If You Promise to Empty your Sandals

Contemplating the world from America's industrial heartland, Penny, last heard from in Morocco, has much to think about amidst the dunes of Gary, Indiana.

I opened the sliding screen and walked out onto the deck – the breeze from the north was fresh, the Chicago skyline across the lake lit softly from the east.  I had surprised the doe nuzzling the beach grass below.  She hurried her two fauns along, as the monarchs searched for the milkweed.  Over the ridge, down by the shore, a pair of heron landed.   The sharp sound of a humming bird quarrel below interrupted the rhythm of the waves, then was superseded by the whistling of a freight train.  Nestled improbably between the old multiplex of U.S. Steel and the new multiplex of Arcelor Mittal, I was watching the sunrise in Gary, Indiana. 

No crowds here.   Coming down from the interstate, County Line Road is deserted – a hot dog stand (“Depot Dog” serving award-winning Vienna dogs from a pretty red caboose), some signs for the National Lakeshore Park, more deer and the occasional circling bird of prey aside.  There are some signs of human habitation at Wells Street beach – it has a pretty good refreshment stand – but the modest, well-tended houses of this beach community, Miller, are oriented to Lake Michigan and the dunes rather than the streets.

You needn’t come by country roads to avoid crowds in Gary.  In fact, if you choose to come to my lakeshore paradise through the erstwhile metropolis, the scenery is positively post-apocalyptic.  Much of the city has been razed.  There are some fortress-inspired government buildings and an unenticing concrete convention center, and of course the steel mills and oil refineries remain, smokestacks steaming and occasionally ablaze with methane.  Coming in on the Tri-state or Route 20, you would have to agree that Gary is a suitable backdrop for Transformers 3, which had in fact just finished shooting when we arrived.

Back in Miller, Lake Michigan and the dunes surrounding it, the ponds, the swamps and the trails through the woods, the uncountable species of butterflies, toads, frogs, grasshoppers, wildflowers, grasses…those are what have continued as the crowds receded.  Crowds don’t come here much, to take a little bit of dune back to Chicago in a sandal, trample the fragile beach grasses and leave plastic and aluminum in the wetlands.  How fortunate that most don’t find the juxtaposition of beauty and industry as poignant and thought-provoking as I do.  I’m thankful that the crowds stomp elsewhere, as nature makes a comeback in my home town. 

The Indiana Dunes Lakeshore Park (www.nps.gov/indu/index.htm), existing in the interstices between residences, train tracks and industrial conglomerates, is the consolation prize given environmentalists after they lost the battle to stop the construction of the Port of Indiana to the west of Gary.  One might have thought that the “brownfield” site to the east, gradually being vacated as industry moved to more pliable labour markets, would have been more suitable than the close-to- pristine lakeshore duneland that was bulldozed to become the Port in the 1970s.  The bulldozers came, but the utter unfashionability of nearby Gary and Miller has allowed some of the displaced flora and fauna to find a new home, cheek by jowl with the remaining homo sapien population. 

We rented a lovingly –restored 1930s house right on the shores of Lake Michigan through VRBO (www.vrbo.com).  The house sits back from the beach among mature cottonwoods.  My favorite feature was the cleverly placed fire pit, well-situated for roasting marshmallows while watching the sun set in a pollution-enhanced technicolor.  The water was perfect in late August – maybe 78 degrees, and changed character every day.  One day for floating on a mattress.  The next for riding waves.  And every day was for strolling down to the dunes at West Beach or down through the pine woodland to Long Lake about a mile or so south, to see who was migrating through – mallards and coots of course, the occasional Canada geese.   Of course, the migration doesn’t get seriously interesting until the autumn. 

I hadn’t been back in many years, and was told that I should be wary of Gary, and of Miller too, but we were very comfortable.   We certainly didn’t feel unsafe. (The neighbors left a good deal of equipment outside and lightly tethered, although they live in Chicago – there couldn’t be too big a crime problem in Miller.)   The peoples’ palaces of the 1930s, the Aquatorium and the Pavilion, have been restored, and indeed the planters surrounding the Pavilion are now brimming – as they certainly weren’t in the 1960s when I grew up here.  There is a reasonably good restaurant on Lake Street, the Miller Bakery Café (although the service could use some improvement), a very nice souvenir shop selling 1920’s posters about the trip to the dunes from Chicago (still less than an hour), and a Walgreens.  For groceries you now need to go a bit further afield –  Hobart or Portage have supermarkets, and there is a great farm market and bakery on Ridge Road, a mile or so east of Ripley Street. 

