A nation of gardeners

Sunday morning TV gardening program, "England, a nation of gardeners," someone is saying. Maybe that's why we've sold out of our vanda seedlings and only two Orchid Territory's left! Unlike many of our American citizens, who back off and say, "I don't grow, I can't grow Vandas... " Or "They take too long to bloom," - you know who you are! Maybe it's because the sun is shining. But all these hardy gardeners are snapping everything up, no questions asked. By the way, we're in Scotland. Told you it's a blast.

Who's the tourist now?

Wonky wifi, and on the road so spotty connexions between dim blogger and blog. Early days, lyrical: daffodils, daisies and dandelions along the roads, magnolias and tulips in front gardens, trees greening by the day! And SUN. Returning to England after so long, I'm an American tourist now: "Take those cars away and this street is total Jane Austen!"
Growing up, wan Thames Valley kid, talk of market towns and cathedral cities was just same old same old. "The pictures" kept us going: Cowboys, cops, all bright and shiny stuff or dusty open spaces. Now, Dr. Motes is on a speaking tour to UK orchid societies, and it's a total blast.

The Talk!

At the European Orchid Conference, cont. Dr. Motes' Talk Well Attended, Well-Received! Especially considering the title: "In the steps of  Rumphius." It takes an orchidist to know that Rumphius is not a new breed of lovable shaggy dog but a 17th century Dutch botanist. And the story is an Indiana Jones tale of old drawings,  distant  tropical islands in Indonesia, a search for botanical truths after centuries of scholars' ignorance. Too much for a blog! Let the South  Dade News Leader explain to us ordinary citizens: "The orchid species Vanda furva was once thought lost to science for over 300 years, but was re-discovered by South Dade grower Dr. Martin Motes."

Native drivers

Every taxi driver has been a Brit, local Londoners from the sound of it. All this talk of multi-racial London, I was expecting at least some chats on Somali politics or Pakistani cricket. But from Heathrow ("Is that white Hawthorne blooming in the hedgerows?"  " 'aven't a clue!") to the one at Victoria who's wife rescues sick orchids, it could have been fifty years ago. Except the bit about the orchids. "She puts them on the windowsill and I've found if you don't water them too much they do quite well." Wow. Dr. Motes, it seems even in London, you are no longer required.

Orchid-loving London

Floppy King Charles spaniel sniffing MIA arrivals at Heathrow customs, while a group of English lads hang around, in black, with guns. Not your English constables but at least half look Indian or Pakistani, so not so bad! As an expat I'm checking, just checking. Sun outside! All the way to central London. And row upon row of white and cream Victorian and Edwardian terraces. After so much History Channel, Wow! Look what Hitler missed!
At the hall, they're putting in the exhibits, the European Orchid Conference will open tomorrow.  Everywhere, Paphiopedilum, Phragmipedium, Cymbidium, brilliant colors. Cool-loving orchids! Disconcerting. I'm so used to saying, "warm loving orchids" for our Vandas as though "warm-loving" and "orchids" just belong together, like "freedom-loving Americans."Tonight, the premier party, among the orchids, both cool and warm.

Free orchid classes

"Dr Motes gives free orchid classes on Saturday mornings at eleven." But sometimes he doesn't. And that's when he's off for example, to Sarasota or Pittsburg or Nepal. There are actual clusters of orchid  people out there who ask, even beg and pay for "distinguished speakers" and Dr. Motes is one.


 My point is, it's a bit like BOGOS. For example, they're always having this great offer for olive oil, buy one, get one free. And it's a big bottle, with maybe gold medals on the label but I'm thinking, if it's that good, why is it free? So all I'm saying, Kendall, Pembroke Pines - South Florida - we're off to London next week, for the European Orchid Conference where Dr. Motes will be speaking on Saturday, prime time! And speaking of Saturday, check your emails for the next free orchid class, at eleven, at Motes Orchids, under the trees.

Why blog? Berlin, the war and the new city

We no longer do the big 4th party which is a shame. The house suffers. As an aid to house work, nothing works like inviting friends and neighbors round in broad daylight. So instead I can celebrate the Fourth by sitting, doing a blog. But first fight the feeling of  how  self important and  time-wasting  my whole blog thing is, rather like my attitude to housework, because  everyone and their angry cat is dropping smart jokes and funny pictures all over the Internet. I should stick to my generation, (Generation Why aren't  you married?) and celebrate home and all the nice old wooden furniture we have, ( mostly from the  swap  meet,) which gleams so gratefully, if ever I polish it.Which brings us to Berlin.

