Travelogue 1040 – April 13
Flying the Ukrainian Flag

My American friends are curious how the Dutch feel about the war in Ukraine. My replies to them are brief and unhelpful. The Dutch are not the most emotionally demonstrative of people. I’ve seen no one shouting at the TV or recruiting for a Dutch Donbas brigade. I don’t really know how they feel about it, or how it differs from responses in America.

We did raise for Ukraine at my girls’ school. I think the parents felt good about choosing that for the year’s fundraiser. Honestly, though, it did little to alleviate the anxiety and tedium involved in events like these. We had to dream up activities with our children and then become the primary consumers for their performances and crafts. It sounds fun, and some of it is. For example, the kids who were musicians got to play outside the entrance to the school on scheduled mornings, the Ukrainian flag rolled out in front of them, with buskers’ caps open for change. That was a pleasant way to start the day.

Those of us whose children made crafts, though, were forced to submit to the market experience upstairs, cramming into the narrow hallways of the top floor of our school in order to stop at every table among a suffocating crowd and coo lovingly over the beautiful creations. Children swarmed around us, while parents pushed their own lovelies to the front of the line in a desperate bid to get business done and over with.

That was about as personal as the Ukrainian experience has been so far. Otherwise, it seems like we’re all just watching from afar and feeling the same dread, whether we’re Dutch or American.

And commenting, and commenting, and commenting. I’ve noticed that comments about Ukraine follow a similar pattern to those about ‘The Slap’: “Sure, it was wrong, but ….” Those first four words buy hundreds more. Will Smith and Vladimir Putin have a lot in common, it seems. I wonder if this sort of chatter bodes ill for the rule of law. We seem to be forgetting that justice is blind. Not even nice fellows, or emotionally wounded fellows, get to assault other human beings. Not even all the accumulated moral trespasses of NATO members, and there have been quite a few of them, buy poor Vlad a free pass to invade a free nation. Full stop.

What if we exercised the full stop more often? “It was wrong.” What if we bit our tongues on the wise disclaimers? It might be liberating. It might taste a little like humility.

Travelogue 1039 – April 1
Één April

It’s April Fool’s Day and Nature’s trick has been to leave a blanket of snow over everything during the night. The girls were excited, looking out the windows and shouting. Once we were outside, and on the way to school, they wanted only to run and leave tracks.

It’s a moody climate, and it’s a moody people. On the tram, you read the weather in people’s faces. Yesterday, as clouds gathered, moods had soured. Passengers were sullen and withdrawn. They scowled, and they slumped in their seats. This morning, there is something else, a brightening of sorts. It’s not a sunny good cheer, but a kind of exhilaration. The sharp cold, and the sight of snow may not have been what anyone wanted at this time of year, but it was a change, and the change was exciting.

Approaching the school, we could hear the children screaming. The snow had turned to slush on asphalt and pavement, but it had accumulated on the artificial turf under the playground toys. The kids were running in circles, scooping up snow, making snowballs and chasing each other. My girls were shy, only standing and pelting each other.

When Baby Jos comes home after school, she tells me stories. Did I know there was a fish with human teeth? Did I know there was a tiny forest animal that was made of deer poop? Did I know there was a dog who could fly? My job was to say, “Really? I didn’t know that.” I had to be coached to respond in the right way. Then she shouted, “April Fool’s!”

Travelogue 1038 – March 31
And the Winner Is …!

Why should I be the only one with no comment to make on the biggest event of the week? Never mind the war or the pandemic or the economy. Never mind the political infighting that makes Lincoln’s election look like a game of softball. The event of which I speak is, of course, “The Oscars Slap”. I could hardly be taken seriously if I did not publicly wring my hands over what happened on that Hollywood stage, could I?

Well, who did not like the two of these men before the Slap? Two more genial and likeable superstars could hardly be found. And who did not feel a bit disappointed after watching that video clip. Even before forming a judgement about who was right and who was wrong, who did not experience that familiar queasiness, the signal that humanity had disappointed you again? And not in the predictable way, like when you see Marjorie Taylor Greene creeping up to a microphone. You know she will leave a mess on the podium for the rest of us to clean up. No, this one was not supposed to happen.

More important to register is the tide of disgust rising underneath the individual disappointment in Smith or Rock. The Academy really botched this one. Ninety-four of these shows, and they cannot see their way to a clean performance. This ninety-four-year-old house needs some work on its foundation. Ricky Gervais was singing it to them from the stage of the Globes. Everyone rolled their eyes.

We might have been the ones given a good slap, the kind that gives you sight. Suddenly there were two middle-aged rich men on the stage, posing like they would duel, and the house was full of people in eighteenth-century costume and made up garishly, and they were gasping theatrically. Suddenly we were extras on the set of “Dangerous Liaisons”.

This is just the glimpse the Academy does not want to offer us. It’s on this platform of disgust that radicals of the left and right meet. It’s where the jihadist and the militiaman from Idaho become acquainted, where they discuss the degeneracy of Western culture.

Much of the right-wing position is a lament. Is it any wonder that the Right gathered so much steam, just as Clinton and Obama allied the White House with Hollywood, just as worldwide media and entertainment congealed like pools of paint that have spread across the floor and become one uniform sheet? Two things have happened. First, we see everything: we no longer have the power to dismiss the Right as the sad cranks they are. They were always there in the shadows. FDR had to fight them off, for God’s sake. We can’t believe that our age created the brand.

Secondly, media and entertainment have evolved into kind of a creepy aristocracy. Just about everything they do confirms the Right in their assessment of our civilization. The media-entertainment ‘Meta’ world insists it is our mirror, and it is inescapable. Earth is their funhouse, and many people are repulsed. While Clinton and Obama were fine with affirming that Hollywood was a part of the ‘liberal establishment’, in fact, there have always a number of right-wing kooks in Hollywood, like Voigt and the Sandler gang. And no wonder that many of them remain silent now. The association of ‘liberalism’ with the ancien régime is a very handy one.

Travelogue 1037 – March 23

The Wolves

Little Ren wanted to tell me something. She took my cheeks in her hands and made me look at her. She told me that when I grew up, I would be given a sword. The purpose of that sword was to protect her from the wolves that chased her in her nightmares. I replied that I understood, and that I would be ready for that responsibility.

Yes, the world has become a scary place. We wake to scary headlines every day now, pandemics and dictators running amok. Whither the halcyon days of healthy Barack staring down pallid Vlad, when we were all so secure? Maybe it was a media dream. The world impinges upon our restful sleep. We need someone to stand guard with his or her sword against the wolves.

People say the darndest things in times of stress. Several friends have commented on how quickly COVID became a non-issue, when all media attention swung toward the war in Ukraine. “It’s a propaganda machine,” was one’s summation. The state of the world can be dismissed that easily. “I don’t read the news anymore,” they say resentfully. “It’s too depressing.”

I would challenge the logic. What is the opposite of propaganda? I don’t think it’s cynical relativism to ask. We’re a political species, and therefore a rhetorical one. Everything we say, even in a spirit of objectivity, has a purpose. Is that good or bad? Neither. How is it that the same person who has fortitude enough for the big, bad world just the way it is faints away at the vagaries of the press? How is it that dictators are human, but journalists must be … more. It’s odd.

If we admit everything is propaganda, then what’s our basis for condemning press coverage of COVID or Ukraine? COVID was a public health crisis. Even if the crisis was exaggerated – which remains far from proven, – who shall we fault for going “too far” to save lives? And why shame anyone over Ukraine coverage? I hear people mutter, “Well, people are suffering everywhere in the world. Why so much attention on Ukraine? The same has been happening in Syria for years.” It’s all political, they complain. Um … yeah.

It’s 2022. We’ve been passively watching for nearly a decade as right-wing strongmen advanced their agendas around the world. Now the European press reports a European war, launched by a right-wing strongman, and are we really going to complain about bias? Maybe the mutterers are too young to remember when the civil war in Syria dominated the press? It did so for quite a long time. Maybe it’s their attention span … which is all the fault of the media ….

Travelogue 1036 – March 17 

The Real World

I picked up a second-hand book the other day. It’s a collection of essays from 2007. It’s one the Best American Essays series. Why would I read essays from 2007? I don’t know. I like essays. Some of the essays from 2007 didn’t age well. Some are very good. One of the longer ones was about the Iraq War.

I remember the Iraq War; I was alive then. Many of us were. When I think back to 2007 in my own life, it doesn’t seem so far away. Why does the Iraq War seem like ages ago? There’s an urgency to the essay that only serves to underscore the remoteness of the event.

The incompetence of Bush seems almost quaint beside Trump’s. The bluster of a Rumsfeld seems light compared to the legion of Fox News zombies we endure now and the snakes like Stephen Miller or Ron Johnson. Cheney’s evil seems to pale next to Putin’s.

The truth is, there’s more alike in the circumstances separated by fifteen years than we would like to admit. Iraq and Ukraine were both brutally invaded with slight cause, at a great cost in human life and property. A horrifying number of people died in Iraq, and the reasons for invasion were as vague and unsatisfying then as Putin’s are now.

Weirdly, Putin was around in 2007, too, smirking and staring out from the Kremlin like a gargoyle on the face of Saint Basil’s. (No, I don’t think Saint Basil’s has gargoyles. It’s a flawed metaphor.)

The world seems worse, but perhaps the only difference is a key change in the press-saturated West. Trump and Brexit, COVID and inflation, and now Putin’s war have made us feel like the hard and painful “real world” was back, like millennial peace and prosperity were caving under the pressure of a natural order of struggle and strife. But has there really been a qualitative change? In some areas of the world, the round of disease, war, and corruption has never really let up. One war looks like another, and integrity in government is like sunshine in Holland: it breaks through the clouds rarely and unexpectedly, and you simply enjoy it while it lasts.

