At The Home Of A Love Child And Her Love Child

Look at this photo:

Can you guess where I've landed?

I'll give you another clue:

Once again, I'm in "the City of LIght."  I decided that the off-season fares made it worthwhile to come here for a week and visit my friends.

I thought about going to other places--say, Scotland or England or Finland--but it's cold here, and I can only imagine what the weather is like in those places.  Normally, I don't mind the cold, but I think this time it's a shock, given that I experienced summer-like weather last week in Florida.

Anyway, I got to my hotel--in the neighborhood where I took the photos--well before check-in time.  The clerk allowed me to leave my bag, and I went for a walk to my favorite building in this city.

Sacre-Coeur de Montmartre is only a 15 minute walk from the hotel but seems even closer.  I have long believed that it's the most Parisian of buildings because it's not typically Parisian.  At least, it seems to belong in this city because, well, it really couldn't be anyplace else.  I mean, in what other city could a Roman Catholic Cathedral have domes that look more like those of a mosque?

Back when it was constructed, it must have been even more out of character for the area, which was then semi-rural, and the city.  These days, however, it's hard to find anyone who can imagine Paris without it.  I know I can't.  And the artists who lived and worked in the area certainly couldn't.

One reason why artists flocked to the neighborhood is that it was, believe it or not, cheap.  Even more important, though, is the light in and around it: subtle, but not muted, and dreamy if not somnambulent.  Best of all, on that hill, you can see the light of the rest of the city unfolding like a video of the weather on a screen of linen haze.  Its movement is slower than that of the city, at least when one walks or cycles the streets, but is a kind of film (rather than a mirror) of the city's life force.

What I have tried to explain makes even more sense after a visit to the Musee de Montmartre, located in the oldest house in the neighborhood.  It's also where Maurice Utrillo and his mother, Suzanne Valadon, had their studio.

The man whose last name he inherited--a Catalan painter--acknowledged Maurice but really wasn't in his life.  Valadon--ironically, a love child herself--would later marry Andre Utter, who was Maurice's best friend and twenty years her junior.

All of this sounds like something you might expect from artists living the bohemian life in what was then the most bohemian part of the western world's artistic capital. So are many other aspects of their tumultuous lives, which included alcoholism and nervous breakdowns.  But what you might not expect is that Utrillo, who was born just steps from the Sacre Coeur and spent almost his entire life within a few minutes' walk from it, spent considerable time in the cathedral, and not only for aesthetic reasons:  He actually had a sincere faith and believed that the cathedral and its environs were suffused with spiritual powers. Some might say that it was part of his search for serenity, or at least comfort.  

Now, I'm not religious, but I can see why people like Utrillo and Valadon--along with other artists--were drawn to the Sacre Couer and its environs.  An artist is a kind of bastard child who doesn't quite fit into the conventions of their society--and, from the story presented at the museum (as well as what I've read over the years), the neighborhood was removed, physically as well as mentally, from bourgeois expectations.

All right, I'll stop theorizing.  All I'll say is that the walk to and from the Sacre-Coeur--and the walk up and down the hill--was a great way to spend the first hours of my latest visit to Paris.  Between the walking and climbing, and my jet lag, I was ready to sleep when I got back to the hotel!

As for cycling:  I haven't done any yet.  During my previous two visits to Paris, I rented a bike (from Paris Bike Tour) because I don't want to worry about finding docking stations and I figured (correctly) that a rental bike would be of better quality and better-maintained.  I'll probably go to PBT tomorrow.

I thought about using Velib, the city's bike-share program, but I saw only one docking station--and, worse, only one of their bikes-- today.  Turns out, there are far fewer of those bikes and stations than there were in the summers of 2015 and 2016.  A little more than a year ago, JC Decaux's contract to run the program expired, and a new company took over and instituted a new system.  Now users complain that it's not only more difficult to find a dock and bike, it's sometimes "impossible" to find a dock that works properly when you're trying to return the bike.  That often results in a half-hour ride (which is free) turning into a two-hour rental.  Worst of all, some users have said that the 300 Euro deposit the system charged their credit cards wasn't returned to them even after the bike was returned.

