAY).
It's the last week of October. The weather is fine -- sunny and warm. But the resorts around Fornell are almost all closed for the season. The town is quite pretty; the bay reminded me of La Jolla (except no seals or whales). We sat at an outdoor bistro (S'Algret) on the small town square (Placa S'Algret), had a snack, and enjoyed the view.
From Fornell, we drove into the hills to the center of the island, dubbed Monte Toro (in Catalan, "toro" is derived from a word that means "high"[and that's no bull]) where centuries ago the Crusaders built a fort and a chapel, which later became a nunnery. I think the large gift shop is a fairly recent addition. From the top, you can see the entire island and, on a clear day, the peaks of Mallorca in the distance. It's pretty.
At the top of the hill, the Catholics built a big statue of Jesus, arms outstretched. The founders didn't count on cell towers spoiling the view.
Back down the mountain to Mahon, where we wandered the streets. Many shops were selling sandals made of cork and recycled automobile tires. Apparently this is a thing on Menorca. We resisted the urge to buy sandals.
There were lots of stores selling gin distilled on the island. The locals are proud of their gin. We didn't buy any, but...there was a very neat little toy store, so the grand-kids benefited from this visit!
Pursuing our goal of dining al fresco at local restaurants whenever possible, we found a bistro -- Ristorante Santa Rita -- on a small square across from a church (of course).
A leisurely lunch of tapas and the local beer (Cerveca Alhambra) and a sunny mid-day -- nice combo. We had the albondigas (which was nothing like the Mexican soup of the same name) and something else. The restaurant was near the top of these steps, which we walked down on the way back to the port. Someone said there are 150 steps -- I counted 115.
After the unexpectedly busy port city of Palma, the size and pace of Mahon was very pleasant indeed.
From Barcelona, we went to two islands in the Mediterranean (or in these parts often called the Balearic Sea): Majorca (sometimes spelled Mallorca) and Menorca (sometimes spelled Minorca). I think the names mean Big and Little (sometimes spelled Major and Minor).
On Majorca, the port city of Palma was larger and busier than we anticipated (yes, we probably should have studied it a bit more in advance). We wanted to see the interior of the cathedral in Palma because Mr. Gaudi had redesigned it.
Turns out there's a fairly stiff admission fee and we balked at that, plus the line seemed long at the gate. Also, we had pretty much decided to take a vintage narrow-gauge train from Palma to a smaller artsy village called Soller, a side trip that would take most of the day.
Across from the cathedral was a tourist information office, where we got a map and directions to the train station. We aren't very good at following maps or directions, I guess, because it took us a while to find the train station.
According to some guidebooks and travel web sites, the ride to Soller is spectacular, up mountains and through valleys with lovely views. The train schedule even included a stop about half way just for pictures. Once we passed the industrial outskirts of Palma, it was a very pleasant ride. Not spectacular, but that's OK.
Soller had several surprises. The train station had two art galleries, one featuring a bunch of Picasso's ceramic work (including this scary vase shown bekow); the other with Miro prints. Spectacular!
The center of Soller was, of course, a busy public square (Plaza Constitucion) with, of course, a big church. We found an excellent restaurant on the square (Cafe Central) and had lunch, accompanied by White Rose, a fine local lager.
Soller is charming -- narrow winding cobbled lanes always seem charming -- even though it's mostly dedicated to shopping. Some touristy junk, but also some cute local shops. We looked at the Estudio de Grabados Llunatic Creusa, a one-man printmaking operation run by Ricardo Fontales. Sadly, the shop was closed. Happily, Ricardo is a blogger, too: http://ricardofontales.blogspot.com.
One of the highlights: We got back to Palma kind of late, so instead of wandering through town back to the cruise terminal, we hailed a taxi from the train station. The driver asked us where we were from and when we said Minnesota, he immediately responded, "Oh! Bob Dylan!" So we sang some of the Dylan tune that includes references to boots of Spanish leather. Smiles all around, and we just made it back to the ship in time.
We really should have taken the afternoon to rest and
recover from jet lag. But we instead went with our rag-tag traveling party of
10 to one of the many markets in Barcelona (the Mercat de Galvany, built in
1868). There we met our guide/cook and her daughter, who bought wine and the
makings of paella, apparently the national dish of Cataluña. We watched a
fishmonger cut up an octopus; bought fresh tomatoes and crusty bread to make
the Catalan version of bruschetta, and looked longingly at some pastries.