Travelogue 1035 – March 9
Smart

Recently, John Oliver taped a segment about Alexander Lukashenko, president and dictator of Belarus. During what’s shaping up to be another memorable era for dictators, this segment serves as one more reminder of how ridiculous, in fact, the run-of-the-mill dictator is. The average dictator is a bundle of idiosyncrasies and cruel tics with a tinsel-sheen of charisma, someone born to be a bully when young and a revolting buffoon as he ages. To be fair, all humans do poorly with unquestioned power. We act foolishly, and we slide into regrettable behaviour. But then, for most of us, that wouldn’t extend to killing innocent people.

Let’s address – again – this myth of the genius of dictators. Simply because Putin doesn’t act like a clown, hug flag poles, wear ridiculous hair styles, squeeze Steven Seagal’s knee, have public affairs with porn stars, or doctor weather maps with sharpies, he looks like a genius among his pals in the dictator club. It doesn’t mean he is one. I might feel like an Olympic athlete if I ran a 10K against third-graders. Might!

Why does this kind of rhetoric get any traction? The deployment of the term “genius” is often as not an admission of laziness or ignorance. That’s never truer than in the praise of a mob boss of one sort or another. The primary virtue of a mob boss is audacity, the sort usually granted by trauma or chemical imbalance in the brain. Law-abiding citizens don’t expect violence. They are easily surprised by violence. That does not make the good citizen stupid and the aggressor a genius. Why does this need to be explained?

Just because you can’t imagine yourself, say, beating a child senseless doesn’t mean that you don’t think you’re smart enough to do it. You are not saying you lack the technical skills or the strength to beat a child. You are simply saying that you find it difficult to picture. You find the idea repulsive enough that you have difficulty giving it shape in your imagination. Do you think that makes you stupid?

At the time of 9-11, I was puzzled by the admiring rhetoric. How smart they were! How courageous! They threatened passengers with violence, took over a plane. They aimed it at a building. Such vision! That must surely put them in the same league as Shakespeare and Newton and Caesar!

Success in life does not mean genius. Do you think your boss is a genius? Does anyone think Biden is a genius? Does it matter? Genius is even less a factor in the world of thuggery. Putin was trained in the use of intimidation and violence. It works well among societies that are (more or less) used to law and order.

The various memes of Trump calling Putin “smart” will survive into a future that holds the both of them in contempt. The memes will survive as tragedy and as an embarrassment to everyone who is not a part of the shameless Trump family. They survive as a singular display of personal gain over dignity, and of Trump’s ugly disdain for his own children. What father leaves such travesty as a legacy for his children? No wonder the Trump kids all seem so soulless.

Travelogue 1034 – March 6
From the East

Cold winds are blowing from the east, and the skies have cleared. It’s like Nature is providing commentary on events in the Ukraine. Cold winds are blowing from the east. What is life in the post-2016 world without fresh disasters? 2022 began with altogether too much hope. The skies have cleared. Usually a symbol of hope, clear skies can also signify unclouded sight. Our Uncle Vlad has shined a torch at the rotten beams in our security ceiling. And as a final flourish, he has held the torch under his face and lifted his mask. That was cruel blow. As much as we had suspected the smirking face was a mask, we had found it attractive.

March has brought us clear and cold skies, both literally and figuratively. The literal skies have been a pleasant break from the dreary clouds and the exhausting windstorms barrelling in from the English Channel. Though the temps might barely be above freezing, the Dutch have flocked to their outdoor tables at cafes and restaurants. The sun’s warmth feels like a cure for misgivings.

It doesn’t do much to cure history. Dire images and messages flow to us from Ukraine, and every day we try to assimilate what’s happening. We struggle with disbelief. This doesn’t fit with our conception of the world order. How does this happen?

We are even tempted to learn lessons. Lessons we’d forgotten, like war is not a movie or a video game. It drags on in a distressing way. It challenges the romances we had with political gamesmanship and with military fantasies. It profoundly undermines ideas of victory or glory.

There are lessons about dictators. We idle away the years we feel safe chuckling at gremlins like Trump and Carlson, who tell us inverted fables with inverted morals, how might makes right and how most of the human race appears to be expendable from the prospect of their imaginary thrones. But then we suddenly feel the shadow of the real thing, a real dictator.

If any episode from the past week illustrates that we can no longer afford dictators in the twenty-first century, I think it ought to be the Tale of the Shelled Nuclear Plant. It’s worth re-thinking, the notion that sovereign states are untouchable, like enchanted lands we tell stories about, like places where nesting dolls come from. The cold winds from the east might be carrying more than charming folk tales soon.

Travelogue 1033 – February 21
And The Shocks After

The winds haven’t abated. If anything, the city looks more of a wreck today than immediately after the storm – if such a moment could ever have been defined. Dumpsters are tipped, plastic chairs lie on the tram tracks, shreds of plant life lie strewn here and there, clay shards from flower pots are sprinkled along the pavements. And the winds are still blowing. It’s as though Eunice were the roaring spirit – wingspan as wide as the English Channel - who ripped the membrane between worlds, opening us to an invasion of smaller sprites flying in her wake. I thought I spotted a few this morning, white cloaks in the air, snapped up into the ethers when I turned to my head to look.

But I’ve been having nightmares. Maybe I’m just seeing ghosts of them in the morning. I have unsettling and restless dreams, hopeless chases and endless piles of refuse that I’m responsible to clean. It must be that part of the animal brain that corresponds to the dog’s instinct to pace and whine before a storm. Or it’s the electricity in the air, making us all edgy.

I’m not the only one who is edgy. When I left the house this morning, a neighbour was shouting. There was a policeman outside his door. This neighbour has a history of walking round the complex in the middle of the night, spooking other residents. These wind spirits proved to be too much for him. When I returned the police were gone, and so was he. His door was boarded up. In the rain gutters beside his door, a pool of dirty water stood stagnant, its surface rippling with the wind. Debris from the storm had blocked the drains.

Travelogue 1032 – February 20
Eunice the Sprite

Storm Eunice has gone her way. She swept up the northern European coast, blowing and wreaking havoc, pushing things over like a drunken bully at a chess tournament.

Eunice has gone her way, but still there’s a wind advisory. It’s set to rain all day, though Eunice herself brought barely any precipitation. When the storm crossed borders, she changed names. In Germany, she was Storm Zeynep. In Denmark, she was Nora.

The name-changing and shape-shifting is an entertaining European phenomenon. The same street can change names every kilometre. And, in this region in particular, the same river changes names many times. Heraclitus would have been delighted: there had never actually been an object we could reliably call a river. Even if I had crossed it every day on one stable bridge, it might have last week been a foreign river and next week some other body of water altogether.

Eunice blows by and becomes Zeynep. She leaves behind something like the real storm in her wake. We wonder where the storm begins and ends. We wonder whether storms (and streets and rivers) are not spirits some to visit, whether they are not geesten, whether they are not ghosts. We were witnesses. We saw the wild nature spirit, Eunice blow by. Winds were her broad sleeves and rains her long skirts. She leaped and flew, veered and dove, roaring and laughing. Then she was thunderous Zeynep, severe Hanseatic matron, spreading her dark cloak over the towns. She became Nora, a capricious playmate of Loki, slapping ships in the harbour. And then what will she become? Will she fly inland to become artillery smoke over Ukraine?

Travelogue 1031 – February 19
After Eunice

I was out early this morning. The winds have died down; Storm Eunice is gone. Or nearly gone; winds are predicted to pick up again later. It’s hard to define Eunice; she’s powerful but elusive. She brought us only wind. This morning, the skies were clear. Only looking up, it could have been an Ethiopian sky, pale blue and set with clouds of summery virtue. But at ground level, you felt the blustering breezes and the drop in temperature. You saw the debris, the killing fields for potted plants, the tipped and scattered bikes, like skeletons at Pompeii.

Air is my tragic element. I was born under an air sign, and I live under skies. I love and dread my skies. I admire them and I assess them every day. Weather forecasts are like throwing bones. Various practitioners of naturopathic medicine have told me that lung problems were a sign of grief, and I so I was born bereft. I have struggled for breath my whole life. Since COVID, the struggle and the pain have become more acute. I use my inhalers; I rest; I see doctors, lots of doctors. I feel better, and then the winds bring me another petty virus. I’ll be coughing a lifetime. That’s my air; that’s my wind. Winds cleanse, they say. I don’t know. They rob me of breath when I face them. They collect air, and they sweep things up into the sky. They tip us over. They close our eyes with sand. They wipe our memories clean.

Travelogue 1030 – February 18

Eunice

It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re waiting for Storm Eunice. Workplaces and schools are closed. Public transit has been stopped. Wind speeds are mounting outside.

February is the time of winds. Sure, Holland is always a windy place, but February is a wind sculpture, twisting airily, balletically. February has pressed itself in my body memory as work, making life strenuous and electric.

The winds have been coming all week, knocking potted plants over, sprinkling the parks with twigs and branches. They overtake over you as you cycle, turning the front wheel precariously, or sweeping you forward suddenly so that you coast without pedalling.

The big winds are coming today. They roar outside already, whistling at the windows and rattling the door. Already, random items are bouncing down the walkway outside, plastic flowerpots and watering jugs. Anything left loose outside will come tumbling past our door. In the street below, cans and bottles are rolling. People have secured themselves indoors. Above, white, shredded clouds are scudding quickly by, despatched inland, admitting sharp glances of sunshine from overhead.

February is the tiring time of winds. You bow your head when you go outside.

Travelogue 1029 – February 9

A Day With Ren

My friend asked me for funny stories about my girls to cheer him up. At the time, I couldn’t think of any. Now in the middle of the night, I’m thinking about my funny Little Ren.

She was home yesterday because the day before she had fallen from the playground equipment at school, and she had split her lip and bumped her head. We were advised to watch her closely for a day. In the morning, she was sullen but by afternoon she had cheered up.

I was working at the computer at home, and she was playing by herself. She was so used to playing with her big sister, she longed to find a playmate. She reached out to me. I agreed, and she happily circled a length of curled and elastic plastic around my wrist. I was to be her pet. She told me to come along; she was going to take me to the doctor.

