Author: rljwander

September 4, 2025

My friend Ian, a veteran of several royal voyages,  reminds me that the proper way to say the name of our cruise company is Q-nard, not Kuh-nard. I tend to laugh when he says this because it reminds me of the Peter Sellers Pink Panther gag where Inspector Clouseau, hoping to stay in a German hotel, asks the desk clerk “Do you have a “reum”? When the desk clerk asks what a “reum” is, Clouceau looks it up in German and translates. The desk clerk says, “Oh, a room!” and Clouseau responds,

“That’s what I’ve been saying, you ih-dee-oht.”

 Ian tells me this is no laughing matter.

I suspect he’s right because I’ve crossed wakes with these Q-Nard people before. Snooty bunch. Mispronounce their name or sport the wrong tuxedo, and they’re merciless. 

I know.

Almost fifty years ago I did a gig on the Queen Mary in Long Beach. That’s me on the right standing next to my brother John. I was one of the back-up singers and, I hesitate to add, the best dancer in John’s hip new boy band,  The Luv Machine.

I say best dancer because, a few years before, I was anointed a Duke, having completed one year at Burkhardt’s Ballroom Dance Academy and could cut a mean cha-cha on the linoleum at the Vets’ Memorial Building in Santa Rosa.

One two three, front step, one two three, back step. (Remember your Latin hips, Rob. It’s all in the hips.)

I don’t think it would be bragging to say that, had I weathered another year under Mr. Burkhardt, I was destined to be a Prince. (Of course, I can’t hold a candle to Cathy’s sister Patti who was the undisputed Queen. Her samba, I am told, was flawless .)

Sadly, despite my moves and John’s Barry White like baritone, the band broke up not long after that gig. You know…age old story…John’s talent couldn’t hold us together, petty rivalries, power plays, women, drugs. It all fell apart when those bastards Captain & Tennille stole our song Muskrat Love.

Muskrat Suzie
Muskrat Sam
Do the jitterbug at a Muskrat Land
And they shimmy
Sam is so skinny

So, I know. I know about these Q-Nard people.

One misplaced schwa sound on this trip and the captain, the purser, and the cabin steward will take me for a rube. A canard will quickly spread throughout the Q-Nard, like Covid through a cruise ship (sorry, probably not the best simile, but I should get credit for the alliteration and word play).

One misstep and, before we know it, Mr. and Mrs. Thurston P. Howell at the Masquerade Ball will be whispering, “I say lovey, isn’t that gent in the Daffy Duck mask the bumpkin in Cabin 6074 who can’t pronounce Cunard?”

Astute francophiles…you know who you are…will no doubt appreciate the subtle duck reference in that last sentence, Half deft, half daft, it is of course a subtle homage to the French word for duck…you guessed it…”canard.”

A pun in a foreign language? Move over Joyce; there’s a new kid in literary town.

Of course, why anyone might mistake Cathy and me for anything other than classy, I don’t know. I mean, just look at the woman.

How we came to book the Queen Elizabeth is a long story. I mean a LONG story.

Back in May of 2021, we thought it would be romantic to book a transatlantic cruise from New York to Southampton to take place a year later in May of 2022 after I retired. Seven days, nothing but the Atlantic. No discos, no water slides. Something classy and dignified,  quiet, not raucous, a ship where we might curl up on a deck chair with a good book. Maybe even have the Commodore marry us.

What vessel would better fit that plan than the Queen Mary?

Well, a year passed, and we decided to get married in Northern Ireland. So we   rolled over our deposit. Then another year passed. Then another.  We rolled over more often than Susan Collins. Each time a deadline came to put the balance down, the very helpful ladies in the Cunard Booking Office would greet me with a hearty “Rob”, like Norm entering the bar on Cheers.

 Eventually, we began to rethink a transatlantic trip. Our time is limited and, what with a travel day to New York and a travel day home, we would have very little time to explore the Cotswold’s, Stone Henge, or London. 

So, we decided to change direction. Go north, rather than east. Genius, don’t you think? Precious days not consumed by air travel. No nasty recovery from jet lag. And despite Sarah Palin, we are assured there won’t be a language barrier.

So, that led us to the Queen Elizabeth. Fewer people. Newly retrofitted. Art deco elegance. Old world charm. An on-board pub. A library. Whiskey sipping classes. High tea every afternoon. Croquet on the games deck. 

Yes, there is a dinner dress code. Apparently, we gents are asked to switch to “smart attire” for the evening. I generally make it a practice since retirement to avoid intelligence in my choice of duds, but I suppose I can make an exception.

And, yes, there are two nights when there are gala balls, one a masquerade, where a tux is encouraged. Sadly, Cathy tells me robins’ egg blue tuxes with matching bow ties and Seinfeld Puffy shirts have become passe´. 

Fashion, is so…how do you say… fashionable. One year in, one year out. Is nothing timeless, anymore?

As an alternative, I suggested a kilt. I saw in some promotional photographs where some Scotsmen sported their tartans. I volunteered to blow the dust off of mine and practice my Sean Connery impression, but Cathy thought it best I leave the kilt  undisturbed in the drawer and the accent buried still deeper.

Not sure why.

September 1, 2025

Funny, isn’t it, how the mind works?

For example, this illustration from Alice in Wonderland. Those of you who might have had the misfortune to see me preparing for a vacation will recognize the look on Alice’s face as a remarkable likeness of Cathy and the expression on the White Rabbit as…well…me.

She might have shared with you that I tend to over prepare.

How I came to this illustration might demonstrate why Cathy has cause for concern.