From the market, we walked a block to a third-floor
apartment (apparently belonging to a friend of our guide). There we were
treated to a fine home-cooked meal. The guide and her daughter explained each
dish, with a particular focus on paella – each ingredient and each step of the
cooking process. We had homemade tapenade on toast and the guide showed us how
to use the sliced fresh tomatoes by scraping the cut side across a piece of
toast and then pouring a bit of olive oil on it.She claimed that the olive oils in Spain are superior to any
other olive oil and accused Italians of buying Spanish olive oil and
repackaging it as Italian oil. We indulged this heresy because we didn’t want
to be rude and we were soooooo tired and, heck, maybe she was right!
Our guide and her daughter regaled us with their take on the
recent demonstrations in Barcelona over the independence of Cataluña. They
stressed that the language, cultures, and history of the region are so distinct
that it really never should have been a part of Spain, and that the Spanish
government is corrupt and takes far more from Cataluña than it gives back. They
also said the Western press had been unfair to the independence movement –
indeed, she used the phrase “fake news” to describe the reports in US news
outlets.
During this discussion, our guides strongly hinted that they
thought our president a buffoon and maybe even a dangerous one. We were quick
to tell them that we held the same dim view of the man.
Those of us who had arrived that morning began to nod off,
so we adjourned with hugs. The paella was good, the wine (Vina Esmeralda) was
good. We had learned that the paella is ready when the pot bubbles slowly,
making a “choop choop’ sound (which they spell xup xup.) Our guide led us in a
chorus of “xup xups” as we left.
We took a taxi to our hotel, a few blocks from the Placa de Cataluña
and just a block off the famous Las Ramblas (or La Rambla) pedestrian mall. We
crashed, sleeping a few hours, waking up in the dark, not really knowing what
time it was. We finally stumbled from bed and walked to a very nice little
tapas bar – Taberna Mil Gritos (“a thousand cheers” or “a thousand screams” –
probably the former). The excellent local IPA was a nice surprise.
Our tiny hotel served a generous breakfast,
after which we walked to Placa de Cataluña and got on the Hop on/Hop off bus.
We rode around for a while, getting off at the justly famous Sagrada Familia
church, Gaudi’s architectural masterpiece. We’d been advised to buy tickets in
advance for this popular attraction but of course we hadn’t. Turns out we could
get tickets for that afternoon, so we did.
Back on the bus, we rode around through the city, not really
sure where we wanted to hop off. I wanted to see another Gaudi creation, the
Parc Guell, but we couldn’t find it even though the bus supposedly stopped
there. Turns out the park is a few blocks from the bus stop, which we would
have learned had we but asked the attendant. Missed opportunity for sure!
We hopped off the bus before it completed its circle and
started walking more or less in the direction of Sagrada Familia. We stopped
for lunch at a nice corner café. I looked for the bathroom but the only door I
could find was labeled “Servicia” which I assumed meant a service door (you
know, like for staff or deliveries). So I asked and the nice counter person
pointed to the Servicia door, which did indeed lead to the bathrooms. I really
should have studied that Spanish phrase book more closely.
We walked to the Sagrada Familia after lunch, found the
entrance for ticketed guests, and got in line. A minute before entering, a
nasty storm – wind and rain and lightning – descended. We had brought an
umbrella, so, unlike many hundreds of other visitors, we stayed more or less
dry.The church is spectacular!
The self-guided audio tour, using a very clever little wireless device, was a
bit hard to follow, but it was very informative nonetheless. We learned many
things one would not learn just by wandering around gawking, although the place
is definitely gawk-worthy. The esteemed Mr. Gaudi is buried there and the
construction crews are still at work.
I was struck by the attention to detail in every aspect of
the design. Gaudi was obsessive, sketching every piece of furniture and every
pane in the soaring stained glass windows. The massive tapered columns that
hold up the roof are just one example: Each pair is a slightly different color
of stone and each column gets lighter as it rises; each pair is fluted in a
slightly different way. These subtleties are almost lost in the grandeur of the
whole – we had to look carefully at things right in front of us at the same
time trying to take in the sheer scale of the place.
By the time our visit was over, the storm had passed and the
sun was out!
We decided to get on a different Hop on/Hop off bus route,
but got lost trying to find it. This is one of the downsides of do-it-yourself
travel planning: sometimes you miss stuff, you take a wrong turn, you think
you’re wasting time. But we definitely enjoyed our first day and a half in
Barcelona.
The next day we used up our Hop on/Hop off tickets,
intending to stop and take the cable car from the port up to Montserrat (or was
in Montjuic?). But… cable car not running, too windy. We intended to stop at
the Miro museum (Fundacio Joan Miro), but….too late, not open. We made a long
loop around the city and decided to hop off near the waterfront and walk part
way back to the hotel via La Rambla. This worked except for the fact that
the route was blocked by demonstrators, meaning we couldn’t hop back on where
we wanted to.