At the doctor’s office in the kitchen, Ren bid me sit quietly and wait for the doctor. She advised me that now she was going to be both my mother and my doctor. When she came back, she put a toy cup to my chest and said she was measuring my heart. She counted to two, and she decided my heart was doing fine. Then she rolled a hair band around my hand and up my forearm. With that she checked my blood pressure and judged that it was good.

Now she needed more specialized instruments. She counselled me to wait patiently while she went upstairs for her equipment. The first one of those was Duckie, her favourite ‘snuggly’. With Duckie’s bill, she took a blood sample from my arm. The results came quickly. She told me there was no fat. She was bound to return the blood she had taken, and so she pressed Duckie’s bill against my arm. There, it was back. She brought a bowl, and she bid me close my eyes. She was going to take my eyes and examine them. It took only a minute, and she was able to inform me that there was no fat in my eyes, either. I was in very good health!

The doctor’s examination was over. She gently put my leash back on, and she led me home, where my laptop was. “Now you can play your games,” she said. And I did. I went back to my games, feeling reassured about my condition. My Little Ren returned to her own games. She likes to imagine all sorts of adventures for her toys. While she does, she narrates in a sweet voice little voice, sometimes singing the story. The sound of her play makes my time with her ineffably happy.

I reflect in the middle of the night on my love for her, how my desire for her happiness and safety is like an instinct, like a fire in my not-fat blood, like a hunger. I want her to play happily day after day, without a care. I would watch over her and Duckie for a lifetime, content and charmed.

Travelogue 1028 – January 27

Civitas

Lockdown is over, and the city is a magical place again. You can walk into a shop where they sell you a cup of coffee, and you can sit down to drink it, on the premises! People enter like timid forest animals, and they flinch at the hospitality of the barista. Under their masks, those baristas are all smiles. I’ve rarely seen Dutch people so genuinely happy to encounter other human beings. The customers sit, and they relax, slowly remembering the old rituals. They look over their shoulders uncertainly, never sure that normal is still normal, that they have recalled their manners correctly, that the rules haven’t changed. They pay, and they share such a melting look of gratitude with the barista that the barista is astonished into uncharacteristic politeness.

The lesson of lockdown for most of us was how much society, and its metonym, the city, were refined and educated tastes. They were the artifice we took as nature. When COVID pulled the plug on daily routines, we were confronted with the ugliness of the city. Is this where I chose to live, this shabby alley of dirty lanes and old brick walls? Is this the place we found so romantic, the smeared windows and the littered curb? The city was always a construct in the imagination, animated by the activity on the street and by our interactions, the shopping, the entertainments and the meals in public spaces. Very suddenly, the structure was stripped bare. It was like a green screen malfunction.

These were thoughts as I took my walk last week while Baby was playing hockey. I wandered out past the edge of the city, into the blank fields in the shadow of the massive Van Brienenoordbrug, plots of tired grass divided by roads and bike paths leading elsewhere as expeditiously as possible. I reflected on the quick breakdown of the urban illusion.

Anything attractive about a city is a magic trick, order conjured by a spell and beauty printed like circuits on a board. It radiates from a centre, or from several centres, toward the edges. It forms, or attempts to form, one coherent design. The edges are not hemmed; they are left open, and they fray. There you find the clumsy boundary with nature, where nature is crushed, like the grass in a field where a festival has been held. Join me there at the edge, and you see the river flats by the River Maas, where nature once breathed.

I learned a lot about cities from my time in Addis Ababa. When I was there, the city hadn’t the resources of my American cities. Efforts to beautify the city had been relatively limited. I walked and walked my first few years in Addis; I explored many neighbourhoods. I realize now that I was occupied by a search for an aesthetics. I was puzzled. I found isolated bits of beauty; I found accidental beauty. I found human beauty and natural beauty and spontaneous moments of beauty. But there was no plan overarching, no design beyond function, at least one that I could apprehend. The result was a raw uniformity that met my eye, road after road and mile after mile. The edges were the middle.

Travelogue 1027 – January 22

The Edge of Town

This season’s suffering happens at the confluence of winter’s cold and the lockdown. I take Baby to hockey practice twice a week. The hockey fields are not only far away; they are situated at an edge of town where the city bleeds out into the river flats of the Maas. There the River Maas curves lazily, swollen with new waters from the Hollandsche Ijssel, and flows toward downtown Rotterdam.

The area is rather desolate. Even though the sports complex is a nice one, it feels as though its access street continues on into blank space, like an unfinished drawing. Even if there were no lockdown, there would be nothing to do nearby and nowhere to find shelter. During lockdown, it’s not even worth trying to travel to look for something. During lockdown, parents are not allowed to watch practice, so we have to kill an hour outside.

Baby and I have taken the tram this afternoon. I don’t have my bike. I pull my hat down over my ears, I zip up the jacket, and I set out for a long walk. There must be something to see. I stroll off down the street, off the edge of the world. The pedestrian pavements disappear. I’m walking along the bike path beside sprawling car dealerships. Then I’m under the mass of the Van Brienenoord Bridge rising high above the earth before soaring over the wide river. Beyond that I’m following a lonely bike path through muddy lots beside the grey pillars of the bridge, under which forklifts noisily rearrange building materials.

I’m fascinated by how quickly the city deteriorates into raw, muddy spaces and ugly industry or infrastructure. I’m crossing narrow roads where pedestrians on foot seem never to have been seen. Finally, I’m by the river, where the wide waters are the only natural things to be seen. The rest is bland function. On my right is the impressive span of the bridge under its arches. On my left, I can see the confluence of the two rivers, making an expanse of water like a placid lake. Set along all the banks are the kinds of buildings that are raised from the earth with only commerce in mind. It’s like they all have their backs to you. If these buildings had smiles to show, they would only show them the landwards. It feels lonely standing here.

Travelogue 1026 – January 15

God’s Teeth

Little Ren is a philosopher. Her mother is Christian, and so she is quite curious about the deity. I usually defer all religious questions to the kids’ mama, but I must admit, sometimes it’s fun to debate the undebatable. Little Ren is quite adept already at philosophical discourse.

Last night, Ren was wondering whether God had teeth. I tried with the old dodge that God doesn’t have a body like us, but she would have none of it. She said God must have teeth; otherwise, how could He chew? I countered that God might not have to eat food like we do. She conceded the point, but shrewdly changed tack. If God had no teeth, He would not be able to speak properly. Then no one would listen to Him. I gave her that one.

Furthermore, God would not be able to smile properly, and His friends would make fun of Him. An interesting point, I admitted, but God should know better than to have friends who would laugh at Him based on His looks.

Ultimately, I could never really question a child’s musings about God. Children are supposed to be closer to God. Maybe God does worry about His smile. What do I know? We all worry about our credibility in the eyes of others. Maybe God does, too. Would that extend as far as His looks? Does God get laughed at by other gods? Or by angels and saints? Does anyone else get close enough to have the opportunity to laugh at Him?

I would welcome a deity Whom I could blame for the weather. When we finally got a break from the rain, the temperatures dove. Then the fog came. We’ve had days it, cold and damp. Weather like this takes on the appearance of mildness, all misty rain and soft, billowing fog. But it gets under your skin quickly, and you suffer.

This morning Baby Jos and I went to hockey practice. I was teamouder, so I had to stay on the pitch the whole hour. It was fun – I cheered the girls on; I acted as an inept goalkeeper for them; I corrected their technique, (with my five months’ experience in hockey,) – but halfway through Jos was in tears because her fingers hurt. I held her gloved hands in mine, and then encouraged her to go on. Other girls had no gloves at all. The Dutch are hardy.

Cycling home, I was the one in tears. A few fingers were numb, and I steered the bike with one hand while the other hand recovered in my pocket.

Shall I blame the deity? Judging by history, no god would stand for it. They are great at projection. It would be my fault somehow, once all was said and done. I had created my own experience, through sin or through lack of imagination. It’s best to keep it secular, I suppose, safely impersonal.

Travelogue 1025 – January 11
Cold Morning

The morning sky is vibrant with colour. We’re out early, walking together toward the tram station before the sun rises. Light is breaking slowly, and the clouds are painted with the day’s first warmth. The girls are very excited to see so much pink in the sky.

School is back in session. We’re getting up before dawn again. We’re packing lunches and dressing up for the cold. We’re milling around at the tram stop, trying to stay warm. People seem awfully cheerful for a weekday morning after a long vacation has ended. It could be a sense of relief that we’re done with holidays for a while. But, no, that’s probably just me. It’s likely the chill in the air. Northern folks like all things brisk. We’re back to work, and it’s freezing; life is good.

The girls are excited to start school again. We managed a few play dates while school was out, but they really want to see their friends and teachers. There is no hesitation at the doors to the school. Those days are gone.

The intersection of narrow streets in front of the school and next to the playground are a nexus of Dutch briskness. There are children and parents crossing, bikes coasting in. Some of the bikes are those unwieldy bakfiets, cargo bikes with the huge boxes in front for children to ride in. Cars are edging around the corner. No one hesitates, but it all ticks along as though it’s choreographed. I join in the dance, crossing the street and weaving among the families.

I walk along the River Schie before I cross and head for the store. Along that quiet stretch of river side, I encounter two groups of people training. In one case, there is a gym with a street-side door like a car mechanic’s. The door is wide open, and people are on the ground in formation, stretching and working out. It’s one degree over freezing, but they’ve got their butts on the cold brick of the pavement, and they’re grinning like it’s the first day of spring. Music is pumping from inside, and their coach is shouting. I haven’t seen a group of Dutch adults this happy since the last time I saw a group of Dutch adults drunk. Lockdown has made some of us giddy, I suppose. When we get a chance to spend time together, we’re like pre-teens at their first party.