We spent two days in Berlin a week or so ago and I was riveted, checking every building, every facade. For I am also the "We will fight on the beaches, we will fight in the air..." generation, and the moonscape of Berlin, 1945. And the names: the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, the Berlin Wall.

Everywhere I rejoiced on seeing any old walls, windows, little extras on balconies and corners, like builders used to do. Hoping inside the old furniture had survived, the plates with flowers on them, the sweet little creamers you get in the thrift stores, with garlands and gilt edges, "Made in Germany."

Berlin is now Seattle, West Coast. Half the city on bikes, enjoying the June sunlight, leaving municipal flower borders to weeds and country flowers, a little sign telling you why, a reminder the Green Party is biggest in Germany. And outside our hotel window a blackbird singing in a tree, something I haven't heard since England.

Mandela and pineapples

I've just been inspired by a wonderful person, (Hi Cathy!)to pick up my IPad after six months of silence and blog! As they used to say in the classic BBC Goon Show: "Waits for applause... Not a sausage!"
Never mind. I have missed too many chances to entertain, instruct and show off: example, take the death of Mandela.
I was living in London when Mandela was in prison. Of course, you could have lived in London, married, had kids and moved to the country and he would still have been in prison. Back then, in the sixties, London was full of white liberals, many of them Jewish, exiling themselves from apartheid South Africa. (A better class of  resident than the current Russian oligarchs and Arab millionaires.)
Back then, Mandela was the political touchstone by which we were all measured. Were you for the boycott of all things South African or not? I can't remember if we students  had banned diamond engagement rings but we refused to eat pineapples. (It would have been unbearable during the war, to spurn the Christmas food parcels from our South African  relatives, with their cans  of golden pineapple chunks.)
The South African boycott as a policy, is still debated today: did it help destroy apartheid? Do boycotts work? If we shun vodka now, will it hurt the Russian economy? Or just South Beach? Back then, it was clear cut as a fairy tale: a very good man was in prison and by not eating pineapples we could help get him out.

Fifty years on

I've already written about Where was I when Kennedy died, made a neat blog: I was in Belgrade. People crying in the streets, concerts cancelled, solemn music on TV. Later, reading of international reporters shocked at the jubilation of many of Dallas' society.
Now, fifty years on, Florida, USA during the Obama administration. Reflections on that day? A kind of comfort to remember hostility and gut hatred need have nothing to do with race.

Albania, Texas, You decide.

First Albania, then off to Texas(Dr.Motes speaking at Houston and Austin) so let's compare! OK but it's fun.
Pride.
 A tie. Hard to find a souvenir without Albania's flag stamped on it. My favorite, a fridge magnet:
Superman pulling open his cloak to reveal the double headed eagle! The lone star? Everywhere. Saw it discreetly inside a crucifix and living large on the side of an outhouse.
Being Special.
Texas because it sees itself so big, Albania because it knows it's so small even the Yugoslav Communist Party was a threat. So it allied itself with China. (Too far away to invade!)
Texas always takes on the world too. In Galveston," The free world's only remaining genuine government surplus store."
 Religion
Well...Albania's Communist leader abolished religion in the mid sixties. Maybe that's why there are not so many churches around though quite a few mosques. Ironic, as Albanians are famous for their religious tolerance. Texans must be too: they have so much to digest: Holy Zion Lutheran,
Church of the Hills, Island in the Sun Church, Straight Gate Church, Cowboy Church, Encouragement Church. Crosses on store fronts, a large one outside someone's bedroom window.
 OK Trees, Weather and Fruit
Tall, elegant chestnut trees in the center of Tirana. Live oaks in Texas, such a presence in towns
 and out. Weather? Killer hot in Texas, Adriatic mellow in Albania. Fruit? Peaches everywhere in Texas but picked hard and thrown in a cooler. "Cherries are over" we were told in Albania probably because we got there in July and the Albanian name for June is "Cherry month."
Off the Beaten Track
Like Albania, we took the less beaten tracks. Row of women in a line, haymaking. Folk herding sheep. Up through Texas hill country, tally of road kill: two raccoons, armadillo, young deer, one
turkey buzzard, two wild hogs. Tiny places, small names. Made me think of those old war movies:
"Where you from, son?" "Brady, Texas, sir." "Mason, Texas, sir."
Selling Books
Success! The elegant book shop in the center of Tirana now has twenty four copies of Kosova Kosovo, while a book club in Houston has just acquired twenty copies of Orchid Territory and together with Austin, (Heart of Texas Orchid Society) I sold another fifteen.  And now I have another selling point for Kosova : "It's cheaper here than in Albania!"

• I sold about another fifteen.

Is this a Tweet?

Much more on Albania but Motes Orchids caravan off to Texas today.