First Bell

I woke up this morning as I normally do, around 4:15, set Cathy’s white coffee cup in her nifty Nespresso machine, filled the water canister with filtered water, and positioned the copper-tone-disposable-land-fill-friendly-pod in the center of her white saucer to be ready to administer caffeine the second she awakes. I then filled my groovy jet black long necked Cosori tea kettle, pushed the button labeled “Oolong/195°F”, and carefully placed a fully caffeinated Lipton tea bag in my stainless steel YETI cup so that the string on the tea bag would be on the far side of the cup and not get in the way of me sipping from my sipping portal in the clear plastic keep-the-heat-in lid when sipping right handed.

I then opened the Monday morning compartment, one of 28, in my depressing seven-day-a-week, 4xs a day pill box, grabbed two chewable berry flavored Vitafusion Men’s Multi gummies and two yellow non chewable carbidopa/yabba dabba pills, and set them in order waiting for my tea water to cool to a temperature that, if I had any foresight, I might have chosen when I fired up the Cosori to begin with.

Then, lifting the lid on Old Reliable, my 13” MacBook laptop, and blowing air onto my curled fingertips like a safecracker about to read the fall of the tumblers, I set out to explore cruise ship nomenclature so that, should I encounter the Captain, I will know my aft from a hole in my bow. 

Note to you uninitiated sailors, your “aft” is a direction; your “stern” is the place you arrive when you can’t go aft anymore without getting your aft wet. And remember, the left side of the boat…whoops, I mean ship…is the port side.  Just think: “Left” has four letters and “port” has four letters. “Right” has five letters and “starboard” has …uh…nine letters. So that’s an easy way to remember it.

Right?

Or if that doesn’t work, just remember the phrase “Is there any red port left in the bottle?” I got confused on this one, but this apparently has something to do with red lights on the right side of the boat and green lights on the left side of the boat. Doesn’t make much sense to me. I mean, if port is red and the red lights are on the right, then that side should be the port side. Right?  

To be honest, I don’t know my port from my hearty burgundy. I do remember port is what those rich guys in Downton Abbey and The Gilded Age leave the women to go drink after dinner. So “leave” starts with an “L” and, if I hold my left hand up in front of me, my index finger and my thumb make an “L”, so if I think “port”=”leave”=”you loser”, I should be seaworthy.

You know, ship shape, squared away?

Second Bell

This led to the second stop in my voyage of terminal curiosity: the nautical origins of so much of what we say. I’m reading The Wager right now. It’s a story about a British crew that was shipwrecked off the coast of Chile and took to eating each other before they were rescued (seemed a good book to prep for our voyage); so I know my nautical etymology.

Ship shape seems clear enough, but “squared away?” Apparently, this has something to do with a square-rigged sailing ship setting its sails at the right angle to the wind for optimal speed. 

Speaking of sails, “three sheets to the wind” refers to the ropes which attach to a sail. When three such ropes (i.e. sheets) are unattached, the sail flaps uncontrollably in the wind.

“To toe the line” arose out of the practice where sailors, ordered to line up for inspection by the captain, made sure to place the toes of their shoes on the line formed by a plank in the deck.

To “turn a blind eye” refers to when, at the Battle of Coppenhagen in 1801, Admiral Horatio Nelson defied orders to retreat by intentionally placing his telescope to his one blind eye.

 “Batten down the hatches”, “even keel”, “keel over”, “in the doldrums”, “high and dry”, “groggy”, “under the weather”, “loose canon” …hell, I know them all. 

“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey?” Nautical? Nope. Trick question. Wanna know why? For starters, the brass trays used to stack cannonballs in pyramids were for land lubbers, not sailors. Sailors  stored their cannonballs horizontally in wood trays called “shot garlands”. Second, brass, even when used on land, doesn’t contract enough to dislodge a cannonball. Third,  the term “monkey” was never used to refer to a cannonball tray.

Just goes to show you, never trust an idiom to an idiot, especially a Brit. 

Three Bells

Where was I? Oh yeah, the stream of consciousness that led to the illustration in the first edition of Alice In Wonderland.

Having visited nautical nomenclature, I figured I better brush-up on cruise ship peculiarities. For example, did you know that a magnetic pineapple posted on the door of your cabin upside down is a wink-wink-nod-nod sign that you and your first mate are open to swapping mates?

It’s true. I read it on “Cruise Lowdown.com” You can even order these magnets on Amazon. A set of six for only $11.99. It says right here, “the quantity is sufficient to meet your decoration needs.” Six? Boy howdy, I should say so. 

I thought about ordering up a set to surprise Cathy, but that would probably get awkward. You know, introductions and all. And I’m pretty sure Cathy would be only too happy to swap me out for no remuneration at all.

Four Bells

This got me thinking about what kind of personality disorder I must have to find myself obsessing over the proper orientation of fruit magnets on our cabin door.  So, I looked up how much a copy of the DSM-5 would cost so I could self-diagnose.

Yikes. Your DSM-5 will run you $220 hardcover, $160 in paperback, and they don’t even offer Kindle. It’s probably in the ship’s library, but that might be awkward checking it out or drifting off in a deck chair with it spread over my chest beneath my drooling chin. 

So, then I thought, I just need a cheat sheet.  And sure enough there is one. Laminated and only $8.95. 

Economical, handy, discrete; I can wipe off the ocean spray while studying up on our personal port side balcony.

Hmm, let’s see… so many possibilities. Where to begin?

“Intellectual development” is questionable. “Reasoning and problem solving” are definitely lagging. But,  I really don’t think it’s neurodevelopmental.

Cathy often says I’m delusional, but schizophrenia seems a stretch. I’m a loose cannon…I’ll give you that…but I don’t have imaginary friends. At least, I don’t think I do.

Cathy? Honey?