So do I recommend Miller?  If you promise to empty your sandals before leaving, I do.  If we travel, we need to confront the brutal reality of the mills and refineries that make transportation and much else that we take for granted possible.  And we need to also think about what it will take to keep the Karner blue butterflies, the red-shouldered hawk, and the tree toad healthy and happy as well.  We need to think about how to make sure that the people working in the factories and refineries can flourish alongside the world’s most impressive collection of wildflowers, and afford a holiday or two themselves – and about what happens to their lives if the factories and those jobs go.  Can’t think of a better place to contemplate all of the complexity of the modern world, and of the role of the great industrial powers, past, present and future, than there.


Photo Credit: Penny Pilzer
  

Transforming Family and Friends into Effective Agents of Guilt and Terror

Dear Friends,

Thanks to Chris Baty's No Plot? No Problem: A Low-Stress, High Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days, I have committed to writing a 50,000 word novel by September 30th. That's 1,667 words a day for the next 30 days.

I will be reporting my daily word quota on social media. Poke merciless fun at me any time I miss my deadline. And thanks.

Kate

Off-The-Grid Travel

Recently, the New York Times ran a story about five neuroscientists who took a  trip to the Glenn Canyon National Recreation area in Utah with the goal of studying how the heavy use of digital services and other technology changes how we think and behave. At the end of the trip, all five scientists were singing the praises of Off-the-Grid Travel.

Great premise, I thought. Off-the-Grid travel just might be the next big thing. It’s exotic, exclusive, difficult to achieve. It won’t be long before Abercrombie & Kent will be offering Off-the-Grid safaris. I should do something about this for No Crowds.

Two days later, I am in Hertfordshire, what Wikipedia calls “a non-metropolitan county in the East region of England”. Hardly the wilds of Utah, but for a committed London girl, a great place to perform her first  experiment with Off-the-Grid Travel.

My ground rules were simple:

1)   Leave electronic devices at home

2)   Drop off daughter at Lacrosse Camp in Hertforshire at 9:00 to be picked up at 4:00

3)   Find something to do for 6 hours

And here’s the thing, without devices or any forward planning, I had an absolutely splendid time for the next 3 days.

On day one, I took a walk and stumbled on Rothamsted Research, a huge agricultural research center that is also the oldest agricultural research station in the world where scientists have been tracking environmental changes over the last 150 years. The center includes a beautiful 17^th century manor house that is used to house the scientists and students.

On day two, I ended up at the home of the playwright George Bernard Shaw in the tiny village of Ayot St Lawrence. Run by the National Trust, Shaw’s Corner  (pictured above) is a great time warp. Much of his books and papers are there, including his Oscar for My Fair Lady. About that he had this to say. “I won’t say I’m insulted because no doubt they meant well, but I don’t work for competitions.” Who knew?

On day three, I pulled out all the stops and followed a sign to Hatfield House. For the last 400 years, the estate has been the home of the Cecils, one of England’s foremost political families. It’s a grand Jacobean place filled with inspiring stories and objects and one of the finest houses I have ever visited.

For three days, just like the neuroscientists in Utah, I wandered around and discovered things. It was fun. I paid attention to what I was doing. Twitter, Facebook and No Crowds did fine without me and I without them.

Off-the-Grid Travel. It really could be the next big thing.

Great Fakes?

We are off to Cadaques in Spain made famous by Salvador Dali. We’re going to the real one.  Not the official recreation that is being built in China for holidaymakers looking for a 'taste’ of Europe and not the unofficial real estate development, Cadaques Caribe, a reconstruction in the Dominican Republic.

“How surreal” I thought when I read about all those fake Cadaqueses in the Guardian newspaper but how fitting.  As one of the most forged artists in the world, aided by the habit of signing and selling off blank sheets of paper, Dali would most likely have enjoyed the whole thing. But it does raise an interesting question about authentic versus fake experiences, and whether we should or can embrace 'the real deal'.

On one end of the spectrum is Las Vegas. According to the website Without Baggage, it’s the fakest place on earth with a fake Rome, Venice, Paris and even a fake Treasure Island – a fake of a fake. OK, Las Vegas is an obvious and in some ways funny if not a bit ridiculous example but what about Colonial Williamsburg. I LOVE Williamsburg and it too is a complete reconstruction, perhaps a worthier reconstruction, but a fake just the same. 

So what makes a travel experience authentic? A trickier question than it first appears. Mark Jones a travel writer and frequent contributor on the BA Highlife website answers it this way:

“My definition is this: authentic places are those which are comfortable in their own skin. An authentic travel experience is when you get under the skin of that place. An authentic tourist is someone who is changed by a place and doesn’t seek to change it. Let’s celebrate them.”

A pretty good definition. You can read the entire article here and check out BA Highlife’s list of the 50 most authentic places on earth here.

The No Crowds definition, which borrows heavily from Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart regarding obscenity, is this:

Authentic? I know it when I see it, and the recreation of Cadaques on the coast of main land China is definitely not that.

So what’s your definition?

Will Travel Make You Happier?