Travelogue 1024 – December 30
The Sounds of Lockdown

We’re deep into holiday break (and lockdown) and the city is quiet. I enjoy getting on the bike during holiday breaks. The city seems calm and human. There are some exceptions, of course. There are the kids and forever pre-teens who are setting off bomb-like firecrackers from Poland in the dead of night. And there is the weather. Even when the people of Holland are still, the sky is not. There is a rushing wind under the grey sky that actually pushes me uphill on my bike when I’m crossing the Beukels Bridge. Pedalling up the other side on my way home is another matter. I’m pushing against the wind at a pace that I could beat by walking. But in a perverse twist on laziness, I don’t want to bother dismounting from the bike.

After doing some shopping, I stop by my favourite café. It’s owned by a young couple, half Brit and half Dutch. The Englishman is manning the front today. There’s only the front to man during the lockdown. They’ve had to let everyone go, and they run the place themselves. They’ve blocked off the whole space beyond the front counter. In the back, you see that he’s set up a tee and a chipping net so he can practice his golf game. It’s one of the few outdoor activities still open.

We talk about the pandemic, and we talk about the new year. He thinks the lockdown was a good idea. It’s nice to talk COVID in reasonable tones. 2021 has been a year of shrill voices. Maybe we get to be tired of wild-eyed ranting in 2022? That would be nice. He’s planning for a quiet New Year’s, as much as possible among the fireworks. He has a rooftop garden, where he and his wife will share some champagne and watch the adult fireworks shows.

Down below, the rest of us will be hiding behind locked doors with pillows over our heads, while the streets are surrendered to the communal lizard brain. The police have been clear that, though fireworks have been banned, chasing down incels with explosives will be low among their priorities. Fair enough. We wait to feel the hope of a new year dawning until the sun has risen and the smoke has cleared.

Travelogue 1023 – December 20
If We Had Been Saved
Part Three

It’s easier to imagine a world in which Hitler won the war than it is to imagine a world in which Hitler never was born. That’s fascinating. Why would that be so? I’m guessing the answer is a simple one. There are tangible measures for the first case. Hitler is a known quantity. The war is a familiar narrative.

If it’s ‘easier to imagine’, does that lend it some moral value? No, it’s clearly easy for our species to imagine dystopias and nightmares. It’s almost a specialisation of the human psyche. As much as historical speculation can be made to serve a moral purpose, it is neutral at its core. The what-if game can be quite a callous one. Concept exists in its own sphere, free of values. History is an objective study, in which the human experience is reduced to a series of formulae.

‘High concept’ is popular in fiction these days. Speculation, whether about history or future, has become a ubiquitous confection for readers and film audiences. Downey Jr as Sherlock Holmes fears the collapse of Western Civilization, but the hero prevails, and disaster is averted. Reality then becomes the counter narrative: August 1914 is an anomaly. Sherlock Holmes has already saved us from that. If every what-if makes of our reality its shadow, then by now we are living in the counter narrative removed many, many times from the intervention of the first what-if.

Speculation becomes a habit of the mind, leaping right over the obvious. If the world wars had been averted, the most salient effect would have been that some sixty million more people would have been alive in 1945. Our minds may run to the playground of big ideas, but the graveyard is still plainly in sight.

Is this the symptom of something deeper? One needn’t look too far to see other signs of our callousness toward human life. I think of the recent Rittenhouse trial. Whatever the reason, there is no dispute that this kid shot two people dead in the street. Who remembers the victims’ names? Who expresses remorse for the lives cut short? I’ve had to remind myself who they were, so seldom were they mentioned in the international press. Neither victim was armed. Both were concerned that a teenage boy was moving freely among protesters with an assault-style rifle. Every so often the term ‘death cult’ is applied to the Trumpistas. I wonder if it’s confined to them. Maybe they’re just the dumb kids who say it out loud, and, feeling dumb when we laugh, say it louder and louder.

Human life has never meant more to me than since I became a parent. It’s a miracle. We are blessed when we grasp this simplest principle. My girls teach me every day. We have so little of real value to cherish in this short existence. We manufacture silly placeholders when we feel empty, things like religious or nationalistic dogmas. We search for justification for the gift of life: a god’s design or success according to various yardsticks. But life is its own value. When we show ourselves careless with that treasure, we reveal something truly ugly in our nature. No pretty idea disguises it.

Travelogue 1022 – December 19
If We Had Been Saved
Part Two

We’re back in hard lockdown. I had no idea it was coming. My doctor friend didn’t see it coming, either, so I don’t feel too out of touch. Suddenly this morning we’re locked down until mid-January.

“Mensen worden moedeloos,” declares a local story. People are down. Yes. I have less reason than most to feel down. Lockdown has very little effect on my lifestyle, sad to say. We don’t go out. I don’t work in a market. The promulgation of a hard lockdown should be of little consequence to me. Instead, I find it depressing. As a public health measure, it’s an act of hope. As a government pronouncement, it’s like an admission of defeat.

It finally feels, two years in, like history. It feels like the Battle for Britain, a battle of endurance and attrition. It’s a dark time, months of deprivation sandwiched between Trump-Brexit and … God knows what. With the supply chain meltdowns we’ve seen, we may even see rationing to complete the World War II analogy.

Is this the collapse of civilization that Downey Jr as Holmes warned us about? Seems rather delayed if it’s a result of the world wars. But I’ve already been forced to admit that I have little notion what the difference between a saved world and an unsaved world might be. Professor Moriarty tried to plunge the world into total war in 1891. Holmes saved the world that time (according to Guy Ritchie,) but apparently was unable to in 1914. As it happens, Holmes himself did survive the war. As much as we like to think of him as a nineteenth-century character, he did appear in stories until 1927. Therefore, he and Watson entered with us into the fallen state, the dreamy historical miasma we optimistically called post-war.

My imagination failed me when I attempted to visualize a world that had been saved from Moriarty’s evil machinations and had avoided all world war. Would we have been free from climate change? Probably not. Would we have avoided the spectre of nuclear war? Probably not. Would we have been spared K-pop? Not likely.

Then I realized the premise was wrong. In the same way that Guy Ritchie’s movie (innocently) makes something of the Holmes canon that it was never meant to be – Arthur Canon Doyle had never dreamed of steam punk, – the brand of historical speculation that (not so innocently) forces nature into shapes it was never meant to hold (high-concept what-if propositions) has another purpose than accurate portrayal. It’s fun to entertain grandiose schemata of civilizational glory and decay, punctuated by once-in-a-millennium events, and suggesting Boschian scenes of disaster to the imagination, but, of course, few are privileged to live through tectonic civilizational shifts, and fewer realize it’s happening. Those who lived through the decline of Rome would have only dimly been aware of that decline. Those alive during the sacks of Rome in 410 and 455 A.D. were shocked, but they lived in a world in which Rome had already been lost in every sense but the final one, its safety behind ancient walls. Rome was no longer even capital of the Roman Empire in the fifth century.

Travelogue 1021 – December 12
If We Had Been Saved 

Part One

Now I use our Netflix accounts to watch cheesy old films, films like the old Guy Ritchie Sherlock Holmes movies. They’re like candy to look at, and the humour is just as sickly sweet. The dark sets are Gothic, and so are the villains. In the second Holmes movie, Professor Moriarty is planning to ignite the First World War a generation early, in 1891.

At one point, Robert Downey Jr is declaring that they need to stop Professor Moriarty and avert the collapse of Western civilization. It’s just a movie and just a throwaway line – these days, no villain worth their salt aims for anything less than the collapse of civilization. Why bother with a bank heist? We hear about the civilization’s demise every few hours on average. It’s somehow integral to every group fantasy of ours. But this spin on the old trope made me think.

World War I was destined to come, despite Sherlock’s genius. So … has Western civilization collapsed after all? It certainly would be a relief to know it was over and done with. Villains might be left without a sense of purpose, but the rest of us would be happy to get on with our humble, medieval existences, bowing to our half-witted leaders and watching the televised jousts from the UFC.

But what if the world wars had actually been averted and civilization saved? What would a saved Western civilization have looked like? Science and industry were already developing quickly. Population was ready to boom. Culture was overshadowed by Freud and Einstein, well before 1914. Would the post-colonial world have looked any different? Would it have been post-colonial at all? Would China have become any less of a juggernaut? Would Europe have retained more power, more dignity?

Russia might have retained its empire. Maybe there would still have been some Romanovs lingering on, celebrities with no power. A young Vladimir Putin might have died protecting a minor Romanov prince from anarchist bullets. Or perhaps perished in a skirmish with the Bolsheviks, who resurge every few generations in a wild run at the government in St Petersburg.

Assuming my mother still found my father attractive without his uniform, and assuming I still found my way into this tired old world, what would I have found? Being an American would have meant something different. No doubt, without being called upon to lead the “free world”, America would have been both lesser and greater, less noble and less corrupt, frivolous without needing to be self-righteous. Where would MAGA be without the narrative of a ‘great’ America? Sleazebags like Gaetz and Greene would have been free to be the offensive real estate agents they were born to be, chasing money instead of MAGA glory and bullying minority parents at PTA meetings.

This is a fun what-if game to play, but I’m surprised to find myself struggling to come up with tangible ideas about how it would have been different. It’s a game that seems easy to play until you try. I’m not even sure how to interpret the challenge it presents.

Travelogue 1020 – December 5

How Baroque

It’s hard to resist thinking back to our trip to Rome in October. It’s probably the last time we saw the sun. To say it’s been rainy here would be to insult Holland’s genius for gloom.

One sunny morning in Rome, we ventured across the Tiber to see the Vatican Museums. Though it’s been years since I visited, it was all so familiar, those astounding halls with all their wonders, and the peculiar exhaustion that creeps up on you and embraces you. That place demands a very specific sort of stamina.

COVID had made some changes. The biggest difference was our unregulated time in the Sistine Chapel. The last time I visited, we were marched in in groups and given fifteen minutes to enjoy. This time, the crowds were thinner, and we were allowed to freely enter and leave. In fact, we passed through the famous chapel twice, after I spaced out and led my family right past the Stanze di Raffaello. We had to circle back, seeing Michelangelo twice in order to see Rafael once. I would say that was a fair trade.