No, the more I think about my compulsion to plan, I suffer from a likely generalized anxiety disorder on one DSM axis and a good old fashioned obsessive/compulsive disorder on the other. Not disabling, but certainly enough to prompt the stank eye Alice might give this White Rabbit. I’m guessing the spreadsheets and Powerpoint slide shows are probably giveaways, don’t you think?

Five Bells

So, then I started thinking, “How’d you start down this rabbit hole, Rob?” And that got me thinking, “Where does the expression “rabbit hole” come from.” So, I looked it up and it dates back to that ol’ laudanum lover Lewis Carrol’s story about the young girl with the stank eye who followed the white rabbit down the hole.

So that, at long last, is how I came to the illustration.

I know that look. 

Probably best to pass on the pineapple magnets.

Don’t you think?

August 30, 2025

I have had the good fortune to see a few glaciers. And to stand on one or two. 

The first glacier I ever saw was in the high country of Yosemite. I was probably 14 years old. I remember it distinctly because a co-ed group of college kids were sliding down a snowfield beneath the McClure Glacier, naked, on pieces of cardboard, off a cliff, maybe 10 feet tall, into a lake the water in which can’t have been more than a few degrees north of freezing.

It made an impression. The glacier, I mean.

Fast forward 32 years to when my friend Ian Ross and I climbed Mt. Shasta. We were 46 years old. That’s us and the path we took to the top in June of 2002.

And this is the view of Whitney Glacier…or at least what little remained of it… from the summit.

Two months later I took this photo of my kids Kate and Sam in Glacier National Park in Montana.

If you look right between them, you will see…wait for it…Jackson Glacier. Yes, that’s right. Jackson Glacier.

When Glacier National Park was established in 1910, there were over 100 glaciers. Now there are 26 and those are expected to disappear before this century is out. Jackson Glacier will be gone in five years.

Fast forward five years to 2007 when Ian and I tried, but failed to summit Mt. Ritter, a 13,000’ peak in the Sierras. That seems a long time ago now, as today my Parky’s would never permit me to attempt this “crossing.”

Ian and I tried what is called the Southeast Glacier approach to Ritter, but never really got close to the summit before having to turn back. It seemed the glacier was receding faster than we were ascending.

No metaphor there.

Our plan was to climb the scree field left by the retreating glacier.  Here’s I am knee deep in scree. I’m the 51-year-old bozo launching f-bombs down at Lake Ediza.

What does this have to do with a cruise to Alaska? I’m getting there, I admit, at a glacial pace, but bear with me.

My mother always taught me not to say, “I hate.” She said it was impolite. Instead, we Jackson children were taught to say, “I don’t care for…”

Sorry mom, but there’s always an exception.

I HATE scree.

In every sense possible. Geological. Metaphorical. Philosophical. Call me lazy, but seems to me that with every hard fought step, whether on a mountain or in life in general, it shouldn’t be too much to ask that one achieve some modest measure of progress. You know…forward? Up? I’m probably missing some metaphysical lesson here, but I fail to see the virtue in a world where, for each step forward and up, one slides a half step back and down. Better to stick to a snow field than the granite detritus left by a dying glacier.

Sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah…

The last time I stood on a glacier was nine years ago, in La Valle Blanche in the Alpes above Chamonix on the French/Italian border. This is the “white valley.” 

My guide on that walk, a French fella named Fred, took me to a point looking down into Italy where the Geánt Glacier was fighting a losing battle against global warming.

Fred and I agreed that our grandchildren will likely never see a glacier. Not in the Alpes. Not in Glacier National Park.

But Alaska?

Fast forward to now. Two weeks ago, Cathy asked if I had seen the news.

Glacier lake outburst at Alaska’s Mendenhall Glacier causes record-breaking flooding

Twelve miles north of Juneau, the Mendenhall River flows from Mendenhall Lake which lies at the base of Mendenhall Glacier or as the Native Alaskans refer to it, Aak’w T’aak Sit’. Above Mendenhall Glacier is Suicide Glacier which, as it retreats, leaves a bowl into which meltwater gathers. This bowl is known as Suicide Basin or what the Alaskans call “K’oox Kaadi” or Marten’s Side Basin. The flood was caused when the glacial debris which formed a dam at the bottom of the basin gave way sending a torrent of water and debris down toward Juneau.

Kinda like an avalanche of water.

Let’s face it: Mother Nature is pissed.

Our high mountains are warming more quickly than the Earth as a whole. The Juneau Ice Fields are melting twice as quickly as before 2010. Since 1990 glacial lakes worldwide have grown by 50% in number, area and volume. This leads to GLOFs, otherwise known as “glacial lake outburst floods” and GLOFs lead to this…

Cathy and I…god willing and the creek don’t rise…hope to see the Mendenhall Glacier above Juneau, the Margerie, John Hopkins and Lamplugh Glaciers that feed into Glacier Bay, and the Dawes Glacier that feeds into Endicott Arm. We are very fortunate to have the chance.

But I can’t help but feel the same way I used to feel visiting the Fleishacker Zoo in San Francisco and watching Uulu, the last polar bear. Thrilled of course, but more than a little embarrassed, chagrined and saddened.

If we are honest with ourselves, we boomers, we blue hairs who will, I’m sure, crowd the deck to catch a glimpse of these dying rivers of ice, have not acquitted ourselves well in our stewardship of this planet, our home. We have spent our lifetimes bickering over petty differences on petty issues following small, petty men. Time and time again, we have taken one small step forward, only to slide back two, knowing what is required of us, but seemingly constitutionally incapable of making even a small collective sacrifice of convenience for the good of our children and grandchildren .

Maybe, just maybe, if more of us see what is right in front of us we might still summon the courage to do the right thing.

August 28, 2025

I know what you’re thinking.

