Alexandersmap

    Blog

    • Walking In Their Footsteps

      There’s a moment 7:24 into the James Corden Carpool Karaoke with Sir Paul McCartney when James remarks, “If my grandad were here right now he’d get an absolute kick out of this” and McCartney replies, “He is.” That moment grabs me by the throat each time I’ve watched it. After a trip to Liverpool a couple of weeks ago, I’ve revisited the episode on YouTube a few more times for the “I was right there” time warp it offers. Which is closely related to the “They were right there” experience of walking in their footsteps on that day.

      We’re all souls marking our time on this planet, eventually our time ends and we’re remembered in moments like Corden’s. Generations later we’re just a small ripple, echoes that show in the traits of future generations, the equivalent in personality to having the same color eyes or the same shape to the earlobes. I can only hope my children carry my better traits to the future, and leave the more annoying stuff behind. But whatever will be will be.

      As I write this my friend the Carolina Wren is singing her morning song outside. We’re well into November and I thought she’d have migrated south by now. But it seems she wanted to stick around a bit longer, brightening up the days with her songs. It’s a sound I wasn’t familiar with until she arrived just this year, but one I won’t ever forget now. It’s funny how little things like that mean so much over time. Which makes me wonder, how will we be remembered?

    • The Farmer and the Poet

      It sits perched atop its fellow stones, neatly laid as a capstone of sorts. Who’s hands laid this stone? A farmer from the earliest days of this nation? Or perhaps their grandchild, the last generation to farm this land before the young turned to the mills or went west? Once the land surrounding the wall was cultivated, bearing harvests of corn, beans and squash. Then the farms faded and the trees regained the land. This wall marks the past, and this stone waits eternally to tell its story, like that poem buried in a musty old book on a library shelf. The farmer and the poet each speak to us through their creations long after they’re gone. If only we’ll listen.

    • Be Alive

      Quiet Sunday mornings are precious things.  This first Sunday morning back from vacation with no travel scheduled for the next week makes it even more so. A good time to contemplate picked-up pieces and solve the puzzle … like this Oscar Wilde quote:

      “Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.”

      Which seems to pair well with this (recurring) observation from Seth Godin just this morning:

      “A few people somehow avoid these lessons [of following the rules school lays out] and become instigators, impresarios and disruptors instead. They’re not only dancing with infinity but completely unsure what’s going to work, and yet they are hooked on leaping forward.”

      There are some bold concepts to shake the complacency here. Most people try to avoid mistakes, but it turns out those mistakes are leaps forward not achieved if you don’t make them. Ironic, isn’t it? Go out on the floor and dance with infinity, or be a wall flower wishing you’d taken the risk. If I’ve learned anything in my time here, it’s that the risks can be mitigated, and the leaps are worthwhile.

      That “creeping common sense” Wilde talks about is something I’ve struggled with. But I smile at the mistakes I’ve made that have moved me forward, if only a little. Following the rules, waiting your turn, deferring to others and knowing your place each serve to bring order to society. There’s nothing wrong with making the bed, holding the door for someone else, driving safely and showing up on time for an appointment. These courtesies help us leap forward too. If you don’t weed the garden your harvest will suffer. But a little bend of the rules, an occasional left turn, a break from the norm and a few more mistakes along the way offer a bit of Miracle Grow in that dance with infinity.

      “… the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.”

      Ultimately Wilde isn’t indicting us for not taking risks (we do enough of that to ourselves), but rather, poking us to stop wringing our hands about whether it’s the right time or the right move and to just do it already. There are only so many days in store for all of us, and who cares if it turns out to be a mistake anyway? And I think of an image of a Polish man during the darkest days of World War II begging for his life, hands raised to his chest, seeking to be understood. Next to him are two other men, resigned to their fate, which is about to be the same as the bodies of other men sprawled on the ground. I felt empathy for that guy, who was caught up in a moment larger than himself, only wanting to be understood and to live another day. And he calls to me still, Memento mori! Go on, take the risks. Live your life today, as I myself cannot. Be alive.

    • Stumbling Upon Buried Treasure

      While waiting for a taxi to the airport I scanned the wonderful old books lining the shelves at the London hotel I’d been staying in. I do this often when I have moments like this, it’s where the buried treasure is after all. I saw two books on a shelf at eye level that drew my attention; Two Years Before the Mast, by Richard Henry Dana Jr. and an old collection of English poems. I’d read Two Years Before The Mast several years ago at the recommendation of a friend who’s doing exactly that at the moment. I flipped through it quickly, saw the old stamps indicating it was a library book and smiled. Libraries were where I found most of my buried treasure before the Google and Amazon changed everything.