But the walk, though longer than planned, was quite
pleasant. We found another pedestrian street just a block or two from La Rambla
that was delightful and took us past the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, where there was a classical music group
giving a concert on the steps.
I do enjoy these serendipitous happenings! And we still made
it back to the hotel in time to pack up, check out, and get a taxi to meet our
traveling companions for the next leg of the trip.
From Barcelona to Pisa, our goal was to have lunch at open-air cafes, preferably a seaside cafe, to sample the local cuisine and the local beverages. The coasts of Spain, France, and Italy are not known for beer, but I figured we'd have plenty of wine at dinner, so lunches were usually accompanied by beer. Some of it was pretty good. Herewith is a travelogue of sorts. There was some spectacular scenery and some quaint old cities and fortresses and castles and palaces and cathedrals. These will be featured another day, perhaps.
For now....the beer!
Portoferraio is the main city on the Italian island of Elba. We visited lots of historic places, including the theater that Napoleon built during his brief stay on Elba. Next to the theater is a nice little bistro called, naturally, Teatro. They bill it as a wine bar, but I had the local ale. It was unexceptional, but the setting is lovely and the food was very good. We enjoyed Portoferraio.
The main city on the Spanish island of Majorca is Palma de Majorca. It is much bigger and busier than we anticipated. We didn't stay long in Palma, instead hopping an old narrow-guage train to the village of Soller. In Soller we were surprised to find an exhibit of Picasso's pottery and some very nice Joan Miro prints. Our lunch of tapas was accompanied by Rosa Blanca beer, described on the label as "hoppy lager." It was very good!
Here's a photo of the square with the restaurant and the big old church.
Menorca, a very small Spanish island, was a lot of fun. We learned that it is famous for its gin and for sandals made from old car tires and cork. We did not buy any gin or sandals, but we did enjoy tapas al fresco, along with a beer call Alhambra. I do not know why it is so named, but I liked it.
The restaurant was on the plaza at the top of these steps. Somebody said there are are 150 steps, but I only counted 115.
And in Nice, France, we had the best dinner of the trip at a place called Zorzetto, where the chef sat down at our table and described the appetizers he had prepared. There were a dozen and we had them all! The first course I had wine, but the second course I asked for beer and the waiter was excited because people in Nice prefer wine but this guy was a beer afficionado. The beer was "Biere du Compte" or The Count's Beer. The waiter's enthusiasm was justified.
In the bathroom at Zorzetto, patrons are greeted by the mascot of the house:
Barcelona is a great place for tapas (in case you hadn't guessed). At a bar across the street from our hotel, we had tapas and the local IPA, which was probably the best beer on the trip.
October 12. It seems like just another ordinary day. It probably is just another ordinary day, even though a few extraordinary things happened on October 12. If one wishes, one can peer into the past and find patterns and connections that seem unusual, even eerie. It's a kind of pointless fun, which is pretty much what this blog is for.
So...
October 12, 1492: Chris Columbus landed in what is now the Bahamas. He thought he had found India or something close to India. He was of course mistaken. Some sources say that the date was really October 13 but Columbus fudged his ship's log because the 13th was considered an unlucky day. Here's a related Brautigan poem, part of a longer series called "Good Luck, Captain Martin."
The BottlePart 3
A child stands motionless.
He holds a bottle in his hands.
There's a ship in the bottle.
He stares at it with eyes
that do not blink.
He wonders where a tiny ship
can sail to if it is held
prisoner in a bottle.
Fifty years from now you will
find out, Captain Martin,
for the sea (large as it is)
is only another bottle.
October 12, 1810: A princess with the musical name Therese von Sachsen Hildburghausen married a Bavarian prince with the prosaic name Louis. The prince soon became King Ludwig I and so Therese became a queen. Their wedding was a big deal in Bavaria and the event was celebrated throughout the land with music and dancing and beer. It was so much fun that the Bavarians decided to do it every year. It became known as Oktoberfest. For this we thank them. Herr Bossnack, my high school German teacher, taught us several drinking songs, including the one seen here. For this I thank him.
October 12, 1892: Exactly 400 years after Columbus began his vacation in the Bahamas, the first rail shipment of iron ore went from Mountain Iron, MN to Duluth. The Duluthians were busy celebrating Oktoberfest (or was it Columbus day?), so the ore sat in piles by the dock for a week before the barely-sober stevedores loaded it onto a big ship headed for Gary, IN.
Iron Ore Betty is the unofficial queen of the Iron Range thanks to this goofy John Prine tune.
October 12, 1960: The United Nations general assembly was meeting in New York. It was a typically cordial (read: boring) meeting until it was Nikita Kruschev's turn to speak. He was agitated about something and began a new rhetorical tradition by removing his shoe and pounding the podium with it. The reasons for his outburst are obscure, but it's likely that he wanted Russian vodka to get equal billing with German beer at the UN after-party.