A luxury cruise, Rob? You? Mr. Suffer in Silence? Mr. Point Me Toward Adversity? Mr. Why Wear Cashmere When You Can Suffer in a Scratchy Pendleton? Give me austerity or give me death? Idle hands are the devil’s playground? Everybody look busy, God is coming?

Really?

You luxuriate? The guy who rode his bike in the dark in the rain in Normandy rather than pop for a cab? The guy who convinced his fiancé on the eve of their wedding that a thatch roofed cottage in the Mourne Mountains would be comfy?

On a cruise? Seriously?

Cruise, as in pretentious chit chat on the shuffleboard deck?

Cruise, as in seconds, maybe thirds, in the buffet dessert line? 

Cruise, as in hundred-dollar daily drink packages that seem wildly excessive now ten days before we leave, but might, after we’re two days in, seem sadly prudent? 

You Rob? Mr. “Never Ask Someone to Do for You What You Can Do For Yourself?” You really expect us to believe you will enjoy being waited on hand and foot by people wearing a Fez and white gloves?

A cruise? As in the bane of Barcelonans, Venetians, Alaskans and other locals who fear, quite rightly, that the daily parade of gawkers each cruise ship purges from its bowels into their hometowns will overwhelm and undermine the very charm the gawkers crave and the culture the locals have worked generations to nurture? 

A cruise? As in the ocean-going, deep sea, effluent spewing scourge of the environmentally conscious?

Has it come to this? Has it finally happened? Have you become the over indulged, lazy ass, white hair White Star traveler you once disparaged as unimaginative creatures of comfort?

Yep. Pretty much.

Doesn’t it sound like fun?

August 26, 2025

When I was in the third grade, my teacher was a spinster schoolmarm who bore a striking resemblance to Mary See of See’s Candy. You know…white hair in a bun, glasses perched on the nose, a kind smile. Miss Church…I kid you not; that was her name… was a gentle soul who had the misfortune to be born with only one arm, her left arm. 

To anyone else, a missing limb might have been an insurmountable obstacle. Especially a grade school teacher. Not Miss Church.  She pledged allegiance with her left hand, taught cursive with her left hand, erased chalk boards and joined in dodge ball games…what we affectionately called “Bombardment” …with only her left hand. She did these things so effortlessly and so joyfully that you soon forgot something as important as an extremity was missing. 

Hell, I once saw Miss Church pick up the Sheriff’s mouthy son Raymond Crampton…who constantly tested her patience and disrupted class by meanly mimicking her one wing struggles…flip him in the air, and gently pin him to the cold linoleum, all with that one arm.

Think Mary See doing Bruce Lee.

I only mention Miss Church because of Alaska, our destination on this trip. Miss Church introduced me to the State when she asked each of us to prepare a report on a state and suggested we look at state flags to decide which.

 Growing up in a small town of 6000 just down the road from the Post and Kellogg cereal factories in Battle Creek, our home state Michigan was the safe choice.  The Michigan flag depicted two deer sparring on hind legs like kangaroos on either side of the State Seal. One might have been an elk. Maybe a moose. I’m not really sure.

Anyway, many of my classmates opted to go full-on Michigander and gamely colored the pugilistic big game by blending brown, sienna, sepia, burnt and raw umber. (It was early in the school year, so we had the full complement of 64 Crayolas that came with that big box with the built-in sharpener.)

 Some of my classmates, being animal lovers, ventured out of state. California with its Grizzly Bear or Wyoming with its bison were popular choices. Some of the boys opted for Oklahoma with its Indian war party shield.  I’m pretty sure that’s the one Raymond picked.

 Me?

Well…

I chose Alaska.

Why that flag? I’m not sure. I guess I liked its simplicity. No seals. No Latin mottos. No people. No moose. No elk. No words. What can I say? It was easy to draw and color.

You’ve got to remember Alaska was a new state at the time. It was admitted into the Union in 1959, just five years before Miss Church pinned Crampton to the linoleum. And the flag, I came to find out, was designed in 1927 when Alaska was still a territory, by a 13-year-old junior high kid named Benny Benson, an Alaska Native.  This is Benny.

Benny was a resilient kid. When he was 3 years old, he lost his mother to pneumonia, his house to a fire, and sadly his father, unable to care for his children, placed Benny, his brother and sister in an orphanage.   

Asked to explain his design, Benny said the blue was the same color as the State flower, the Forget-me-Not. The Big Dipper or Ursa Major represented strength and the North Star symbolized what would one day be the most northerly state in the Union.

 Pretty poetic for a 13-year-old orphan, don’t you think?

For many years Mom kept my Crayola knock-off of Benny’’s work. I don’t know what became of it. Might be in a scrapbook. I’ll have to ask my sister who herself followed in the proud profession of Miss Church, although I’m pretty sure Linda dealt with the Cramptons in her classroom more with Jedi mind tricks and less with juvenile delinquent jujitsu. 

Times change.

But some things don’t. Like a good teacher.

I owe a great deal to Miss Church.   Penmanship. Report writing. States. Stars. Entry level taekwondo.  But most of all she instilled in me a desire to learn more. 

Curiosity is a curious thing. Set in motion, it can’t be stopped. Miss Church didn’t just flip Raymond, she flipped one of her only five fingers and set in motion in thirty young minds a lifelong domino chain of questions and answers, each building on the other.  

Draw a flag and the next thing you know you’re reading The Call of the Wild. Read a little Jack London and the next thing you know you share your dad’s love of Robert Service. 

“There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, 
A race that can’t sit still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and rove the flood, 
And they climb the mountain’s crest; Their’s is the curse of the gypsy blood, 
And they don’t know how to rest.”