For me, Rome was the city of Michelangelo. Invariably, I visited Michelangelo when I visited Rome: the Pietà, the Sistine Chapel, the Campidoglio, the tomb of Julius II.

After some time, as though from the periphery, there entered another artist to contend for the soul of Rome. That was Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Bernini came a century later, and he never cut the romantic figure that Michelangelo did, but his claim to the Eternal City is undeniable.

Bernini is everywhere. He’s at the Vatican. He’s scattered here and there across the centre, perhaps mostly famously at the Pizza Navona. He’s in museums, most prominently in the Galleria Borghese. Bernini was the son of a sculptor, and he was a prodigy whose talent was recognized early. He was the favourite of a string of popes, and he spent the majority of a long life contributing to the beauty of his city, in sculpture, paintings, architecture and monuments.

Unsurprisingly, as I’ve grown older, I’ve become drawn to the artists with long careers. I have a new regard for those survivors, the Berninis, the Rembrandts, and the Shakespeares, the artists who lived undramatic lives and who produced huge bodies of work. As much as Michelangelo is regarded as a brooding outsider – and to a good degree he was, – he was also, like Bernini, spotted early and favoured through much of his life by the popes of his time. He lived to be 88 years old.

Bernini’s art isn’t to everyone’s taste. He is father or midwife to the Baroque style, and to the extent that the centre of Rome stands as a monument to Baroque, we owe a tip of our hats to the overwhelming genius of Bernini. You may not like the drama and the grandiosity, the anguished faces and the gilded rays of Holy Spirit, but it was the art of its time, and Bernini was the master.

Travelogue 1019 – November 28
Santa Maria in Trastevere

The story of our food experience in Rome unravels quickly after its humble beginnings. We’re increasingly in the thrall of two overpowering forces, parenting fatigue and the charms of the city. These forces combine to make daily planning nearly impossible. By dinner time we are fine finding somewhere nearby for ease. We also want something more local and less touristic. Our solution is to cross the river and stroll around Trastevere. This is how we discover the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere.

This is a lively area of Rome. It wouldn’t be fair to say it was “Roman” in the sense we hoped for. There are just as many non-Italians here as in the Campo de’Fiori, but in Trastevere they are expats living or studying in Rome. In that sense only, we’ve graduated to something more local. We return there for dinner several nights in a row.

The piazza is old. The fountain in the centre dates back to the eighth century, though what you see is the work of Bramante. The basilica on the piazza was first founded in the third century. Much of the current building dates back to the twelfth century, notably those mosaics along the top of the façade. The church is long and squat, in the style of many basilicas in Italy, offering a somewhat blank face to the piazza, despite its embellishments, with a tall and square campanile in the back. The weight of so many centuries settles on this square with a sobering effect. Despite the piazza’s reputation for nightlife, the spacious square, laid with fanning cobblestone and lined in Renaissance colours, still feels a bit forlorn and quiet.

In the piazza, or along one of the nearby lanes, we tried pizza al forno and tried more pasta carbonara. We sat outside when we could, watching the night overtake our new little quartiere. We watched lovers sitting on the steps of the fountain. We watched the young lady chase a purse snatcher across the piazza. We watched the police van lazily pull into the piazza some ten minutes later. We placated our restless little girls, promising them gelato if they would sit still a few moments longer.

Travelogue 1018 – November 21
Rommel

I’m grading papers, digital piles of digital papers. Students are reporting their research findings, drawing conclusions, and making recommendations. I’m reading with an evaluator’s eyes, judging language, capturing errors, and tracing the arc of thoughts in flight, like the darting of starlings in mid-air. Perhaps it’s more like turkeys taking flight in some cases. But it’s quite a task, when you think about it, this construction of cases, this logic by numbers, this raising of towers with bar magnets and steel balls. It’s a kind of miracle. How do children manage this? I mean, developing to this sophistication of thought?

I turn away from essays for a moment to watch my girls. I wonder at the journey ahead of them. I imagine them consulting with me about argumentative essays and rhetoric.

Baby Jos was recently reciting to me a silly rhyme she learned from a friend, “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.” I laughed with her, enjoying her pride in having acquired this verbal toy. She repeated it all evening. Little Ren, meanwhile, was insisting that I call her “sensei”. She showed me how I should bow to her. Her big sister had helped her craft a black belt from paper. How long will I be able to share these small triumphs with them? How long will they include me?

Can it be possible that these thoughts experiments, my girls’ rhymes and their playacting and the three-letter words in their little books, will compound over time and evolve into essays for teachers like me?

Baby’s teacher recently posted a video of their classroom. Overnight, everything had been overturned and the room was a mess. The children entered with their mouths open in wonder. Clearly, the school had received a visit from Rommelpiet. Rommelpiet is one of the more entertaining of Dutch Christmas traditions. Sinterklaas comes to the country at this time of year. (Sinterklaas is NOT Santa Claus. Santa has a closer analogue in the ‘Kerstman’.) And when Sinterklaas travels, he does so with a retinue of ‘Piets’, who, unfortunately, are conventionally portrayed as black sambos. The Piets are tricksters, but none more than Rommelpiet, who likes to sneak into schools and turn everything upside down. ‘Rommel’ means mess in Dutch.

I wonder if Rommelpiet requires an ‘inside man’ at each school. I would like to volunteer. Imagine the hallways littered with essays. If only they were still on paper.

Travelogue 1017 – November 20
I Made This

Just a block away from the Caffe Sant’Eustachio is the one of my favourite sights in the centre of Rome. You come upon it quite suddenly, because this part of Rome is really the medieval city, where buildings crowd in and huddle against the cold centuries between ancient and modern. These are the streets north of the Palatine and Capitoline hills, where, during the Roman Republic, armies were called to duty and were trained. The fields there, collectively called the Campus Martius in those days, lay outside the city walls. Once the Western Mediterranean had been conquered, and Rome’s wars had become long campaigns fought far away, the armies were encamped and trained outside the city, often outside Latium. During the Civil Wars and Augustus’s reign, the Campus Martius became a place to build. Pompey built his theatre there. In an ironic stroke of fate, this would be where Pompey’s greatest adversary would be assassinated four years after he himself had been called to Hades. Years later, Augustus Caesar’s great general, friend, and son-in-law Agrippa would build the Pantheon in the old Campus Martius. No one is quite sure of the original function of the building, beyond it being a temple, hardly a novel purpose for structures in ancient Rome, where gods and goddesses abounded.

Walking from Sant’Eustachio, one approaches the Pantheon from behind, the first sight of the building offering hardly a clue to the significance of the place. One is positioned too close to recognize it. The wall could almost be the side of an old prison. There are a few small, irregular barred windows. Otherwise, it is blank, solid brick, old, eroded and reworked many times. One sees the remains of archways, filled in with brick. One sees the remains of mysterious walls and floors. One sees square peg holes where supporting beams must have been wedged. People are sitting on the low wall that surrounds the base of the building. The original level of ancient buildings is significantly lower than the streets today. Inside that boundary wall is a kind of dry moat surrounding the Pantheon. A narrow alley runs along the back wall, where tour groups shuffle along, blocking foot traffic, oblivious to anything but the voices in their ears. One eventually finds one’s way round to the imposing façade, where an ascending piazza allows for perspective. It’s a dramatic sight, high columns holding up the pediment of the temple’s portico, the pediment engraved with Agrippa’s name: in letters that can probably be seen at half a kilometre. “M·AGRIPPA·L·F·COS·TERTIVM·FECIT,” it says. I made this thing.

As it happens, the Pantheon we see was probably not made by Agrippa. The original was likely wholly destroyed in a fire. It was restored by Domitian and then later by Hadrian. It’s even possible that the amazing dome that tops the Parthenon, still a model for architects more than a millennium later, was Hadrian’s innovation. It’s hard to say what the first temple looked like, aside from the awe-inspiring façade that proclaims that Agrippa lived and built.

Travelogue 1016 – November 13
Deer in the Headlights

I didn’t get far in recounting our food experiences in Rome. I started about our dinner in the Ghetto district, and then my mind was drawn back to the Tiber. But that’s how Rome is, city of distractions.

Let’s talk coffee. I was quick to ask Carolyn about coffee, and she recommended the Caffe Sant’Eustachio. That venerable establishment, open since 1938, is located in the Piazza Sant’Eustachio, just behind the Pantheon in the centre of the old town. The coffee is fantastic – they are famous for their secret blend, – and we enjoyed sitting lazily in the piazza. There’s nothing much to look at in the piazza, beyond the life of the piazza itself, and it wouldn’t be Italy without the beautiful chaos of the piazza. The place, the plein, the platz, the square, the piazza: warm images come to mind, whatever the culture. But the Italian piazza is a special one for me, informed by the taste of caffe and brioche and by the noise of a hundred conversations overheard.

A piazza like Sant’Eustachio would hardly seem a space worthy of the name. It’s more like the wide bend in a stream, where tiny rivulets converge. The space is irregular, uneven. Outdoor tables seem like awkward claims on space where the ‘stream’, as it were, eddies. There is no boundary between caffe space and the street among the fan-patterned cobblestone. And the caffe itself is as much a touristic sight as any ruin, a vestige of the mid-century Rome that showcased its unique cultural alloy of exquisite taste with the disarming disarray of the Italian street.

The one sight on the piazza, might be the church of Sant’Eustachio. There’s been a church on the site at least since the eighth century. In the back, off the piazza, stands its twelfth-century Romanesque bell tower. The façade on the piazza dates to about 1700, and includes a captivating deer’s head with a cross set between its antlers, high above the entrance. It’s a reference to the saint’s conversion, which involved spotting a radiant deer like this one while out on a hunt. Eustachio was an early martyr, a Roman noble who abandoned all to join the Christians.

Travelogue 1015 – November 10
Ghettoes

I want to report about our food experience in Rome, because our friend Carolyn was so generous with good advice about where to go. I’m afraid it will be a dubious homage to Carolyn’s good taste and her graciousness, though, because I am so underdeveloped as a foodie and because our schedule for fine dining was curtailed by the little girls holding our hands.