It's the birthday of Vladimir Putin, born in Leningrad (now known as St. Petersburg), Russia in 1952. Russia was still part of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). Joe Stalin was still general chairman of the Communist Party. Little Vladimir went to technical school in St. Petersburg. He somehow got into the spy business, eventually becoming the head of the intelligence service. He went from there into politics.
I just finished a book by Anne Garrels titled "Putin Country: A Journey into the Real Russia." It confirms some of what we learned when visiting St. Petersburg a few years ago: Russians see Vladimir as a fierce defender of the motherland, yet they complain bitterly of ubiquitous political corruption and the kleptocracy of the powerful at the expense of the average Russian citizen.
Russia, no thanks to Putin, has given the world great literature, great art, and great music. I imagine Mr. Putin going to the Bolshoi Ballet and wishing he were somewhere else.
Putin should not be confused with poutine, although both are distasteful in their own way.
Today is the birthday (1951) of Dave Winfield. He was born in St. Paul and grew up there. He went to the University of Minnesota and was a star in several sports. Indeed, professional teams in basketball, football, and baseball drafted Winfield. He chose baseball, was converted from a pitcher to a power-hitting outfielder, and became a star. He spent 22 seasons in the majors, was an all-star every year from 1977 to 1988, and made the Hall of Fame in 2001.
Some interesting things about big Dave:
In 1983, Winfield was playing for the Yankees when, during pregame
warmups in Toronto, he threw a ball that hit and killed a seagull.
Canadian authorities briefly considered charging him with animal
cruelty.
Winfield spent one season (1992) in Toronto, where he helped the blue Jays win their first World Series. They traded him during that off-season.
The irascible George Steinbrenner, owner of the Yankees, was so frustrated by Winfield's lack of production in the playoffs that he dubbed Winfield "Mr. May."
When he was inducted into the Hall of Fame, Winfield gave one of the longest and most boring speeches ever. I know, because Michael and I were there. Kirby Puckett and Bill Mazeroski were inducted that year, too, and their speeches were much better.
We saw Winfield some years later in the Los Angeles Airport. He was heading back to Minnesota to attend the memorial service for Kirby Puckett.
And then there's Jack Morris.
Jack Morris was also born in St. Paul and also played on the 1992 Toronto Blue Jays championship team (he pitched in three playoff games and lost all three). Morris had pitched that amazing Game 7 -- a complete-game shutout -- for the Twins the year before. Winfield made the Hall of Fame on his first year of eligibility; Morris was on the ballot for 15 years before finally getting the votes.
Morris works as a commentator on some Twins TV broadcasts and he is the quintessential grumpy old man. Nothing about the modern game suits him -- he doesn't like advanced stats, the defensive shift, the use of replays, long pants, or bat flips. I can barely stand to listen to him whine.
And don't forget Paul Molitor.
Molitor grew up in St. Paul and had a brilliant 21-year career, mostly with the Brewers. Like Morris and Winfield, he played for the Twins briefly and with Toronto (he was the Blue Jays MVP in 1993 when they repeated as World Series champs). He finished his career as Minnesota's manager but was summarily dismissed after last year's crummy showing.
The Minnesota Twins hit 307 home runs this season. That is more home runs than any team in the history of major league baseball! The New York Yankees hit 306 this year. The Twins and Yankees won their respective divisions and will meet this week in the divisional playoffs.
The fact that the Yankees were out-homered by the Twins will be an extra incentive for the Yankees -- giving them something to prove; motivating, energizing, focusing their hitters. It's the kind of thing managers sometimes use to fire up a team.
On the other hand, the Twins can look at their remarkable home run record and feel confident, secure, motivated to prove it wasn't a fluke. Indeed, more Twins players (5) hit thirty or more home runs this year than any team in history (the Yankees had just two 30+ HR hitters). The Twins power can come from anywhere in the lineup. Heck, the backup catcher is a home run threat!
On the other hand, the playoff series starts in Yankee Stadium, a place where the Twins have not done well historically and where the ballpark favors the home team's big left-handed sluggers.
On the other hand, the rookie manager and most of the Twins players are not part of that Yankee Stadium futility. They have no reason to fear the jinx. Moreover, the Twins have the best road record in the major leagues this year, so being away from home is no big deal.
It is a little tiring to listen to the baseball analysts on the TV and the radio and the bar stool (and this blog) because the hell of it is that nobody knows.
Let's play ball!
Craig Finn, from somewhere down near the Iowa border, founded The Hold
Steady and moved to New York, but he's still a Twins fan and wrote this
song as an homage. Enjoy!