Hear enough Service at the dinner table and your nine year old eye can’t help but be drawn to the cover of April 9, 1965 Life Magazine with Bobby Kennedy atop a mountain in the Yukon named by the Canadians to honor his brother. 

Read about Bobby (the original, not that psuedo science nitwit nutcase who tarnishes his father’s good name) and you find yourself wanting to climb mountains on your own. Climb enough 14’ers and before you know it…well…

If you’re as fortunate as I am, you find yourself “returning” to a place you’ve never been except in your own childhood imagination.

August 24, 2025

Let’s do a thought experiment.

         I will give you four words. You must choose which of those four words you prefer without asking any questions of me. No explanation. No clarification. No context. No additional facts to aid in your decision.

         You may choose a word for its sound, for its meaning, connotations, for memories or emotions the word evokes. 

         No fudging. No combinations. No equivocations. No notes in the margin to explain your answer. This is a multiple choice with no “all of the above” or “none of the above” options. You must decide on one and one only word.

         There is no right answer. I’m asking which word speaks to you. 

         Ready? Here we go…circle the word you most prefer. And do not read on until you have.

NORTH

SOUTH

EAST 

WEST

Pencils down. Pass your answers forward. Let’s see if the distribution pattern is even as statistics might suggest or if there is a shared preference. And, if so, why?

(If you’re inclined…it’s certainly not required…post your answer in the responses below or a Facebook reply. Participation is not required)

I posed this question to “Claude”, a large language AI model developed by Anthropic. Here is what Claude said:

That’s a fascinating question, Rob! I think the results would likely vary quite a bit depending on cultural background and individual associations, but there are some interesting patterns that might emerge:

North tends to have positive associations in many cultures – “heading north” often implies progress, and it’s associated with concepts like guidance (North Star), cold/winter (which some find refreshing), and in some contexts, prosperity.

South might be chosen by people who associate it with warmth, relaxation, vacation destinations, or who live in northern climates and dream of warmer places.

East has strong cultural significance as the direction of sunrise, new beginnings, and in many traditions, spiritual awakening or enlightenment.

West is often associated with adventure, exploration, the frontier spirit (especially in American culture), and sunsets.

My intuition is that North and East might be slight favorites overall because of their generally positive cultural associations – North with progress/guidance and East with new beginnings. But this would heavily depend on the cultural context of who’s being asked.

It would also depend on whether people are thinking literally (which direction they’d want to travel) or metaphorically (what the word represents to them). Have you noticed any patterns in how people respond when you’ve asked this, or is this a hypothetical you’re curious about?

I told Claude it was a hypothetical. He went on…

It’s such an interesting thought experiment! I think it would reveal a lot about the power of cultural symbolism and personal associations.

If I had to predict the distribution, I’d guess it might look something like:

• North: Popular for its associations with progress, reliability, and guidance
• East: Strong contender due to sunrise/new beginnings symbolism
• West: Appealing for adventure/freedom associations, especially in Western cultures
• South: Might be less chosen overall, unless you’re asking people in colder climates

But the results could flip dramatically based on context. Ask people in Alaska in February and “South” might win by a landslide. Ask people thinking about spiritual concepts and “East” could dominate.

There’s also the interesting question of whether people would overthink it (analyzing cultural meanings) or just go with gut instinct (maybe influenced by which direction feels “right” to them personally, or even something as simple as reading left-to-right making “east/west” feel more natural as choices).

It makes me wonder if there are studies on directional preferences in different cultures. The fact that we even have phrases like “Go West, young man” or “things are looking up” (north being up on most maps) shows how deeply these directional metaphors are embedded in our thinking.

What’s your intuition about which would win?

I told Claude my preference was “NORTH”. (Cathy prefers “WEST”) Here is what Claude said:

That’s interesting! North does have a really compelling quality to it. There’s something almost magnetic about it – literally and figuratively. It’s the direction that compasses point to, the reference point for navigation, which gives it this sense of being fundamental or essential.

I wonder what drew you to it – was it more of an instinctive choice, or did you find yourself thinking about what “north” represents? There’s something solid and dependable about north that feels different from the other directions. East and west are more about movement and change, south can feel leisurely or relaxed, but north has this quality of being… grounded, maybe? Like a home base.

It’s also the direction that feels “up” on maps, which probably influences our psychological associations with it. “Heading north” sounds purposeful in a way that the others don’t quite match. I’m curious if your choice surprised you at all, or if it felt immediate and obvious once you considered the options?

I told Claude, “Not even a close question. Easily “NORTH.” He went on…

That’s really telling! The fact that it felt immediate and obvious suggests there’s something about “north” that just clicks for some people on a visceral level. No deliberation needed.

It makes me think that maybe the results of this hypothetical wouldn’t be as evenly distributed as I initially thought. If there are people like you who have that instant, clear preference for north, there might be stronger patterns than just cultural associations would predict.

That immediate certainty is fascinating – it suggests the choice taps into something deeper than just conscious associations with the word. Almost like some people are just “north people” in the same way someone might be drawn to certain colors or sounds without really knowing why.

I wonder how many others would have that same immediate pull toward north, versus how many would need to think through what each direction means to them.

I wonder too, Claude.

I only ask this because for our vacation this year Cathy and I have decided to go north. Two weeks from today we leave.

And I can’t wait.

May 8, 2024

But Mr. Peabody . . .

As we walked toward the Air Italia jet, flight 1264 to Roma from Napoli, Cathy asked, “Why do we convert the names of Italian cities . . . places like Firenze and Roma and Napoli . . . to an Anglican version like, Florence, Rome and Naples. Seems . . . like so many things American, . . .presumptuous. We don’t ask Europeans to call New York, or Chicago or Los Angeles by another name.”

“I don’t know”, I said. “Good question.”

I know. I know. Lame answer, Rob.