No Albanian Required

Albania was the best place to be to avoid the Trayvon Martin trial. Small hotels, no CNN, BBC. Best place to be American, too. Amerike! Broad smile, hand on heart. Albanians are grateful. America has always had a soft spot for them, the underdogs of the Balkans. It was an American president who fought for Albania to even exist in the World War One days and after, and it was Clinton who bombed the Serbs to stop ethnic cleansing of Albanians in Kosovo in the nineties. But still.
Albania, full of Moslems who helped prop up the old Turkish empire, then after the Second World  War , Communist Albania, the North Korea  of Europe.

Well, here to report not as gnarled old Balkan hand (see random blogs) but as aging tourist with comfort in mind: sunny days, friendly but not intrusive people, always someone who speaks some English. (Always someone on hand with an uncle in New York, a sister in Boston, a daughter in Paris.) No soldiers visible, few police,  only  a couple of traffic  cops occasionally looking for action. Cosy cheap hotels and good home cooking ( local food, wine etc.)

Warning for those who are young, female and reasonably attractive: unemployment is high. Everywhere there are restless young men with nothing to do but sit in cafes.
Warning for those of us who are so good about seat belts. On those scenic trips with incredible views, listen to the lovely Albanian music on the mini bus and decide that with God and Allah you are in good hands.

Lost in the clouds

The big old computer died in March and so did my blogs. I have been on a slip and slide adventure with my new IPad (birthday present unused for nearly a year) and finally seem to be able to not eliminate what I've just done. One fun feature: watching the IPad throwing suggestions at me as to what my  skit skattering typing really intends to. Say.  OK I had so many ideas for blogs: NRA and the cowboy film. Jobs I could Do (Dollar Tree stores cashier - all a dollar My kind of math) BUT we are off to Albania next week! Had the big Motes Orchids Clearance Sale and stuffing dollars into our holiday pants, that,s it!

When we were teaching in Kosovo we coudln't  go. (Politics) I am busy trying to remember my Albanian. If I were a twitterer most every tweet would probably be " Can't remember the word for sheet! " Etc. 

 I will take a trusty note book and write down impressions in the good old fashioned way that served   Shakespeare, Mark Twain etc. well enough. 

The glasses that ping

We're always on the hunt for a good red wine under six dollars but whatever the price we always drink it from glasses that ping. A few years back you could find them in Mcfrugals, of blessed memory. Just lined up on the shelf, dozens of crystal wine glasses, each a dollar forty-nine. Obviously no one in charge had done the ping test. For that all you need is a ring, (wedding rings work best, plain metal.) Make a fist: bend your knuckles as though you'll punch the glass and lightly tap the wedding ring upon the side. No ping? Pass on and repeat.

Sadly someone at McFrugals caught on and a few weeks later the only glasses available at one forty-nine gave off the dead clunk of broken dreams and lowered expectations. Speaking of the dead clunk, does no-one remember one of the historic episodes in Frasier? Miles, ultra posh, fastidious brother, finally declares his passion for Daphne, and they sit in the kitchen and raise their glasses in a toast and what do we hear? A dead, low class, no-class clunk. Un-believable. The producers were lucky they got away with it when they did. If it happened now the whole scene would be making the rounds eternally with Angry Cat and Face Lifts Gone Wrong.

Not so special after all

Because I'm British, well English- that even more Anglo-Saxon super-section of former white imperial overlords - (and with bad teeth, according to the more recent American overlords who sneer at us because they're still jealous,) OK - well, because I am English with all those centuries-old certainties, it's always a shock when I find myself sinking to the level of  the smaller peoples of the world.

For example: French troops in Mali - and suddenly on the TV there are Africans speaking perfect French - ordinary ones! (Ordinary Africans.) Where did that come from? (Of course, when you don't speak any French, any French sounds perfect.)  It's quite a smack to be reminded, of course, the French were in Africa too. And how odd that some Africans speak Portuguese- It  doesn't seem quite right. I never heard about any of that growing up. For a moment I feel as aggrieved as a Serb squaring up to the Greeks who lord it over the Balkans with all their statues and temples and stuff. Or an Albanian student unable to sit still in class because he had just seen the portrait of an Albanian poet  hung lower than the picture of a Serbian one.

It t was in a Serbian grocery in fact, long ago, the moment when it  hit me how much like everybody else we are. It was back before plastic bags when everything was still wrapped in newspaper or whatever came to hand. This time it was a page from an elementary school exercise book: careful sentences in Serbian, the top one, "President Tito VISITS Africa." (It was obviously verbs that day) Back then Tito gazed at us from every post office wall, shop, restaurant, bus station, and flyblown cafe but I was suddenly reminded of my young school days, and "Princess Elizabeth visits Canada!" And what did we young school children have to do? Make a scrap book from the pictures in the newspaper! Princess at the rodeo, doing a square dance! Cheered by jubilant Canadians! That was our geography lesson.