We made a good effort. We had dinner in the old Ghetto district, not far from our hotel, where we were able to taste some real Roman cuisine, including pasta Cacio e Pepe (cheese and pepper) and Carciofi alla Giudia (artichokes fried as ghetto residents apparently did). We ate outside, under umbrellas tilting on the cobblestones. The girls were more excited about the Fanta than about the Roman cuisine, I’m afraid, but we managed to keep them seated long enough to enjoy our own meals.

We had not arrived in the Ghetto district from our hotel, but from the direction of the river, just at the end of the Via del Portico d’Ottavia. We had toured the Forum Boarium and then walked along the river, beside the pretty Isola Tiberina. The Forum Boarium was a cattle market during the Republic, on a spot that would have been right next to the river. Located in the ancient market are two of the oldest standing temples in the city, dating to the two centuries before Christ. They are small but pretty. It’s a quiet spot, a pleasant opportunity to contemplate the ancient architecture.

Across the street, it’s not so quiet. There, tourists line up to take their pictures at the ‘Mouth of Truth’. No one is quite sure where this huge circular mask came from, though it probably served as something like the manhole cover it looks like, possibly originating in the floor of one of the temples across the street. Now it hangs outside the church, Santa Maria in Cosmedin, parts of which date back to the 8th century. A superstition grew around this spooky mask that, if you uttered a lie while your hand was in the mask’s mouth, you would lose that hand. Standing together with all hands in the mask’s mouth is a popular family photo.

If you stop there, be sure to spend a few minutes inside the church. It’s lovely. You can spot decorative elements from a variety of eras, like delicate ancient columns, early medieval tile work and frescoes, and the Romanesque bell tower. There are suggestions of its Greek roots, as the church was founded while Rome was under Byzantine rule and set in what was then a Greek district of the city.

Travelogue 1014 – November 3
And We Protect Them

I’m looking at the disappointing results in Virginia this morning. The case against Trumpism has become so plain that making it begins to feel redundant and alarmist. It has become clear that this was never about principle. It was never about what was fair or what was right. It was never in question whether the Trump partisans in the public eye were anything but despicable. We were fools to argue it. All we communicated was that we were old school. That we were the real conservatives and the Trumpistas the (fascist) revolutionaries. I blush for people who still try to shame those operatives on Twitter. I blush a little even for the pundits who continue to deploy reason, though I admire their efforts to document the facts – fundamentally for future generations.

There was a moment, squandered by now, to suppress them. For decades, I’ve questioned America’s interpretation of free speech, as a protection for hate speech and sedition. We don’t feel shame for suppressing physical violence, but we do for suppressing the ideological kind. More people than we would like to admit respond to displays of raw power and disdain for the rule of law. By conceding legitimacy to the fascists, in the name of a false principle – that hate speech is protected speech – we have allowed them shows of power. People are excited by it, drawn to it. To people who think, it appears lemming-like, this crowding to the precipice of fascism. We reason that power for power’s sake benefits a very few people. Let’s be frank: the supporters of these fascists believe that the punishment will stop with immigrants and LGBTQ people and minorities. The police will beat on blacks. They will never beat on us. Those of us who reason things out realize that fascism has no boundaries.

I do believe in common sense. I do believe in reason. And some of us will continue to talk about these unfashionable tools of the human mind. It will be embarrassing in a world of flashy violence. But my optimism is long term. I think America will have to rediscover democracy, but I do believe it will. The question is only, how much suffering is required first? A depressing number of people need to be reminded that force and power for their own sake are thrilling only for a very short time. Power feeds on inequality. There have to be a lot of people under that thumb. ‘Minorities’ will not suffice. Power needs millions and millions of shoulders to bear its weight. It requires all their money, all their words, all their physical vitality. Ultimately, it needs all the last resources of a failing ecosystem, the system that provides food and water and air. All must be sacrificed for the pleasure of watching other people wield power with impunity.

Travelogue 1013 – November 1
The Campo

After our delays in Paris, we arrived in Rome late at night. We were exhausted, so we opted for a taxi ride into town. That was terrifying, a shot of adrenaline to wake us. It was a reminder of our many travels in Ethiopia, when our lives were in the hands of crazed taxi drivers, kilometre after kilometre on unlit highways at night, the headlights turned off to conserve the battery. But the trip into Rome was a short one, and we did in fact arrive, clasping our children to us in gratitude.

I was the first up in the morning. I went out for supplies. It was a sunny morning, and I was immediately struck by the casual grandeur of the place. We were staying a bit south of the Campo De’ Fiori, so I headed toward the famous piazza. It used to be one of my favourite spots in Rome. But it wasn’t as though I needed wait until the Campo to see the beauty of Rome. It was everywhere, the cobblestone alleys winding among palazzi and churches in every direction. This was exactly what I wanted to share with Menna, who hadn’t been to Italia yet. And I was rewarded a few hours later, once the girls were up and washed and we’d had a little snack. We stepped outside, and Menna was instantly enchanted. We needed no ambitious agenda of sights to see. The city of Rome was itself the sight, lane after lane, piazza by piazza. She hasn’t stopped talking about Italia since we returned home.

One theme for the trip was going to be coffee. Our first coffee was there in the Campo de’ Fiori, at an outdoor table where I could sit in the sun and the ladies could all sit in the shade. We have lots of specialty coffee in Holland, but there’s something special about coffee in Italia. I had been anticipating that first taste, and it didn’t disappoint. We sat for a while, watching the activity of the market in the square, regarding the lovely buildings surrounding us, some with rooftop gardens, and commiserating with poor Giordano Bruno, sixteenth-century philosopher who was burned at the stake in the Campo de’ Fiori and whose statue stands at the centre of the square.

Travelogue 1012 – October 30 

Dunes

I’ve stumbled upon my one degree of separation! The authentic quest for a true American is for his or her closest brushes with fame. We Americans love the famous, and we envy them. Granted, we envy fame in a lazy way, happy to let the famous do all the work. But we have a God-given right to the chance encounter or connection that might shed some reflected light upon us. We acknowledge that fame is a burden best borne by the famous, but, by God, the famous are duty-bound to share their glory. And at last, I’ve found my one degree!

The new movie adaptation of “Dune” has brought Frank Herbert back into the spotlight. The book is now acknowledged as one of the, perhaps THE classic science fiction novel. When I read it, I was a teenager. The book had yet to find its place in the canon. Only a few of the sequels had been published, as I recall. Hollywood hadn’t discovered it yet. It had its impact on me. The character Atreides and the ambience of the spice planet were printed indelibly in my imagination.

I’ve been tempted to pick the novel up again. Curious about Herbert again, I did some reading and discovered that he had paid a visit to Florence, Oregon when he was working as a journalist in Seattle. Florence is a town on the Pacific coast, and it boasts a gorgeous stretch of beach, notable for its huge sand dunes. In Herbert’s day, the sand of the dunes was threatening to engulf the town, and engineers were looking for a solution. Herbert was fascinated by this stand-off between man and nature. Man won that particular battle, and the beach is paying the price. But Herbert had an idea while he was visiting Florence. Imagine a desert planet, he thought.

My claim to fame is the overlap in our destinies, Herbert’s and mine. It seems that only forty years after Herbert had walked that glorious beach, I was destined to walk its length myself. I was inspired by no brilliant thoughts while I was there, but that wasn’t my job, was it? I was placed there simply to step unconsciously in the sandy footprints of literary celebrity. It was a simple task, and I performed it well. It was my mother who did the lion’s share of the work, settling on Florence to be her home during her final years. All I had to do was to visit my mother.

The seaside in Florence is a powerful place. I’m not surprised that Herbert was inspired. The ocean rolls in with majesty and thunder. The rocks that rebuff the waves are magnificent. And the dunes that suggested a desert planet are still high and wild. It’s a moving scene, and I was fortunate to have been able to see it in several seasons. It’s a remarkable location, with or without celebrity. But now it bears the touch of Hollywood, and it boasts a glow of immortality.

Travelogue 1011 – October 28 

Lucky Even So

 

During our autumn break, we flew south to Rome, finally using the vouchers from a set of cancelled airline tickets originally bought for the 2020 Bath Half Marathon. That race was to have taken place in March of 2020. It shouldn’t sound like that was so long ago. It feels like a decade ago.

The spirit of COVID still forces itself on those who are audacious enough to fly. We had two flights to make on Monday, and we made neither. The first flight required us to leave home at five in the morning, so we had little humour for the first entanglement. The airline clerk checking us in told us flatly that she was rebooking us for a later flight, then dispassionately explained that we had no “Passenger Locator” form on file for the end destination. I thought I had done my homework, checking airline and government websites, and yet somehow it had escaped us that this form was required for arrival in Rome. The staff person’s complacency informed us that, though we were insipidly foolish, we were not the first. She smugly refused any questions and sent us to the airline service office, where I sat for quite a while fuming and filling out a lengthy online form on my mobile. Thanks to this laughable form, I have collected one more black mark on my record as a father, falling very far short as a model of grace under pressure.

Even flying several hours later, we had some time to kill in Paris. We were determined to have an espresso in Montmartre. That should have required only a train ride from Charles De Gaulle to the Gare du Nord. It’s an expensive ride, and I hesitated before the ticket machine when I saw the total price for four. I steeled my resolve, I made the purchase, and, in the next minute, a new announcement came braying across the vast hall. Our train would no longer depart from Terminal 2. I saw heads swivel around me, as dozens of others processed the distorted French as best they could. Then commenced the dash. We made our way up a level and to the shuttle connecting terminals. The train would depart from Terminal Three. We pushed our way through the growing crowd to enter the next shuttle.

I had done my research. I had identified our destination if we wanted the best coffee in Montmartre. It was a tony café below the basilique du Sacré-Cœur, where tables were set up in an enclosure in the narrow little lane leading up to the basilica, where the church’s gardens overgrew the wrought-iron fence beside the road, where the people were far more relaxed than we were after our stressful trip to their door. The servers looked at us with some alarm. And they told us the coffee machine wasn’t working.