A good travel guide would have prepped for that one too. But, my travel guide skills were flagging. All I could think when we reached the old school jet ramp was, “I distinctly remember being told there would be no more stairs.”

l love airports. Always have. When I was a kid you got dressed up to go to the airport. It was a big deal seeing my grandparents off at Chicago O’Hare to fly home to Albuquerque. I remember my dad taking me to the control tower where there was a plaque explaining the airport was named after Burch O’Hare, the Navy’s first Medal of Honor recipient in the Second World War.

I still marvel at modern flight. In one day . . . less than one day . . . we will travel from Positano Italy to Petaluma California.

Tonight, the day will have passed, but the sun will not have set. Only in our lifetime has this become possible. Just think, when Jackson, Finn, Avery, Olly, Grady, Rhyse and Bowie are our age, . . . when we are to their children what Erminia is to Cathy . . .how primitive this will seem.

We old farts, we travel slowly back in time. We want to solve the mysteries of our past. Fill in the blanks of things forgotten. Our Auregino ancestors. The missing pages in daVinci’s zibaldone. Michelangelo’s quirky sense of humor. A time when Italy didn’t know tomatoes. We take comfort in it.

Our grandchildren? They will not have that luxury. They will travel . . . fast forward . . . in time. Their eyes look west over this horizon. To the sunrise, not the sunset. That is their gift. That is what will save them from this world we old ones have screwed up so badly.

Of all the images from this trip the one that haunts me the most is this one. It shows red poppies growing among the ruins of Pompeii.

When I was a kid, war veterans . . . at airports . . . would give you a paper red poppy for a modest donation. My dad never let one pass without giving a little something.

The red poppy, immortalized by John McCrea’s classic poem In Flanders Field, symbolizes remembrance and hope.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow,

Between the crosses row on row,

That Mark our place; and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Not far from here, in a room we chose not to photograph, lies the rusted casing of an unexploded bomb mistakenly dropped by the Allies on Pompeii. Our guide Claudia points it out and quickly moves on. I suspect she is concerned that she not offend we Americans who seem to specialize in bombs. I am a proud American, but I wish we were more than we have become.

Enough of that.

I tend to get melancholy on the flight home. I fear that I have not done enough to merit my good fortune and that days such as these may never return. Don’t worry. It’s the Irishman in me. It will pass. My two percent Italian will return. I carry that two percent with pride.

Well, Cathy is snoozing. I will have to wake her soon. Our trip has come to an end. The stairway at home will seem like child’s play after the Duomo and Positano.

Thank you readers for indulging me in this hobby of mine. I hope I have brought a smile or two to the family and friends Cathy and I are so fortunate to have.

Until the next trip, I’ll leave you once again with the rainbow.

Seems only right.

May 7, 2024

It all began this morning when he showed up.

No, that’s not right. It really began months ago when I was scouring the World Wide Web for a surprise for Cathy on the last day of our vacation. Some special memory, Maybe something romantic. Think Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. Or Cary Grant in Houseboat with Sophia Loren.

Or . . . Tramp . . . with Lady in . . . well . . . you know.

Something Italian, preferably involving fast cars and crumbling ruins. Maybe a sunset. Cathy’s favorites.

The problem, as usual, was logistics. The Devil, they say, is in the details but what I didn’t know then was, this time, the Devil would be sporting Armani shoes.

Let’s review my choices. Amalfi Coast or Pompeii?

Option # 1: Amalfi.

I did my research. I knew the stunning car ride along the Amalfi Coast was best if driven south, so the car is on the outside lane in the hairpin turns overlooking the Mediterranean. If we drove north, we would be on the inside lane. Safe, but not nearly as dramatic.

Then there was the question of who was going to drive. I sure as hell wasn’t. And I couldn’t ask Cathy. Can you imagine . . .

“Look Cath; just look at the water; it’s so blue”

I’m gonna go out on an Italian Cypress limb here and suggest that such enthusiasm, sincere as it may be, might not be well received if, at the time it is offered, Cathy had a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel of a dinged up diesel Fiat, trying to decide between death by a head-on with a truck carrying Sorento lemons or death by a plunge over the cliff with her sorry limonyello hubby, “Stupido.”

Even if I could summon the intestinal fortitude to take the wheel and head south, the prospect of parking on a lookout point half the width of our sporty Fiat to catch a photo op of Amalfi or Ravello seemed treacherous and time consuming. First, my mad parallel parking skills are not what they once were when Mr. Quesenberry taught Driver’s Ed. Second we would likely spend half the day with me looking for breaks in traffic to allow enough time for me to drag my sorry ass out of the driver’s seat and, because I would be forced to park so close to the wall that it is imposs-see-blay to open the door, Cathy would have to crawl over the stick shift to exit on the driver side herself.

Option No. 2: Pompeii

What could be better for my frustrated amateur archeologist than a day strolling through an ancient City buried beneath tons of volcanic ash? The baths. The bakeries. The brothels.

Maybe a guide named Claudia to show us around. Remind us that the folks in Pompeii never tasted a tomato, because Columbus didn’t bring them back until four-hundred years after Pompeii became a giant pizza oven.

Option #1 or Option #2. Can’t do both.

Or could I?

Just as I was ready to call it finito, I stumbled upon an ad for “Amalfi Coast and Pompeii by….a  Private Car.”  There’s your answer, Rob. That’s the ticket. We can do both.

Genius.

Thank you, good folks at Booking Dot Com. Thank you Good Heart Limos.

So, I fired off an e mail to Enza, the Presidente of Good Heart. Delightful man. Couldn’t be more accommodating. There was something hearty and wholesome about him. I could tell from his e mails. I envisioned someone like the waiter in Lady and the Tramp. Short, big belly, an Italian Danny Devito.