And another thing: just the other day I heard some correspondent talking about the Americans repairing a bridge the Russians had built in Afghanistan. And he casually mentioned all the roads, the hospitals and clinics for women  they had built too. Ah, but of course, they would have had a picture of Lenin or Stalin staring down on those poor Afghanis - not a smiling Queen Elizabeth or a pensive Obama.

Running Water:Turn off that tap!

Speaking of gadgets that help women, what about running water? Back in the sixties when I lived in  Kosovo, southern Yugoslavia, almost every new flat had its washing machine but down among the old wooden houses there was still just a tap out in the yard. But wait! What luxury! As one of my colleagues at the university explained, "The women are very happy now- before they had to get water out in the street."

Kosovo was just another distant province of the old Turkish Empire until the First World War and in terms of plumbing, and much else, had not changed a lot. Everyone, Communist party members, students, welcomed me to the capital with the same apology: "Pristina is a dirty town!"  Their reasoning, from the Turkish time, the world before modern plumbing: "We are in the plain- no river!" The two beautiful old towns in Kosovo, Pec and P:rizren, they explained, were "clean"- built on the banks of fast flowing mountain rivers- running water!

The fact that I also get a kick out of turning on a tap and seeing water come out - and hot water too!- dates from before Kosovo, to student days when I persuaded a wary housewife to let me turn her attic into 'digs.' The only problem, having to go down two flights to the bathroom for water. And later when I snagged a  top flat in London, (right near the Thames and the Tate Gallery!) same problem- two flights down for water.
Unfortunately, unlike the gorgeous women who sway off to wells with pots on their heads, going for water  did nothing for my posture. Hauling up plastic buckets on narrow stairs was more Hunchback of Notre Dame. But, children, it does explain why I regularly squawk (sometimes, just to myself,) "Don't waste water! Turn off that tap!"

The Washing Machine

As the man said: the secret of happiness is a pleasing monotony. As for a woman a washing machine runs it close, though maybe you need to be of a certain vintage for that to apply. Or, right now, to be a mother bombed out of Aleppo, in a refugee camp on the Turkish border. (Syria, children!) Digression: The girls at the cash registers in Publix keep asking me for a dollar here, a dollar there for cancer, for children, for diabetes, and I demand "What about SYRIA?" reinforcing the impression that the world, especially the supermarket world, is full of addled old ladies.
Digression  2- Speaking of addled old ladies and the Middle East:  we had a power outrage one evening  back when Iraq was the daily news story and Florida Power and Light got us back on line, in the dark! And a nice gentleman called about nine checking all was OK. Such courteous American efficiency! And I said  "Thankyou! Makes you think about the poor people in Baghdad, doesn't it?"  Pause. OK, Apparently not.

Yes, washing machines. I am a lot older than many Mums and I certainly grew up in the UK long before the world speeded up so much that they were showing the same new movie at the Odeon, Friar Street, Reading Berks as in New York, the same week! But when I listed what we didn't have as children, not even starting on high tech - no fridge, no car, no telephone, no TV, no washing machine, no dryer, my children looked at me like -"We're you living in a cave, eating grass?"
No fridge? Well, that was long before global warming and we weren't in Florida but on hot summer days my mother put our bottle of milk in a basin of cold water (no ice) with a cloth over it. And when it turned sour we all had pancakes! So not all bad.
OK, one last thing. I think the washing machine has been more important for some women than the Pill. Because if you had a washing machine, you wouldn't mind having more kids.

"Twil be, 'Tis and 'Twas: two months in the life of a blog

Back in November this started as "'Twil be... the season.."  A blog in praise of Christmas as the one time a year when there's a solid public for plastic snowmen, cardboard Santas and books.
Selling a book is hard. People back away. ("Oh, I don't read...Don't have time...") But at Christmas people know they don't have to actually READ a book but just BUY the damn thing. The whole job of actual reading is handed off to someone else - i.e.give Orchid Territory as a  PRESENT. Because outside of Christmas and birthdays, in this brave new world, there are not so many opportunities anymore.

Easter? Well, you could have the Easter Bunny hide a copy or two. There will be some disappointment among the young 'uns but a book's a lot healthier than a chocolate egg so parents and Michelle Obama will be happy. Halloween? Probably not. Teenagers baffled and enraged by offerings of  Orchid Territory rather then Hershey bars, might be liable to do some damage to the front lawn.