The business section of the New York Times ran a major story on consumption and happiness this weekend.  To sum up the findings of a number of prominent psychologists quoted in the article, spending on an experience provides more lasting happiness than spending on stuff.

According to Sonja Lyubomirsky, a professor at the University of California, Riverside with a grant from the US National Institute of Mental Health to study the possibility of permanently increasing happiness, spending on travel experiences is a happiness ‘best buy’. She claims that travel provides longer-lasting happiness because unlike a new jacket or a TV, it cannot be consumed in one go. Travel enhances social relations.  It creates memories that can be savored. Most importantly, Lyubomirsky argues, we edit those memories to put a positive spin on the past. “That trip to Rome during which you waited in endless lines, broke your camera and argued with your spouse will typically be airbrushed with rosy recollection.”

I’m not so convinced about the ‘rosy recollection’ part, I remember a lot of terrible trips very vividly, but I am sold on the idea that travel experiences create the best emotional bang for your dollar – or pound, euro or whatever. I’m thinking, in fact, about this year’s summer trip to North Carolina. I’ve been back in London for almost a week, but I am still happier than when I left. Why? Because I am emotionally satisfied. It’s not so much what we did in North Carolina. In fact, we do the same things every year. We eat barbeque, go to the beach, play tennis and visit Chapel Hill. The reason I am emotionally satisfied is the simple but invaluable pleasure of doing those things with the same people every year, a collection of friends and relations with whom I hope to be forever connected. Whatever it cost to get to North Carolina this summer was money well spent and a much better buy than the new chairs I was considering. I think the New York Times is right. Spending on experiences, particularly travel experiences, does make you happier. 

Take Me to the Kasbah - Exploring Morocco's Atlas Mountains

More from No Crowds reporter, Penny, on how to explore the Atlas mountains of  Morocco in grand style. 

From our balcony at the Kasbah du Toubkal, we looked across the valley to the summit of Mount Toubkal and spent our first evening just listening to the call to prayer echoing and repeating village to village.  By day, you can walk in the mountains – with or without a guide, with or without a mule to help you on the climb.  You can walk the 10-11 km to a “nearby” lodge above a traditional village inaccessible by car (and devoid of the sounds of cars) and come back the next day.  You can arrange to climb to the summit of Toubkal itself.  

But we didn’t find it easy to leave the Kasbah – why not just sit in one of the towers (your choice again – windows or open air?  Wind or no wind?) and play chess, drink mint tea, watch the hawks and the mountain crows, listen.  By night, the candle-lit dinners, romantic or gregarious – choose the spot you prefer.  Figure out what you want once you get there – that’s what we did.  It would have spoiled the whole thing to have too many plans.

We booked through Kerrie at Discover Ltd, who was incredibly patient as our plans changed repeatedly due to work schedules, volcanic ash and whim.  And Lahcan, the ever-available concierge-and–everything-else at Toubkal made sure it all worked on the ground.  Mule?  No mule? Are you sure 20 kilometres up and down in one day with no mule?  Did you enjoy dinner?  Answer -- How could we not? (Lahcan had arranged last-minute accommodation, meals and lots besides in the village for a group of UK students trapped by Eyiafiallajokull – we eavesdropped as their teacher, finally departing, asked, all but in tears, “Is it all right if I hug you??”)

Are we allowed to say that one of the pleasures of the stay was the crowd we fell in with?  Met some interesting people from all over, great conversation, great company – Sometimes just a small crowd is a pleasure….

If you think you are going to need some liquid relaxant, you will need to bring it along to the Kasbah.  Set-up will be provided, but alcohol will not be sold or served.  We really like our wine, but we didn’t miss it at Toubkal.  There was plenty of intoxication on offer without …substances.

Also recommended:

In Marrakesh:

• Small, romantic Riad Demueres D’Orient.   Despite our late arrival, dinner was ready – little Moroccan salads of aubergine, zucchini and chick peas followed by melt-in-your mouth pastille.  All in the candle-lit dining room, fire roaring, looking out onto the garden.  Our room was lovely and quirky, the staff welcoming and genuine.  Highly recommended.
• Over –the-top luxury at Riad el Finn.  Can I just say that I am now a fan of leather floors?  This Vanessa Bronson-owned combination of three former houses was the venue of the birthday party that was the instigation of the trip.  Multiple garden areas, including a roof terrace for breakfast and sunbathing, a well-stocked library, hand-loomed carpets everywhere,  tea served at 4 under palms (and with terrapins), understanding bartender Abdul, two swimming pools.  Many of the  rooms are huge, with indoor and outdoor anterooms.  Ours featured 20 foot carved ceilings, a sunken marble bathtub and those  leather floors.  With all of this quiet beauty – the sounds of birds and fountains throughout – and the marvellous food, once again I was not as eager to explore Marrakesh itself as I should have been.  Just let me stay here!!