“No problemo Roberto; we make-a-it speh-see-al for your lady.  My car   . . . it hazza a moon roof. You see whole of the Milky Mountains. You like. I promise. We pick you up on the road just up the stairs from your hotel, Viale Pasitea at 9:00.” 

“Could we make it 9:15?”, I asked. “Yes, of course Roberto; the day is yours. We are at your disposal.”

“This will be so cool.”, I thought, eying the pastries as we sat down to breakfast. Hmm, maybe open with something chocolate this morning. Could be a long day.

That’s when it happened. 

Midway through my second croissant, Enza texted me a brief message. “By the way, your driver today will be Davide. (It’s pronounced Dah-veed”, accent on the second syllable.)  He is waiting for you.”

“Hmmm…okay . . . I guess. Kinda had my heart set on Danny Devito, but I’m sure this Dah-veed guy will be fine. Sounds  a little stuffy to me. Probably dresses like a chauffer with a little black chauffer hat, and has Puccini playing on a tape deck retrofitted into the dash of his little red Fiat.”

Puccini?……no.

There was nothing “poochy” or, for that matter, “ini” about this guy.

Davide is 6’3”, lean, fit, speaks with a silky baritone in halting English. We’re talking a Latin dreamboat. Smoother than gelato on a warm summer day. I quickly consulted my Italian Phrasebook. Hmmm . . . dream boat . . . dream boat . . . must be here somewhere.

What happened to Danny Devito? Puccini?

This isn’t the Fiat I ordered.

He activated the invisible door handles on his 2024 Black Mercedes, opened the left rear door for Cathy, took her by the hand to ease her onto the black leather. Firing up the engine, the music player blasted out something American.

“Scuzza, signora”, he said, apologetically. “I like 80’s music.”

“Oh, I do too.“, Cathy said a little breathlessly. “Since when?” I thought. I was pretty sure she wasn’t winded from the climb up the Positano stair master from our room. She couldn’t have gone more weak in the knees had she experienced an acute diabetic low.

Somebody get a fully leaded Coke and a hand fan. Stat. 

I sat back in the right rear. Davide had the rear-view mirror angled to see Cathy. Searching for something to break the spell, I said, lamely. “Nice car.” This prompted Super Mario to ask Cathy what she drove. Embarrassed, she said, “Oh, an old Land Cruiser.” To which, Davide lit up like a Roman Candle and asked, “What year?” When Cathy replied “2000”, he erupted like Vesuvius, “Best car ever built! My father always wanted to have that car.”

“I love engines. Do you like engines, Cah-tee? I love the sound of a strong engine when the accelerator is pressed to the floor.”

“Uh boy”, I thought. “To think she’d be swept away by a meat salesman. It’s not the salume, Rob; it’s the zoomy in the maroon suit.”

“That’s the best sound in the world.”, Cathy replied.

And so the day went.

“Did you hear that, Rob. Davide was a volleyball player. A spiker. Almost made the national team. Isn’t that amazing?”

“A captain, you say. On yachts? Oh my. Did you hear that, Rob? Sometimes three months at sea. . . ”

“Why don’t you stand in back, Rob. Let Davide take the selfie. He has longer arms.”

David this, David that  . . . yeah, yeah . . . yeah. Sure he’s charming, polite, gracious, endearingly shy, can recount local history. But where are his socks? You can’t tell me those Ferragamos don’t pinch at the toes.

I used to work at Leeds Shoe Store in Coddingtown. I know a thing or two about shoes. Probably could use some “heal savers.”

Okay, I’m a big man. I’ll admit it. I was a bit jealous. Davide was close to the highlight of the trip and, because of him, I think Cathy had the final day I had hoped she might have, if a little different than I envisioned. Should you ever find yourself on the Amalfi and in need of an answer to a dilemma, call Enza at Good Heart Limos and ask for Davide. You won’t be sorry.

I myself preferred the guy in the Green Grotto explaining stalactite growth with his flashlight and a ten word English vocabulary. “A centimeter every forty years. Meellions and meellions years old.” Now that’s useful information.

Oh, one last thing. I’ll have a few things to write I’m sure tomorrow on the plane ride home, but I want to explain why I said Davide was “close” to the highlight of the trip. I say “close” because the best part of our trip was what awaited us on our balcony when Davide dropped us off shortly before sunset.

A double rainbow disappearing with the setting sun.

May 6, 2024

Today? Well . . . my day was panic, then bliss, then panic.

It began with breakfast at our hotel. I made my usual rounds at the buffet. Scramble eggs, bacon, vanilla yogurt with muesli and fresh pineapple, and hot black tea. The eggs were a tad cold and your Italian version of a tater-tot was not what I hoped, but there was something, far, far . . . far . . . more troubling.

“No pastries?”, I asked Cathy.

I caught her mid-stir as, with a twist of her spoon, she converted the milk-foam-heart atop her cappuccino to a swirl. She looked around, and laughed beneath her breath, “Think you can make it?”

“I dunno.”, I said. “That’s asking a lot. I might get light headed going down the steps to the boat.”

You have to understand the stairways in Positano. They’re like someone drew a graphic for a general contractor’s licensing exam with every conceivable Uniform Building Code violation and asked the test taker to circle each one.. The pitch of the stairway is damn near vertical. The treads are about 4″ deep, worn smooth, and slope downhill. and the rise varies between 8″ and 16″ tall. Handrails often . . . for no apparent reason and when most in need . . . disappear, leaving the visitor to go free flight and rely entirely on balance.

As a general rule, I lead an unbalanced life. In pastries and perambulation.

Luckily, as I fretted on the challenge ahead, the waiter showed up with a handsome wood rack displaying each of the hotel chef’s finest flaky creations.