We never did get our espresso in Paris. Nor did we find the lovely croissants we imagined in anticipation of the trip. But we did stand for the first time as a family at the top of that magical stairway, looking out over the City of Lights. And we felt pretty lucky.

Travelogue 1010 – October 25
Quickly Turning to the Tudors Again

 

In my final thought in the previous blog, I was reminded of the concluding chapters of Hilary Mantel’s latest book. In the end – spoiler alert – the protagonist dies. Anyone with the barest knowledge of Tudor-era history knows it’s coming, and indeed that knowledge fuels the momentum of the work. Mantel surely writes with the reader’s anticipation well in mind, tapping it as a source of suspense. The political tides turn finally, and turn shockingly, on Cromwell, and we follow him into imprisonment. He is to be executed. Mantel has her opportunity to indulge the writer’s perennial wish to follow the mind into oblivion. She does just that, narrating to the point at which – quite literally in Mantel’s account, – consciousness flickers like a light going out.

Mantel’s books do haunt one. They are beautifully written, and they assert a Cromwellian voice so durable it is hard to shake. I’ve analysed that voice at unforgivable length in earlier blogs, but I have to add just a few more words. Who could blame either author or reader for wanting, after thousands of pages with Cromwell, to see the story to its gruesome denouement? But it should be obvious, at the minimum, that the rounding off requires a change in tone. To say more, it’s a strain on the method. The book’s narrative voice has been an uneasy compromise between observations made inside-the-head and outside, a kind of hovering above the crown that has sounded like documentation, or, more exactly, the rehearsal of a document: perhaps Cromwell dictating by rote a journal of his extraordinary life as counsellor to the king. Suddenly, with imprisonment, the options for a locus for this voice narrow radically. There is no one to report, no one to report to, and no reason to report. There is only a solitary man with no opportunity to speak. We have entered a living soul’s black hole; data does not escape his isolation. What is the privilege of our viewpoint? When he enters through the doorway of death and the voice still carries on, like the twitching of a limb, the question is pressed even further. Where does this voice reside?

Mantel is a masterful writer, and the book works. We want it to, and it does. Ultimately, that’s what counts, and I don’t mean to diminish the achievement. I broach the question of voice just as an interesting problem raised by choices forced on the artist and her readers by their own cathartic need.

I believe Henry VIII himself still haunts us. He’s in my thoughts again because I picked up a book about Tudor times in Utrecht. The book is a biography about the young Earl of Surrey, Henry’s final victim before himself passing away in 1547. Surrey was a prodigy, a free spirit and a writer who inspired generations of writers. The book is about Surrey, but it’s this capricious figure of Henry VIII that catches our eye, like a glint of light in a mirror behind him.

I find myself wondering about this man. It surprises me how often. He’s a riddle. How does one justify this power over life and death? How does one understand Henry’s choices? Does he have rules to guide him when he considers executing friend, wife, nobleman or courtier? I don’t mean to imply that he had no reasoning or that he was a sadist. What is perhaps most frustrating about Henry is the sense that he was a feeling and thoughtful man, motivated by strange (unfamiliar, mysterious) impulses.

As quite a number of people court today’s fascists with flushed cheek and shining eye, it seems important to question, what occurs in the soul of a man like this, who holds fragile life in his palm with such aplomb, such nonchalance?

Travelogue 1009 – October 23
Who’s Listening?

A final word about old Utrecht, before my geographic focus shifts dramatically southward. The history of the Netherlands is basically a story of water, and every location has its roots in some watery negotiation. Utrecht is no exception. While most of Holland (only two western provinces of the Netherlands) was a still a marshland, Utrecht rose from the wilderness as a northern anchor on the Rhine. The Romans under Emperor Claudius had settled on the river as their northern frontier, and the site of Utrecht became one link in that chain. The course of the Rhine has shifted since then, and Utrecht currently sits on a vestigial spur of the great river, a branch they call the ‘Crooked Rhine’. After Rome abandoned it, the place went dark for four centuries. When it reappears in the historical record, it’s as a fortress town for the Franks. Now Utrecht becomes the centre of a new kind of offensive, the one on hearts and minds among the Frisians. St Willibrord enters as lead evangelist, and in 723 Utrecht is made the seat of one rare Dutch bishopric. That launches Utrecht’s long reign as the Netherland’s most important city. It will take the county of Holland centuries to dig itself out of the mud, and Amsterdam to rise to prominence on the back of its commerce. Even then, Utrecht is not eclipsed. It remains important enough to play a role in the establishment of the republic, and to become the site for the republic’s biggest university, founded during the Dutch Golden Age.

This is the town I overlook as I climb the glass mountain of the event centre, a town that has been a vital religious, political and intellectual hub for the country for centuries. It makes sense that I would come here - from the bigger city of Rotterdam – to feel some intellectual connection to the wider world.

English author Max Porter has written a poetic little book about the last days of the painter Francis Bacon. He was invited to the Utrecht literary festival, and he was interviewed in one of the highest little alcoves in that alpine glass monument. He was warm and thoughtful and witty. The event was thoroughly enjoyable.

The book is something both more and less than the author event, as well it should be. The book is about many things, as well it should be. For me, it poses an age-old question, a question particularly poignant to writers: who is listening to our final thoughts? The true writer wants every thought and experience to be recorded, is haunted by those that escape. He or she is most keenly tormented by the final thoughts, perhaps the greatest, that go unrecorded. Porter imagines, probably justly, that most final sensations are trivial and thoughts gibberish. But the question outweighs our conjectures. The exercise only draws attention to the emptiness at the centre of it.

Travelogue 1008 – October 16
But There Was More

During the Utrecht literary festival, I attended two live author presentations, and I watched the videos of two other author events that were online. Each was framed as a discussion between a local writer and the visiting author. That structure worked well. It was more natural and allowed the author to be challenged. But I could have wished for more talk about books.

Authors feel like they have something to say. That is why they write, of course. The two authors hosted live in Utrecht had a lot to say. They were eloquent and what they said was truly moving. Relatively little was said about the writing process. There was much more to be said about philosophy, grief, shame and politics. I was inspired and exhausted by the time I left. In neither case did I have the energy to stay for the book signing.

I’m hardly a writer, I thought as I rode home on the train. I would never have the stamina for an event like that. Even in casual conversation, I don’t know what to say about my writing. I figure I’ve said everything “on paper”. I went to great trouble to phrase it the way I wanted. Why then dive in impromptu? These authors did not have my reservations. They were even more compelling live than on the page. They were unfailingly articulate, humble, gracious and correct.

I was inspired by them, proud of them, and then embarrassed for them, as well. It seemed a lot to ask of authors, this display of courage and virtue. Fortunately, each of them had a wealth of ideas, fully formed and correct ideas that motivated their writing and overflowed the banks of any one of their works. Their literary projects were a means to speak about those bigger things.

The audience hung off their every word. The hall took on a church-like atmosphere. The topics became esoteric, and these men’s stories became like the lives of saints. The topics became like theology.

I’m allergic to theology. Theology has a didactic purpose, just as preaching does. Theology was invented for debate, preaching for conversion and enforcement of conformity. These aren’t evils in themselves, but devices to make one wary. When it comes to church, I prefer mute ritual and the shadow talk of stories.

Sadly, I’ve seen the impact of this virtue-mining on authors who are less gifted orators. They become so circumspect and cautious as to drain the interview of life. Interviewers prospect for philosophy and politics, and authors retreat behind carefully worded deflections.

Travelogue 1007 – October 15
He Wrote About His Childhood

I had a birthday a few weeks ago. It was a big one, and so I needed to dream up a suitably big way to celebrate it. After you’ve seen enough birthdays, though, you run out of big ideas. What I really wanted to do was get out of town. It had been too long.

Usually, I go out of town when I have some activity to motivate me. In previous years, I had organized fun trips around road races. For a previous ‘big’ birthday, I ran a full marathon in Rome. A few years of COVID cancellations have soured me on the road race strategy, and, along the way, have left me in regrettable condition.

No, this year, athletics weren’t going to cut it. Given that the body wasn’t ready, it would have to be a celebration of the mind. I wanted a literary angle. The town of Utrecht came to the rescue. Thanks to a fortuitously timed literary festival, I got to travel to Utrecht and listen to a few authors speak about their work.

It’s fun to observe how places evolve in our lives, in our perception and our experience. Utrecht during my first years in the Netherlands was an enchanting town, built round a famous cathedral and along the winding river beneath it, lined with cosy pubs. Once the honeymoon was over, Utrecht became an ugly train station in the middle of the country, perpetually under construction. For a moment, it became a bookstore hidden on a busy lane by the river, full of riches. Rotterdam is not a literary city, and book shopping had become stale.

The train station is finished now. It’s no prettier on the inside, but much more so on the outside. What an impact on the visitor when he can simply exit the train station and emerge into a wide public plaza with fresh air and can see the town laid out before him; rather than, say, being shepherded through dusty warrens made of plasterboard for hundreds of metres, only to emerge inside a rather shabby shopping mall. The latter was the only experience I had known of arrival in Utrecht. The finished station was an epiphany.

The event centre is not far from the central station. It stands like Everest before George Mallory, a city block of high rooms and precarious stairways. We walked in, brandishing our QR codes for the vaccinated, and we found ourselves lining up with people in tuxedoes and evening gowns. This didn’t seem like our crowd. Downstairs, we discovered, was reserved for Bach. With a vague gesture toward the sky, we were directed up … and up. Stairway after stairway, rising inside the high glass walls until we overlooked the city like aviators. Near the summit, we found our small hall, exile for the literary types, come to see a French author who wrote about his childhood.

Travelogue 1006 – October 1
The Power to Surprise

It happens we have some family time before the girls’ school opens in the morning. We sit on a bench together in the playground outside, a playground that is an odd oasis of fun in a tightly packed little neighbourhood. The playground is a like a stage set among brick buildings, a platform of concrete between two lanes that veer away from the school.