And besides, the Twins have La Tortuga. Nobody hurdles La Tortuga...
It's the birthday (1896) of Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald. He wrote short stories, novels, and screenplays. He moved around a lot -- St. Paul, New York, Paris, Los Angeles. He drank too much and died young. He's still famous around these parts because of his connection to St. Paul.
Here's a picture of the lovely brownstone on Summit Avenue where he lived for a while.
When he was in town, he hung out at the bar in the Commodore Hotel a few blocks away. The building has been converted to condominiums but the bar has been restored and is open to the public. They're having drink specials today, I assume. I have not yet visited the Commodore but it's on the bucket list.
Today is also the birthday (1934) of Arne Carlson, former Governor of Minnesota and frequent commentator on local affairs. Arne was born in New York and went to Choate prep school back east. He came to Minnesota for grad school and never left. He's a sharp-tongued iconoclast, which makes him fun to watch even when he's wrong. Arne has been known to frequent the Commodore bar.
Bob Dylan mentions F. Scott Fitzgerald in this song. I do not know if Bob has visited the Commodore, but I can picture him brooding silently in a corner there.
And in this time-travel scene from Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," Scott and Zelda make a cameo appearance. Enjoy!
The Fitzgerald Theater in downtown St. Paul is named for F. Scott, as is a little pub on Selby Avenue called, simply, The Fitz. I've heard The Fitz has good deep-dish pizza, which has nothing at all to do with F. Scott.
On this day in 1876, Jesse and Frank James, along with Cole Younger and Clell Miller and a couple of other bad guys, tried to rob the First National Bank in Northfield, MN. They failed for two main reasons: First, one of the bank employees lied to the robbers in the bank by saying the vault was on a timed lock and he couldn't open it on demand. Second, one of the gang outside got panicky and fired a shot, thereby alerting the townsfolk. Somebody famously yelled, "Git yer guns, boys, they're robbin' the bank!" A gunfight ensued. Some of the would-be robbers were killed, some arrested, a few others escaped.
The event is commemorated each year in our sleepy little town with a parade, an art fair, a rodeo, a carnival, and the inevitable corn dog and taco vendors. There are some re-enactments (right there on Division Street) of the failed bank raid, using real horses, some wanna-be cowboys, and pistols with blanks.
We usually try to leave town to avoid the noise and the crowds.
Here's Minnesota's own Erik Koskinen singin' about guns and banks and stuff. Saw Erik and his band at the Turf Club a few years ago, which was fun even though the drinks were overpriced.
Monday, September 3, 1883: An elegant party was held in St. Paul to celebrate completion
of the Northern Pacific Railroad -- which ran from St. Paul all the way to the Pacific coast. (The
party was a bit premature: the final connection wasn't made until September 8.) The President of the railroad, Henry Villard, greeted esteemed guests including the President of the USA Chester A. Arthur, retired general Ulysses S. Grant and Grant's buddy General Philip Sheridan. Later that year, Sheridan would become Commander General of the US Army. In that capacity, he helped protect the railroads by "pacifying" the native tribes in the west.
Here's a brilliant song by Eilen Jewell that references railroads.
Coincidentally, September 3 also marks the signing of the Treaty of Paris (1783), which ended the American revolution and established the good old USA as a free and independent republic. The western border of the country was the Mississippi river, with the rest still occupied by France and England and Spain and Mexico. It took a few more wars and a few more treaties to follow the railroads to the Pacific ocean.
Ben Franklin was one of the signatories to the Treaty of Paris. He would go on to establish the US Post Office, invent a wood stove, father several children with French prostitutes, and found a chain of small department stores.
The French helped us win the Revolutionary War (thanks, General Lafayette!) but would later test our alliance by foisting Yves Montand upon the world. Here's Mr. Montand advising us to use an alternative to the rapacious railroads.
John Locke was born in England in 1632. He is said to be one of the founders of political liberalism and a key figure in the Age of Enlightenment. He was also a physician so he advocated empiricism over mysticism, facts over conjecture, democracy over tyranny, and whiskey over beer. Many of his ideas were incorporated into the constitution of the USA.
Michael Jackson was born on this day in 1958. He was a noted singer and dancer and very strange person. His political philosophy was much like Locke's insofar as Jackson favored the pursuit of happiness, although he was a kind of forlorn character.
I've been reading a book called Nature's Mutiny by Philipp Blom, about the so-called little ice age of the 16th and 17th centuries. He argues that the changes wrought by that century-long cold snap in Europe helped shape economics and politics for centuries thereafter. Locke figures prominently in the story. It seems Locke fell in with a group whose goal was to weaken the power of King Charles II. Charles' people didn't appreciate that, so Locke had to flee to Amsterdam for a decade or so.