“Well.”, I said. “Maybe just one.”

Cathy and I made our way down to the dock for today’s adventure, a boat ride from Positano around the island of Capri and four hours ashore to explore. Cathy loves the ocean and is experienced around docks and boats. Me? I kept humming to myself the them to Gilligan’s Island.

“Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip, that started from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship.”

As we stood in line for our ticket, we couldn’t help but overhear the struggle of the woman in front of us as the credit card machine refused her card. Cathy was struck by her uncanny likeness, in appearance, attitude, and life history, to a close friend of hers, Jannie Ramatici.

In just a day, we became good friends. Her name is Christy Radecic. She hails from San Diego, is a professional photographer, a grandmother, and thanks to her airline shipping her luggage to some faraway port other than Positano is facing the prospect of a trip without anything other than the clothes on her back and her camera.

Now this . . . this Rob . . . this is adversity. Christy is facing the prospect of having to explain why all of her selfies show her wearing the same “I LOVE CAPRI” shirt, day after day after day, yet she doesn’t complain, is fearless, and confides in Cathy the whole ordeal is “really kinda liberating.”

Me? I’m still thinking Gilligan’s Island, considering summoning my best Thurston Howell III impression and, after leaning on Cathy to take off my damn shoes, wonder if I can jump into the boat without requiring the assistance of the Skipper, Little Buddy, the professor and Mary Anne.

“The mate was a mighty sailing man, the skipper brave and sure, five passengers set sale that day, for a three hour tour, a three hour tour.”

On Christy’s advice . . . she has been to Capri before . . . we set forth on the next leg of our adventure. . . the exercise in terror known as a Capri bus ride.

Imagine a roadway. Let’s say 16′ wide. Make it 16’1″ wide. Now imagine a bus. Like this one. Let’s say 8′ wide. Driven by . . . we’ll call him Emerson Fittipaldi.

With me?

Now imagine yourself, as Cathy was, squished against the window on the oncoming traffic side. And imagine an identical bus is coming right at us and it’s driven by a guy . . . oh, I don;t know . . . we’ll call him Parnelli Jones. Let’ say the two busses are both doing 35mph and neither is braking.

Still with me?

I wish I could load video clips on this app I use to post blogs. Cathy took videos. And even those do not convey the hair’s breadth that separates the two busses as they pass. I’m telling you . . . the entire tourist industry on Capri depends on the advent of the retractable side view mirror. Without that innovation, the island would be brought to a grinding halt.

And I mean, grinding.

And if that weren’t enough, add to the mix the kamikaze scooter riders who bob and weave, look for windows of opportunity to pass, and seize on the moment the two busses are about to collide near a 2000′ drop to the sea to make their move. I stole this still shot from Cathy’s video as Evel Knievel took us on the right.

But wait . .. . there’s more.

Arriving in Anacapri, we decided to just look at the chairlift to the top of Monte Solari. Just look, that’s all. Maybe if Cathy was next to me. Maybe if it had a descending safety bar, I could make it. Just keep my eyes on Cathy. Don’t look up. Don’t look down.

We’ll just check it out.

Turns out, the chair lift is a single. And . . . well . . . I’ve got my chute, right

What the hell!

Flopping into the chair, backpack in front, with a hearty backslap and thumbs up from the strong arms of Giovanni at the bottom was no problem. It was the dismount at the top that now had my attention. Timing the running landing might be a stretch.

Did I mention my unbalanced life?

The trouble started when focused, as I was, on sticking the landing, I forgot to raise the safety bar in front of me. I was watching Cathy effortlessly slip from the chair into a canter when Giovanni’s brother . . . we’ll call him Carlo . . . started frantically signaling to me to raise the bar. I had no clue what his wild gesturing meant. I was like Don Adams in the famous Get Smart episode “Tequila Mockingbird”, when the beautiful castanet clicking dancer is signaling to Maxwell Smart, and he is so clueless he just keeps mimicking her hand gestures.

I was coming in hot and I couldn’t quite tell if Carlo’s expression was pissed or panicked. With only a second or two until touchdown, I realized what he was signaling, raised the bar, and with his friendly help managed to stay upright.

I’d give myself a solid 9. Maybe an 8. The East German judge is always tough.

Monte Solari was in the clouds when we landed, but the clouds soon parted and the view was worth the shaky in-flight entertainment.

A little shopping in Anacapri, pile in the bus, stroll along the harbor, sip some Proseco on the boat, and we’re back to Positano.

Did I mention the stairs. There’s a lot of stairs in Positanto. (That’s our hotel room . . . just up and left of the dark brown one . . . at the top.)

May 5, 2024

I took this screenshot of my phone this afternoon. It seemed an apt visual metaphor.

Much of this trip . . . more than I care to admit . . . I’ve nervously had my nose in my phone, relying on the little blue dot on Google Maps to tell us where on this big blue dot we are and in which direction we’re pointing. I’ve spun around on Rome and Florence and Locarno street corners trying to figure out which way to turn. I’ve talked Cathy through turnabouts in Switzerland (“we’re coming in at six o’clock; we want to leave at nine o’clock.”). And I’ve feverishly used it to identify the building in front of which we were standing when, if I’d just turned around and looked, the sign above the door would have told me.

It wasn’t until today, as we rode on the ferry from Sorrento to Positano along the Amalfi Coast that it dawned on me that there was nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . . that little blue dot could tell me that I didn’t already know.

Amalfi on your right; Tunisia on. your left, Rob. Pretty simple.

Snap a few photos.

Snap a few more.

Second stop . . . start hoofing it the 250 steps up the hill to the hotel.

Open the back door.

Put your feet up.

Relax and wait for the stars to come out.

It won’t be long.