If you are going out towards Ouarzazate, we can recommend Ksar Ighnda, with the caveat that if there are any crowds there, you will be able to hear them.  If you go out the back way, you find yourself in an oasis garden.  It is less than 40 acres, but due to an ingenious and probably ancient irrigation system, you can find a typical morroccan meal growing – carrots, barley, maize, plums, apricots, irises, palms and then olives and  herbs, until it gives out onto the desert.   Overlooking all is Ait Benhaddou, a Kasbah seen most recently in “Gladiator”, and still partially inhabited.  As for the crowds, avoid room 303, which sits in an echo chamber above the bar – although once awakened, we looked up, out our door, to a deep blue sky and stars so close that it was hard to believe that we were on the ground at all. 

Recommended reading:

“In Arabian Nights” by Tahir Shah – Stories recently gathered in the medinas of Fez and Marrakech by the author of “The Caliph’s House”

“A year in Marrakesh” Peter Mayne – the year was 1952, but it’s fun to imagine the streets  as they were then, as you walk down them now.

The Egyptian Museum - And a 3000 Year Old Scandal

In Part 2 of Cairo: Crowds and All, Lorraine provides a game plan for tackling the Egyptian Museum and reveals a 3000 year old scandal.

A highlight of our visit was a trip to the Egyptian Museum.  

Gird your courage to the sticking point and brave the scrum at the ticket window to gain entry.  You won’t regret the effort, and you’ll feel a great sense of accomplishment when you finally walk away with your tickets in hand. 

A word of advice, hide your camera in your pocket or underwear (and yes, the image does defy the imagination).  A young woman inside inspects your bag and sends you back out to check your camera if she finds one.  However, once inside, people were snapping pictures happily with no apparent repercussions.

The museum itself is a large, somewhat gritty warehouse,  albeit a warehouse filled with priceless artifacts – a rare opportunity to walk 5000 years into the past.  We walked down aisles past hundreds of sarchophagi, jewelry displays, and death masks; we admired a written tablet that we suspected was the  Rosetta Stone  till I recalled that the Rosetta Stone had been shipped to England and resided in a museum there. And therein lies the challenge of the Museum. Signs in English are rare, and we often found ourselves speculating about the meaning of the exhibits.  While there are numerous ‘guides’ offering services before you enter the Museum, I can’t vouch for how knowledgeable they really are and would recommend that true history buffs check with Viator to find a guide, or the hotel concierge (if he’s more helpful than the one at the Sheraton).

Moving upstairs, we reach the King Tutankhamun exhibit. [Note to English speakers with limited knowledge of Egyptian history: The name is pronounced Tut (rhymes with hut) + ankhamun (rhymes with uncommon). Apparently, calling him Two Tank Haymen is the kind of error that embarrasses your partner and amuses other more erudite tourists.]   King Tut (this is the safe pronunciation option) burial chambers reminded us  of those Russian figures, where  you opened one to find a smaller identical figure inside, and so on till you reached the final, tiny figure. King Tut was the littlest doll in the center.  He was buried inside three gold covered box tombs,  sized so that they fit inside each other. And inside the three layers of gilded tombs,  was a solid gold king shaped sarcophagus (not on display)  and inside of all of this was the mummified body of King Tut,  the boy king,  wearing the well publicized and exquisite golden death mask that is on display at the museum.

The 3000 Year Old Just Revealed Scandal

We learned that King Tut was a rather unremarkable pharaoh, understandable since he ruled from the age of 9 till his death at 19.  His fame is all due to the grandeur of his tomb. In addition to youth, we’ve just learned that there was another good reason for little Tut’s less than distinguished rule. While we were there the Egyptians announced the results of DNA tests conducted on tissues from the Tut mummy (how wild is that – 3000 year old DNA?).  It seems he suffered from a number of nasty genetic diseases. This is not surprising since the DNA results revealed his parents were brother and sister. Compounding the problem, the boy was then married to his sister. A sad, but perhaps predictable discovery in his tomb were two of his progeny - mummified stillborn fetuses – products of that unfortunate union.  All that gold, and all that power, and no one seemed to have figured out the hazards of inbreeding. 

A final suggestion for those who like to read books about places they visit:  Egypt’s ancient and crumbling monuments are the tangible remnants of an ancient civilization; and modern Cairo, splendid, infuriating, and complex beyond all western understanding, is the proud  recipient of a 5000 year old legacy.  I often find that a good book can shine a light into the mysterious and exotic world of foreign travel.  My favorite fiction  books about Cairo are The Cairo Trilogy, by Naguib Mahfouz.  In the period between WWI and II, we follow three generations of a family .  For those who would like to browse even further I recommend www.bibliotravel.com, a website that allows you to type in the name of your city or country of choice, and then displays a wide range of books about the area. 

Photo of King Tut and Queen (sister) from the Egyptian Museum