      To this day my favorite discovery was an old copy of Typee by Hermin Melville pulled at random from a university library shelf in the fall of 1984. I was a freshman then, figuring out this college thing, and fascinated with the vast rows of books I could walk through. I picked up Typee and brought it to a reading nook and read the first couple of chapters, quickly falling in love with this other world. I’d return the book and come back again and again to it in the same fashion until I finished it, never checking it out (sadly not including my name on the stamp), but finishing it nonetheless. That friend who loaned me Two Years Before The Mast in turn took my recommendation to read Typee and now has a boat named Fayaway, a compelling character in the story.

      That other book, the one on poetry? I opened to a completely random page in a completely random book in an old library book stuck on a hotel shelf in London….. so you know; random. And I read this:

      Care-Charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,

      Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose

      On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud,

      In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud

      Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light,

      And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,

      Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,

      Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;

      Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,

      And kiss him into slumbers like a bride! – John Fletcher

      Fletcher died in 1625. Analogies between sleep and dying are common, and Fletcher dabbling with the concept in this poem/song from 400 years ago illustrates that. We all want to gently fall asleep, and given the choice we’d likely all wish the same for our final sleep. Poetry either grabs you or it doesn’t. I haven’t made up my mind on this one, which means it’s the latter. Not everything you pick up in a book is going to be buried treasure. If it were what would be the value anyway? But there’s something to chew on here anyway.

      Two Years Before The Mast was written by a man named Richard Henry Dana Jr. after he left Harvard to regain his health after contracting measles. It’s a fascinating book that illustrates life onboard a merchant ship on a two year journey as they rounded Cape Horn to pick up cattle hides in California to haul back to Massachusetts. Seeing the book again prompted me to read a bit more about Dana, and I was struck by one part of his legacy. Dana Point, California is named after him. I’ve spent a fair amount of time in Dana Point, but never made the connection to the book until today. It seems I found some buried treasure after all.

    • Hidden Photographers

      I often ask people taking pictures of family or friends if they’d like me to take a photo of them with the rest of their group instead of being the hidden photographer behind the camera. Most gratefully say yes, and usually return the favor if I’m with others myself. As an avid documenter of places, people and events I come across in my life, I know a fellow hidden photographer when I see one.

      I’m not a fan of selfies.  Something in the name seems…  self-serving to me.  It screams “Look at me in this spot!  How great is this?” But a picture taken by another human of you at that same place?  It indicates, if only to me, that another person was in the story saying “Hey, this would be a good picture with you in the foreground“.  Mind games on my part perhaps, but it validates the picture for me anyway.

      Look, I understand, sometimes there’s nobody around to take the group photo so you gather up the group tightly, extend your arm as far as you can (I refuse to get a selfie stick) and snap away.  Instantly recognizable selfie picture.  Use it as you wish, but use discretion. I don’t judge, I just don’t want to do it myself.

      There’s a certain agreement amongst humans in taking photos of each other that connects us.  I took a picture of a gentleman from Asia who didn’t speak English walking across the Abbey Road crosswalk, and he did the same for us.  I almost watched him get run over taking that picture of us, as he was so focused on getting it right that he ignored the cars approaching behind him and walked out into the road with us snapping away as we crossed the walk.  Now that was a connection between two people who will never see each other again.  He almost made the ultimate sacrifice for a tourist picture. I’m certainly grateful it didn’t end up a headline. He did a great job, drama aside. And I’m happy to say his picture came out well too.  Wish I’d sent myself a copy of it.

    • Travel and Writing

      Vacations end. There’s no getting around that. But there’s value in resuming the life you’ve built for yourself at home. This morning I’m dining at a lovely breakfast buffet in London, tonight I’ll assess the empty pantry we left behind. But full instead on recent memories. That’s a fair trade.

      The hard part of writing when you travel is carving out meaningful time to do it well. For me early morning was my salvation. The easy part is having a treasure chest of material to write about. Embarrassment of riches? Most definitely. Doesn’t get much richer than London and Scotland (but I’ll surely test that in the coming years).

      Travel and writing pair well. No revelation there. Not all travel is created equal, and this trip provided a wonderful shock to the apathy of the everyday. I try to stop and smell the roses wherever I am, but sometimes you’ve got to step into a new garden to see how they tend things elsewhere. And as I head back to my own backyard, I’ll tap into these memories again and again.

    • Mind the Gap

      Hustling people weave between each other like strands in a tapestry. Constant movement and sound; the music of London Underground. Laughter mingles with sounds of conversations in many languages and the grinding metal and roar of trains. Wind gusting through open end windows stir well-kept hair.

      Those in the know march down escalators on the left, dart between lines without a glance at the signs. The rest of us check signs, confirm District vs. Circle, look down and deal with personal boundaries being pushed and clutch handholds with the lurches and leans of the train. Even when you learn it it’s different when you don’t live it. Up this escalator, down that one, keep to the left and on and on.

      The polite offer up seats to the aged and women, I just stand and leave open seats to whatever fanny finds it. This business of bouncing around in a tube underground isn’t my style. I’d favor walking whenever possible, as I do in New York or Boston. But you can’t argue it’s efficiency. Countless thousands of souls pulse below the streets of London every day, re-emerging above ground in places far and wide in an endless dance. A tourist, I do the dance with two left feet compared to the tango veterans on display. But I don’t mind, I just dance on the edges and mind the gap.