Locke's theses on political power and corruption may have been the inspiration for Mr. Jackson's anti-establishment musical essay "Smooth Criminal."
In 413 BC, troops from Syracuse (no, not New York - the one on what is now Sicily) defeated the Athenians, which made Syracuse (Siragusa) briefly the center of the Hellenic empire. If you go to Siragusa, eat at the Medusa restaurant on the island of Ortygia. Those folks were really nice to us.
On this date in 1896, British troops battled some overmatched rebels in Zanzibar. The British had installed a territorial governor on the island a few years earlier, but some picky Zanzibarians objected. When they mounted a coup and took down the British-appointed government, the British decided the Zanzibarians had misbehaved badly, so they blasted the bloody hell out of the capital and took back the territory. The battle lasted 45 minutes (although some accounts put it closer to 30 minutes). Zanzibar is now a semi-autonomous part of Tanzania.
Then, on August 27, 1908, Lyndon Baines Johnson was born. Long story short: war cost him his job.
St. Paul's own Dave Frishberg wrote a song about Zanzibar.
Zanzibar was also the name of a funky little bistro in Red Wing,
Minnesota. Alas, it closed a few years ago. Such is the march of
history.
It's the birthday of Declan Patrick McManus, born in 1954 in London, England. In addition to recording as Elvis Costello (often backed by The Attractions, sometimes by The Imposters), he has recorded music as Declan MacManus, Napoleon Dynamite and The Royal Guard, The Coward Brothers (with T-Bone Burnett), Nick Lowe and His Sound, and The Emotional Toothpaste.
He's prolific.
It's also the birthday of Bill Holm (1943), poet, essayist, humorist, composer. He grew up in the tiny farming town of Minneota, Minnesota. He spent considerable time in Iceland and in China, teaching and writing and having a fine time.
I have most of his published work on the bookshelf near the bed. His stuff is fresh and insightful and fun.
This poem is from his collection "Box Elder Bug Variations."
MINNESOTA WINTERS ARE DIFFICULT FOR CREATURES WHOSE WEIGHT CANNOT BE MEASURED IN STONES A box elder bug surprised out in west wind at forty below rode swirling snow clean out of Minnesota, wound up embalmed in an ice cube in Pennsylvania, scared hell out of a lady who found red stripes in her gin and tonic, thought she'd seen the face of God.
Vesuvius is a volcano near Naples, Italy. As every school child knows, it has been active on and off for many centuries. On this day in 79 AD (that would be 1,940 years ago) Vesuvius erupted. I mean really erupted, like cataclysmically. One prosperous city to the south, Pompeii, was buried under hot ash. Another more modest city, Herculaneum (or Ercolano as the locals call it), west of the summit, nearer the Bay of Naples, was overrun by molten lava. Parts of both cities have been excavated and are worth visiting.
I prefer Ercolano because it's far less crowded than Pompeii and there are a couple very nice little bars just outside the old city. One can enjoy a cold beer and lovely views of the bay while contemplating the power of nature and other heavy topics.
I once rode the gondola up the side of Vesuvius, but couldn't get to the summit that day because of fog. We've visited the volcanoes in Hawaii and Washington and of course Sicily. We got lost driving from Taormina to Calascibetta. Trying to get back to the highway, we went through Paterno, on the flank of Etna, a city that seemed to have more than its share of dead end streets.
Some of the oldest exposed volcanic rocks on earth can be found along the north shore of Lake Superior. The photo below was taken at the Cascade River gorge near Schroeder, MN. Those are volcanic rocks tens of millions of years old. Up on the bridge, you can spy Daniel, Christy, and Kathy.
There are few volcanoes near New York City, but that didn't deter the New York Dolls.
Today is balloon day in Minnesota! Or at least it should be.
That's because two ballooning milestones happened on this day in history, both in our fair state (though not at the state fair).
August 19, 1863: Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin was on a tour of the USA (before he became our enemy in The Great War). He visited St. Paul and was treated to a balloon ride over the city. He reportedly told the balloonist, "You should put a propeller on this thing."
August 19, 1957: The US Air Force launched an ultra-high-level balloon called Man-High II in Crosby (near Hibbing on the Iron Range). Pilot David Simons soared to 101,516 feet (almost
twenty-one miles) before setting down in Elm Lake, South Dakota. The
flight lasted thirty-two hours and ten minutes. This was one in a series of high-altitude balloon flights designed to explore the feasibility of sending people into space. The balloon was manufactured by General Mills, so presumably the pilot got to eat Cheerios or Frosted Flakes.
I do not know if Elm Lake, SD, was the planned destination or whether the balloon simply went wherever the winds took it.