Which brings us back to Christmas and by the way, an extra persuasive argument for orchidists: unlike a present of a flowering orchid, Orchid Territory can be bought early on and hidden in your closet! Also it's cheap! Special 10.00 dollars American! Try getting a Present-To-Remember for THAT. (And inside Obama's nanny-Fascist state books and crates of vegetables are the only acceptable Christmas presents anyway, no chocs or alcohol!)

Speaking of which, an added bonus. If you still read books, then you can enjoy Orchid Territory and still give it away. This cannot be done with chocs or drink.You cannot eat the chocs, rearrange the little silver and gold papers and hand over the box. You can't drink the wine and then wrap up the bottle. It's been quite a few decades since a light bulb stuck in an empty Chianti bottle was the smartest lamp around.                                                  
But if you're a careful reader: ( no coffee stains, white wine and greasy popcorn traces) then no one need ever know their Orchid Territory was pre-owned and pre-read.

Back in November I convinced myself a little too well that people no longer read blogs either, or at least mine, so- why bother? So this is why this blog is definitely  'Twas... and that's not the night before Christmas, either.

Restoring the Future

I could not blog before- but now everything is fine!
The Monday before last, election eve, Dr. Motes and I went and "got out the vote." Dr. Motes  because he is civic-minded and for me, as my daughter observed, "because you like to meet people." We were assigned to what we call the rest of the year a "rough neighborhood:"i.e African American.  
Dr. Motes was all for the afternoon, but people won't be home, said I. Not a place to be after dark, said D. Motes, old Miami hand. Then I remembered: the clocks had just been turned back- It would be dark by six! 
 Ahem- We are liberals but we are also older, not so nimble and definitely white.(Theyll think we're Republicans!) -Well, we are certainly THINKING Republican.)
We compromised, driving up at four with our clipboards and lists, and there we were in our "rough neighborhood;" small houses, teenage boys hanging out under the one big tree, a group of mostly toddlers and teenage girls on chairs near a mail box, imposing black Mum in the middle.

Dr. Motes took the even numbers. He had the imposing Mum but I had to leave my odd numbers and ask her, please, right off the bat "Could I please use the bathroom?"(Hey- That's how you meet people.)
As we plowed through more toddlers and teenagers to the bathroom, she agreed that getting older took its toll: "Me, I'm fifty-three!" No way!  Is that another reason people can get angry with African Americans - so many of them look so young, for ever.

My odd numbers turned up Lee, young Mum ready for Tuesday with two sons, " and aunts, Grandmothers!" A  young gay man: yes, his grandmother had already voted: older man, two sons, (gently pointing out "that's 'Senior'", by his name.)  There were some chained front gates and some No Answers, one with the TV full on. But there was only one sharp: "Who's that?" A man who said he couldn't vote: "Just out of prison."
 "And THAT'S why we need Obama back!" I cry through his wrought iron door.
.The boys under the tree were friendly in that quizzical, indulgent teenage way. One asked what sounded like "You voting Romney?" with a grin.

Back in '08, getting out the vote often meant first, trying to convince many African Americans that a black man had any chance of winning. Vote for Hillary! Don't throw your vote away! As one old lady said, "We don't want to get our hopes up." Well, they did and it worked and last Tuesday it worked again and that bizarre Republican slogan really applies to us on the other side: last Tuesday week we Restored the Future.

America the Beautiful

No blog?
Well, who cares?
Nothing seemed funny.
New puppy.
And Dr. Motes off in South Africa: featured speaker at the South African National Orchid Conference close to the platinum mines. Dr. Motes, right by the platinum mines and brings home two boxes of tea, two hotel shampoos and a piece of slate with a Vanda painted on it. (Award for best Vanda in show.)

Off to Salt Lake City (Utah Orchid Society) with Dr. Motes: Bright Future for Vanda Breeding. (Will puppy be OK?)
Drive from Salt Lake to Denver (Denver Orchid Society.) High country. High Country! Berkshire girl who grew up on cowboy films, here, in the high country: small ranches, sage brush, October, no one looking except us, a little snow on distant slopes. Too dry this year, everyone says. Lower down, Romney /Ryan signs.
 
Land so vast, so immense- too incredible for cameras, for adjectives. Mountain passes, Grand Canyon rocks and boulders, all forms, all colors. Cottonwood trees turning golden yellow below, along the river banks. Black cows in golden stubble. Aspens golden too, among the pines.  That's why Aspen CO is called Aspen CO.  

Circle of old men, boots and camouflage, in Net's cafe, hunting season starts on Saturday, they say. Can't see Obama here; be like Blazing Saddles- It is Blazing Saddles- black sheriff in town!