    • Dufftown

      You could spend a couple of weeks immersed in the distilleries of Scotland. I didn’t have a couple of weeks, but I did circle my last day in Scotland for a trip to the malt whiskey capital of the world (they say and I see no reason to dispute it), Dufftown. Two massive whiskey distilleries are right next to each other, and a third is just down the road. Glenfiddich sprawls at the foot of Balvenie Castle. Next door is the distillery that shares the castle’s name. For a tour, it had to be The Balvenie Distillery.

      I appreciate whiskies from all regions of Scotland, and love the whiskies from Islay in particular. But if I could only have one, it would be from Balvenie. So the tour was booked and locked in, and we arrived with time to spare. The parking for Balvenie is tucked into a stand of trees, making us second-guess the location, but sure enough we had arrived.

      Some distilleries truck in the malt or buy barrels from the Speyside Cooperidge up the road. Balvenie does every part of the process in-house, which means a tour at Balvenie is going to be more comprehensive from the get-go than other distilleries. But they really take the time to stop and explain every part of it. We’d done a tour at Talisker that we enjoyed that took one hour. Balvenie was three hours, and we could have stayed longer if we didn’t have a rental car to drop off. There were only four people in our tour, with four cancelling, and we looked at each other a few times in wonder at the attention we were receiving from our Ambassador James. Can’t recommend him enough.

      Driving to a distillery yourself means compromising. You either risk everything and partake (in a country that won’t tolerate it), or you politely pass drams to non-drivers in the tasting. Obviously there’s only one appropriate choice, and I watched a few choice drams go to my passenger and to the couple who had wisely hired a driver. Balvenie kindly gave me a bottle to pour samples into for a blended sample for consumption later, but I did mourn the ones that got away. Until I drove the dark, twisting roads of the tourist route back to Inverness in the rain anyway.

      The Balvenie tour was a wonderful was to cap a week of travel from Edinburgh to Fort William to Isle of Skye to Inverness. There simply isn’t enough time in a week to see everything, so you plan, adjust to the weather, passing fancy and reality. And book a return as soon as possible to tackle the things you missed along the way.

    • A Castle, Reborn

      Scottish castles had a tendency of being blown up. If my time in Edinburgh, Stirling, Doune, Interlochy, Eilean Donan and Urquhart Castles has done anything, its reinforced this point. Some remain ruins to this day, others were rebuilt to support next generation clan objectives. All are tourist attractions today, but the day they were destroyed marked a world that was forever changed for the previous inhabitants.

      Castles were symbols of the power and influence of the clan that lived there. Stick a castle on a chunk of lava rock and you can hold out against a siege for a long time. At least as long as you have water, food, ammunition and the will to ride it out. Stirling Castle could have held out indefinitely had their water supply not been compromised.

      If a clan is only as safe as the strength of the castle they reside in, the opposite may be more true. Castles only survive history when there’s no reason to attack it. Diplomacy, political connection (being on the “right” side) and tactical value all play a role in a castle surviving.

      The defeat of the Jacobites gave plenty of reason for the English and a united Scotland to persecute the clans that sided with Bonny Prince Charlie. The horrifying results to the clans on the losing side are well documented. The castles offer visual verification. Looking at Eilean Donan Castle now, it’s hard to imagine it being a pile of rubble like Inverlochy is, but it too was blown up to punish the Mackenzie Clan. It was eventually rebuilt by their ally the Macrae Clan and today is one of the most photographed castles in the world, playing host to hoards of tourists and many weddings. What might have been a violent end was just a dramatic pause in the life of this castle. This one is a must-see, and I’m grateful to the Macrae’s for opening it up for tours. If you go, be sure to drive up the hill on the opposite side of the road for an iconic shot of the castle.

    • Meeting The Old Man of Storr

      Hard rain and fog don’t lend to an optimal hiking experience. But that’s what greeted us as we drove up A855. This was to be the one day where the weather mattered most on the entire trip, and the weather wasn’t good. Disappointed, I scratched Quirang off the list. But I held out hope for the Old Man.

      Looking up as we drove past the car park, it was clear this wasn’t going to be what I’d hoped for. The Old Man of Storr was completely obscured in fog. Perhaps wait it out a bit and hope it would lift? We drove onward to Kilt Rock and Mealt Falls, took the obligatory photos that everyone else takes and made our way back to try the Old Man once again.

      Heavy rain greeted us as we got out of the car, but the fog had lifted just a bit, giving a peek at our evasive friend. We hiked up to say hello, pelted by rain, optimism in our hearts. But this wouldn’t be the day, as the fog descended once again, completely obscuring the Old Man of Storr. This wouldn’t be our day to meet, and we turned for the descent. There’s always Talisker. And thoughts of when I might return again.