This song by Willy Deville is kind of related (inasmuch as it's about borders and fate, more or less). Enjoy!
Kate "Ma" Barker was famous for heading up her family business; mostly kidnapping, the occasional bank robbery, some protection rackets. Then she teamed up with Alvin "Creepy" Karpis in Saint Paul. The Barker-Karpis gang terrorized the capitol city for a few years. On this day in 1933, the gang robbed the offices of the Swift meat packing company in South Saint Paul, grabbing $30,000.00 in payroll cash and assorted cold cuts.
St. Paul was known as a haven for gangsters in 1920s. The mayor and police chief had a gentleman's agreement with mobsters: the gangs from Chicago and St. Louis and Kansas City could hang out in St. Paul as long as they paid a token bribe to city officials and promised not to cause too much trouble. It worked for a while, but after the Swift robbery the gang felt some heat and moved to Wisconsin, where they presumably stole cheese to go with the meats.
Here's a cute song about stealing, followed by a Brautigan poem on the same theme. It's especially appropriate because the new school year starts in a week or so and right after that our little town holds its annual celebration called (clumsily) "The Defeat of Jesse James Days'"
The memoirs of Jesse James -- Richard Brautigan
I remember all those thousands of hours that I spent in grade school watching the clock, waiting for recess or lunch or to go home. Waiting: for anything but school. My teachers could easily have ridden with Jesse James for all the time they stole from me.
Happy birthday, Kid Creole! The Kid was born on this day in 1950 in the Bronx as Thomas August Darnell Browder. He started his music career as August Darnell with a group called Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band. He took the nom de clef Kid Creole when he started his own band, The Coconuts. I am a fan of The Coconuts, particularly the satirical song featured in this video.
Another favorite is this one about some lowlife who just got out of prison and is ratting out his former partners in crime. I can think of several who could and should be doing that about a certain crooked businessman turned TV personality turned office holder. Such a turn of events would be even better than this video.
On this day in 2012, little Bobby Tufts was elected mayor of Dorset, MN. At four years old he was very likely the youngest mayor in the country. Two years later, he was re-elected, but lost to a 16 year old rival in 2016. The townsfolk had apparently had enough of Mayor Tufts' temper tantrums and disjointed speeches, so they opted for maturity.
This is not as remarkable as it first appears. Dorset, a tiny village in the beautiful lake country of north central Minnesota, surrounded by five state forests, holds its mayoral elections in a unique way: Names of nominees -- dozens, usually -- are placed in a hat during the town's biennial fair and a name is drawn to challenge the incumbent. The winner is elected by acclimation, which usually involves some beer and much shouting and laughter. Sounds like a pretty decent way to do it.
I'd put the age of our current President at about six. Give me pretty much any 16 year old instead.
Mayor Tufts grew up not far from Hibbing, which as every school child knows is the town where Bob Dylan grew up. Dylan wrote a song about being young.
Here's a poem by Richard Brautigan that's kind of related.
"Ah, Great Expectations!"
Sam likes to say, "Ah, great expectations!"
at least three or four times in every
conversation. He is twelve years old.
Nobody knows what he is talking about when
he says it. Sometimes it makes people
feel uncomfortable.
On this day in 1965, Lyndon Johnson, who was the President of the United States at the time, traveled to Independence, MO to visit ex-president Harry S Truman. The two went to the Truman Library, where Lyndon signed the Medicare Act and (symbolically, at least) enrolled Harry as the first Medicare recipient. They went back to Harry's house and knocked back several rye old fashioneds to celebrate.
The library is worth a visit. Among many other tidbits about the Truman legacy, there's a series of notes and letters about his failed attempt to enact a national health system modeled on Britain's. Medicare was sort of a remnant, a surviving piece, of that effort.
There are so many songs about growing old. Most of them are kind of maudlin. I'm generally opposed to nostalgia. I think it can be unhealthy to romanticize the past. We should certainly learn from the past and sometimes celebrate the past, but let's not get stuck there in some kind of fog, OK?
This John Mellencamp tune is a fine example of misplaced nostalgia.
Mellencamp grew up near Bloomington, Indiana. In college, I was the drummer in a band that featured Mellencamp's one-time keyboardist. We played some dives in Linton, Loogootee, Bedford, and Oolitic. We were not very good. See what I mean about nostalgia?