I’m the family’s schedule-keeper, and I’m compulsively early. It’s not the kind of quality that wins anyone’s affection. I’m the one to wake everyone up and urge them to get ready. When we’re early, it appears as though there was more time to sleep after all. Though we’re never more than five minutes early, it translates into hours of lost sleep in the imagination.

It doesn’t help that it’s the time of year when light comes later and later in the mornings. By now, we’re waking as first light only just discolours the night sky in the east. Soon enough I will truly seem a villain, waking them when the stars are still in the sky.

It’s light by the time we arrive at the school. The day’s light is a diffuse, autumnal light, grey with clouds, a glow rather than direct warmth from the sun’s rays. We watch the other kids play, climbing, swinging, kicking a ball. Sometimes Baby Jos joins in, while Little Ren hangs back.

The two girls’ natures begin to diverge a bit, even as they grow more alike in looks. Little Ren is nearly as tall as her big sister, and even her parents mistake the two occasionally, when the girls are seen at a distance.

Ren takes this opportunity to share a few thoughts. I won’t pass them along now, as they are still so special to me. I’ll say simply that she’d taken it into her head to tell me what her two superpowers were. She did so in a distracted way, as she often does, speaking as she watches all the action in the playground. Her remarks were so creative, I just laughed in surprised.

That’s the “superpower” of art, and of wisdom, to surprise and delight. Little Ren has that. Baby Jos is more forthcoming, but she’s like her papa, in that her thoughts are well-ordered. She can be brilliant, but her thoughts follow upon one another in plain sight. Ren prefers to avoid conversation, but then she’ll blurt out the most stunning things. Immediately, a children’s story blossomed in my mind, based on Ren’s utterances. I hope to have Menna illustrate it soon!

Travelogue 1005 – September 19
How to Enjoy September Sun

The sun has been indulgent. We are experiencing a gentle late summer in the land of moody skies. I couldn’t resist stopping by my favourite pub on my way home one workday. The days are long enough still to catch some lingering sunshine in the early evening. I sat outside, at a table overlooking the brick lane that runs alongside a canal. You don’t see the canal itself, but the masts of the boats anchored there, the houses across the canal, the big sky opened up by the passage of the water.

At the next table sat a family of Brits, two sisters and their parents. They had spent the day touring the city and seemed underwhelmed. As far as I could tell, being underwhelmed was their default state. They kept up an impressive stream of negative chatter while I sat there. Anything or anyone that came up in conversation was efficiently cut down, and the violence was carried off in such bright tones and casual delivery that they might have been trading observations about the weather. The gossip about friends and family was particularly biting. No one emerged unscathed. Even the dead were fair game. The mother proposed some words for a note of condolence, and the others laughed at her sentimentality. One daughter reeled off the proper formula. “No reason to gush,” she said. The daughter’s favourite adjective was “boring”. Everything in life perpetually teetered on the edge of suffocating boredom. This woman was no teenager. No matter how lustrous the long hair she persistently touched and waved about; no matter how often perfect the painted nails she held up for view; no matter how restless the bobbing sneaker at the end of one long leg crossed over the other, she was securely past thirty.

The bored daughter had one redeeming moment. It was a moment of reminiscence. She veered suddenly from the excoriation of a childhood friend, whose fond memories of their times together had to be proven false and undeserved. She veered suddenly into heart-warming reminiscences of her father. The old man clearly didn’t know what to do with this outburst. He mumbled a few unemotional observations, and let it go. She wasn’t bothered and went on at length about how special those occasions were, the weekends when Mother was off on business and Father indulged his girls in all sorts of special activities and meals. I found myself liking her, despite first impressions.

It didn’t last. A Dutch friend showed up, and the conversation returned to observations about how dreary the walk to the pub had been, how disappointing. The Dutchman played along. Complaining is a Dutch sport, and they’re very good at it.

It's not fair to judge people based on their behaviour on vacation. These jaded vacationers in their yachting clothes may be saving the world at their day jobs. But who doesn’t wonder occasionally whether wealth isn’t wasted on the wealthy, touring on the tourists, education on the educated? In a life so short on privileges, how are they assigned? Shouldn’t they be apportioned to those of us who have demonstrated a talent for graciousness?

Travelogue 1004 – September 8
The Present Perfect
Part Thirteen

The transition from Middle Ages to Renaissance was a complex process, and it constitutes one of those complex historical puzzles that occupy historians generation after generation. But I’m always up for a quick and dirty summary to drive experts mad – not because I have a problem with experts, but because I think it’s instructive sometimes to paint with a broad brush. Details are accurate, and ideas not so much. They are tools for thinking. Historians should care passionately about accuracy, but it’s awfully fun to play with ideas. And as long as the ‘philosopher’ remains humble, what harm is done?

So: speaking (dangerously) in the general, we might simply say that the Renaissance began as an awakened engagement with history. Scholars rediscovered ancient roots and ancient sources and they drew inspiration from them. Alongside the excitement about ancient sources came a growing faith in the power of humans to make sense of the world. The ancients were avid scientists, after all. Quickly, Renaissance efforts to imitate the ancients (in art, philosophy, rhetoric, and science) became a movement and set of achievements completely unique. Their successes lent fuel to the fire of pride in the human mind and spirit.

Whatever we think of their optimism (and pride), this was the change in mindset that defined the subsequent five hundred years. Humanity believed in its powers. What followed led to all the great masters (in art) we know so well, to the Enlightenment, to medicine and moon shots, to modern industry and climate change. And somehow, to what seems its final ignominious demise.

If I’m right that human society can only tolerate a limited amount of complexity, then modernity was a project doomed to collapse under its own weight. The further removed citizens are from comprehending how the world around them works, the more alienated they become. The more alienated, the more they act out and the more they develop a lust for destruction. More importantly, I think humans search for alternative means of relating to and explaining the world. Inside those complex systems – systems that come to seem supernatural – humans look for a human definition of reality. What could be more natural in these conditions than the rise of psychology – and psychologism? Feelings gain primacy. With feelings comes a new emphasis on – even enforcement of – intimacy. Feelings become the basis of reliability and comprehensibility. How can you trust someone who refuses intimacy?

Sooner or later, feelings will ‘trump’ reason. In the face of all the evidence, Republicans feel cheated by the 2020 election. The feeling is the measure in our post-truth, neo-medieval world. A refusal of feeling will amount to blasphemy one day. That can mean refusal to respond to a feeling, but even the refusal to have a feeling. Ponder for a moment the images we had during COVID lockdowns of random maskless warriors shouting and spitting at meek maskers in supermarkets. Resorting to calm reasoning is a threat. It violates the agreement that many seem to think we have made to be intimate and emotional.

Rounding things off, this new enforced intimacy and immediacy is what I observed in language development: in the foreshortening of time, in the blunting of instruments for hypothesis, in the reduction of options for formality, and so on.

I’ve called this emerging world view ‘medieval’ only because I saw certain parallels during contemplations about literature and art. The new intimacy culture and the old medieval culture share a penchant for formulaic narrative, for caricature and typing in characterization, and for conformity and motif. It’s the diminishment of the unique and rational. In small ways, of course.

I’ve made generalizations, and generalizations are infamously hard to defend. I wouldn’t try. Truth is in the detail, and I’m not aiming for truth. I’m playing. I’m attempting to turn observations into ideas. Ideas are mirrors, like Greif’s observations about joggers that I referenced at the start of my latest dog’s leg in thought. I blushed to think I was the sweaty guy in the author’s story, presuming that civic space was exercise space. Ideas are real.

Travelogue 1003 – September 5
The Present Perfect
Part Twelve

It’s human to simplify the times of our ancestors, either to glorify or to disparage. The Middle Ages have been one era much maligned by the people who came after. It’s been rehabilitated somewhat by scholarship begun in the nineteenth century, when things medieval became fashionable, but some of the damage to its reputation has proven to be irreparable. It has remained the ‘Dark Ages’ in many people’s minds. In reality, it’s only dark through the prism of other times, just as our own age may well be considered the dark ages by times more sensitive to the environment.

One thing that I believe can fairly be said about the Middle Ages, one thing that might seem less than flattering, is that it was one of the more static periods for Europe’s peoples. They were less mobile and more insulated than ever. Reading Caesar’s accounts of Gaul, one is struck by how much the peoples of Europe were on the move. And, indeed, they always have been. The commerce of goods and ideas never drops to absolute zero in history. That’s true of the Middle Ages. But the Middle Ages were a time when people were tied to the land. Social and physical mobility were very limited. Education and literacy were limited. Commerce slowed. Generations matured and passed within narrow confines.

I’ve said that modern humanity is alienated from its world. You couldn’t count on any one of us knowing the name of the flower in the neighbour’s garden, knowing the name of their representative in Congress, or knowing the name of a random nation on the map. Further, there’s a growing contingent of people who would reject the bases of authority that might inform them about the things they don’t know. They know they can google the name of a flower, but the scientific tradition that developed the classifications is suspect. So, rather than Google being a search engine, finding pre-existing information, it becomes a source and creator of knowledge.

Similarly, the medieval peasant was far removed from sources of knowledge about their world. The peasant would have known the names of the things they saw around them. It was folk knowledge. For all greater things, their sources of knowledge were limited. Most people were illiterate, and books were difficult to come by in any case. Church rites were in Latin, and most people didn’t understand Latin. Knowledge was mediated. The primary source of knowledge in most communities was probably the priest.

Knowledge of our world is critical for psychological security. We need to feel the sources of our knowledge are credible. The mechanisms for determining that credibility are therefore foundational for our world view. In the Middle Ages, religion provided knowledge for most people. That’s a rock-solid source. I sense it provided a lot of security. If that’s true, why do I see parallels between the medieval and the contemporary, when our time is far from comfortable and secure in its world view? The answer, I think, lies in understanding the intervening times, the five hundred years of intellectual development that separate the two ages.