The white problem

"America doesn't have a black problem it has a white problem." That was a line in the seventies. That was the time I first went to New York, to the States, the early seventies. I stayed with a friend who lived on the edge of  Spanish Harlem, just down from Columbia. "You'll be OK till eleven, that's when the junkies get up." She was a cool character, but she still had four locks on the door.

 I was back from five years in Kosovo, and still all for Brotherhood and Unity as the Yugoslav Communist Party put it. That meant that as I wandered round New York I made a point of asking directions only from black citizens. In the subway, on the crosswalk. Most seemed surprised, probably from my Downton Abbey BBC accent. Two I still remember: a young man from South Carolina, in a bright purple shirt and cowboy hat. We walked along for about three blocks, just talking, having fun and then I had to do the white liberal thing, bring up some pious statement about black and white and he looked down at me, and just faded away, into the crowd. The other was a teenager, playing basket ball. I'd landed up in some back street, and called over to the group. One boy came across, looking at me through the wire. His directions were: "Keep on walking, keep on till you see people who look like you."

Secret of a Happy Marriage

Forget the petty squabbles, the silly little differences that arise, above all, forget the anniversaries. Let us rephrase that: both of you forget the anniversaries. Otherwise it doesn't work. I well remember the time when my sister in law caught sight of my forgetful brother coming through his own innocent front door. That day he had forgotten some vital prime number, the engagement, a christening? God forbid, the date of the actual wedding. She directed a look at him that could have scorched paint off a tank.
Luckily Dr. Motes and I, among many other things, always forget our wedding anniversary. And this year it was quite a big one, the 40th. I'm not sure what category that makes it, not up there with the precious metals, but certainly well beyond paper, plastic or plywood. And this time we totally forgot, even when a card arrived, joking about what a good thing we'd hitched up...for a long moment we were saying, Whaaaat the....?

So we both gave a merry laugh and went our separate ways. Of course, some things don't really have a date on them. Like the evening when we first saw "Midnight Cowboy" on Belgrade television. It was in the middle of a cold Balkan winter, and we'd just met each othe, teaching in Kosovo. And Dr. Motes said, yes, it 's Miami and like the song says, that's where the sun keeps shining through the falling rain...and that's where we'll be going...
 And he's totally forgotten he ever saw that movie with me on a cold Balkan night, totally. And he's lucky that I've totally forgotten about it. Totally.
This one's for Cathy!

UK Goodbye

And so we say farewell to pub pies, hard green peas, and UK orchid  societies. Someone said only  three in Scotland, but soon be more with Dr. Motes' talks on "cool-growing Vandas." He says most of them quite happy on the lower slopes of  the Himalayas, which certainly sounds like the English weather I used to know. And "dour Scots?" and "uptight English?" Not among the orchids.

Heathrow and hijab

Glasgow to Heathrow. Commented to a young girl on passport control, how attractive she looked in the black Moslem head covering, joking how any self-conscious teenage girl would love to cover herself from head to toe in black. She burst out thanking me, thanking me because fellow workers didn't like it. She quoted the Bible, Jewish traditions, women covering the hair! And I told her tell them all that only a few years ago you weren't allowed into a Catholic Church unless your head was covered! "Make sure you've got a scarf," potential English tourists to Italy and Spain were warned, "or they won't let you in!"
Fresh off that encounter, I helped a little old Turkish lady, as the taps seemed out of order in the Ladies. The Turkish I know, remembered from old hospitable Albanians in Kosovo, is not much help:  " Sit! Sit" "Eat! Eat!" "I don't understand!" But I did know the authoritive: "Nothing, None!" for the lack of water.  What a world traveller! Next time in the Ladies, a nice young woman, sweet accent from somewhere, showed this old lady, on her way home to Miami, how the taps worked.

Look, no pictures!

 We've been taking pictures with our phones. But that's as far as they've got which right here does limit the dreaded:  "Look at my holiday pics!"  There are the Cathedrals: Winchester, St Albans, Durham -  arches, pillars,  inscriptions, ("Died of cholera, the Siege of Delhi, July 1857.") Then there is the statue of Alfred at Winchester,  great Anglo Saxon king, holding up his sword like a cross, his cloak swirling round his ankles, though from behind he looks like an old lady getting a cab. My favorite, an anxious lamb on Hadrian's wall, looking down at all of four feet to the grass below. And sheep everywhere, spread out calmly over grassy slopes, heavy with winter wool and close up looking exactly like Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire.

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.