My mother's birth name is Vigneri. Her roots are in Sicily, with the
Vigneri, DeLuca, and Buccheri clans. We visited some relatives in
Taormina almost 10 years ago and they pointed out one photo among many
family photos on their living room wall. “That’s cousin Paolo. Surely
you’ve heard of him?” We hadn’t, so they told us the story. On July
25, 1943 (76 years ago today), cousin Paolo, a captain in the
carabinieri, headed a small cadre that arrested Benito Mussolini, on
orders from King Vittorio Immanuel. When we got home, we did some
research and, sure enough, Paolo Vigneri was the one who took the
dictator into custody. Mussolini later escaped in a raid orchestrated
by Hitler, but it was too late. The Axis had lost the war and in 1945 Mussolini
met a very violent end at the hands of an angry mob.
There is a huge monument to Vittorio Immanuel in Rome. One can climb to the top of it for a commanding view of the city (which we did not realize when we were wandering around the piazza in front of the monument).
Here's a song that talks about fate and how the dice sometimes seem loaded. Ray Bonneville is from Texas but records for Red House Records in St. Paul.
William Sydney Porter, also known as O. Henry, was released from
prison on this day in 1901. Billy Porter did three years at the Ohio Penitentiary in Columbus, having been convicted of embezzling from a bank in Austin, TX. (Porter had fled to
Honduras but returned when his wife, still in the U.S., became ill. He wrote a story in Honduras in which he coined the phrase "banana republic.") While in prison he began writing stories to
pass the time and support his young daughter.
After his release, Porter moved to NYC and worked for New York World, writing one short story a week from 1903 to 1906. In 1904, his first story collection, Cabbages and Kings, was published. He was a prolific writer, cranking out a new collection twice a year for a decade or so. I do not know why he took the pen name (nom de plume) of O. Henry. He's best known for the beloved Christmas story The Gift of the Magi.
One might argue that Billy Porter was a prodigal son, returning to make amends, leading us to Ry Cooder's song (below). This transition, this segue, this link may seem a little forced but I do not care because it's my damn blog, OK? And I like Ry Cooder.
Twenty years to the day after O. Henry was released, another Billy -- Billy Taylor, the great jazz pianist, composer, arranger, band leader, and teacher -- was born. I met Billy Taylor on 1966 or 1967 at the Notre Dame Jazz Festival. He was one of the judges and I had a winning ticket in the drawing, which meant I got to meet the judges (Billy and Quincy Jones and some other dude) and get some records for free! Billy's album "Midnight Piano" is still in my collection.
On July 23, 1895, Florence Arto was born in Houston, Texas. This was 50 years after Texas became a state, but Houston was still a dusty cow town. As a teen, Flo met another young Houstonian with the intriguing name of King Vidor. They were both anxious to leave Houston, thinking it something of a teenage wasteland (see below). They shared an intense interest in the nascent film industry. Flo and King got married, made a few short silent movies in Houston, and headed for California, which, then as now, was the center of the film universe.
Flo became a silent film star and her hubby a film director. As things often go in Hollywood, the two soon divorced. Florence married a dashing violinist named Jascha Heifetz and more or less retired from the movie biz. Jascha became a star and they traveled the world together.
Jascha didn't have the advanced technology to loop and distort and layer, like this clever young man, Noah Hoehn. Noah is seen here at a recital hall at the University of Minnesota, working on his doctoral dissertation. Enjoy!
July 22, 1989: Joonas Pärn was born. He plays the oud. Not just any oud; a jazz oud. He's part of the group seen in this video. There is precious little information about Joonas on the Internet. It appears he's a PhD student in Tallinn, Estonia, but that could be a different Joonas Pärn.
If he really is from Tallinn, I am somewhat jealous because it's a beautiful city on the Baltic. It boasts a very good modern art museum, a museum devoted to steampunk, and a vibrant music scene. Some Estonians align themselves with Vladimir Putin and think their country should become part of Russia, but most are quite happy to be independent. When we visited the presidential residence (it isn't ostentatious enough to be called a palace), the guards at the main entrance were sleeping.
Near the gates to the old city, there was an art installation featuring sledge hammers. I don't know why.
We got free vodka shots at lunch in a basement restaurant there. Makes for a pleasant afternoon!
A block from the port entrance, we encountered Oscar, who had a cute three-wheeled jitney (sometimes called an auto rickshaw) and offered to drive us up the steep narrow streets to the big forts (one built by the Medici dynasty), then back down through town. For 24 Euros, and to avoid having to climb all the way, we took him up on his offer.
After poking around the fort/castle, Oscar took us to the house where Napoleon lived, past a theater that Napoleon built, and to a nearby chapel dedicated to Napoleon.
We knew of a restaurant next to the theater, having done a little research before our visit. It's called Teatro (check the web site here) and has a nice patio with a view over a small park, the sparkling sea in the distance. We found it easily (having zipped past with Oscar) and had a very nice lunch, including of course the local beer.
The obligatory visit to an
archeological museum and shopping at a couple of nice pastry shops
rounded out our visit. Fun and educational day! 