Anyway, I look forward to riding, meeting my friends and visiting a museum or two.

Away, Again!

Marlee just would not let go of me.  

She knew I wasn't going to be home for long.  She thought she could keep me from leaving, yet again by lying on me and refusing to get up when I got up.  To tell you the truth, I didn't want her to go, any more than she wanted me to go.

But I went anyway. What does that say about me?

By the time you read this, I will have landed and will probably be resting--after spending a few hours seated.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you where I am.  I promised to bring something back for Marlee. (I've made that promise to every cat I've had whenever I've taken a trip. I haven't broken it!)

If you don't hear from me for a couple of days, it means I don't have a reliable internet connection--unless you hear otherwise!

You're Not Lost!

Over the years, I have read many articles and posts that list reasons for riding a bicycle:  everything from saving the planet to improving your sex life.  Perhaps, as someone who loves cycling, I am biased, but I believe that I have yet to find a reason that isn't valid.  In the end, though, I ride for one reason:  I love it.

But I continue to read the lists.  A couple of days ago, I came across one in, interestingly, Forbes magazine.  The author provided 45 reasons to get on a bike in 2019. I've heard most of them before, but one in particular caught my eye--#10, "Get Lost":

It's stressful to get lost in a car--especially one with up-to-date stat nav--but it's generally less stressful to get lost on a bike.  It's easier to explore on a bicycle, following one's nose rather than following a hectoring voice taking orders from a bunch of satellites in the sky.

There's also something about a bicycle that lends itself to serendipity--ride a bike to explore more.

Here, Carlton Reid explains why folks like me get on our bikes with no particular destination or route in mind.  Sometimes I just want to see, hear and feel whatever may come, and the bicycle is the best way (that I know about, anyway) to do that.  

I know I've written about "getting lost".  What I meant is that I strayed from routes I planned or knew beforehand and was pedaling through unfamiliar territory.  I have been "lost" in my hometown at midday as well as in places where I couldn't even speak the local language--if indeed there were even beings that spoke--after night fell.  

Mr. Reid would no doubt understand this:  At such times, I don't feel lost.  In fact, I felt more certain of where I was (if not where I was going) than I did while commuting to at least a couple of jobs I've had.  I daresay that, really, I have never been truly lost on my bicycle. At least, I have never felt that way.

He Didn't Want To Start His New Year That Way!

I guess I'm lucky:  I started my New Year with a 65 mile (105 kilometer) bike ride--and felt great afterward.  That, in Florida:  the state in which I had the greatest chance of getting killed while riding a bicycle.

Oh, and I got to eat my mother's cooking afterward.  Yes, it was a good start to the year.  

Sam Liccardo probably wishes he could say the same thing.  He also went for a bike ride on New Year's Day.  Unfortunately for him, he didn't feel invigorated at the end of it.  

He got clipped by an SUV making a right turn.  The driver was cited.  We can be grateful for that, but it won't heal the fractures of his vertebrae and sternum.  He is, however, expected to make a full recovery and be back at his workplace in a week.  In the meantime, he'll work from home.

Sam Liccardo in the hospital

His workplace?  City Hall, San Jose, California.  Yes, he is the mayor of that city.  While it may not be Portland or even Seattle or San Francisco, its citizens are probably more bicycle-conscious than those in most other parts of the US.

And, ironically, he has been leading a campaign to make the city's streets safer for cyclists and pedestrians.  He is an avid cyclist and is rightly concerned: In 2017, there were six fatal bicycle crashes in his city.  That represented 13 percent of all traffic crashes.

Even though he is expected to make a full recovery, I'm glad I didn't have to start my new year the way he started his.  For one thing, it left him in pain and he expects to be off his bike for a month or so.  Oh, and he had to eat hospital food.

I'm Back And She Won't Let Me Explain

Someone wants me to explain why I left her in cold, rainy New York while I was bike riding in 80 degree (27C) Florida sunshine.



Marlee was well cared-for.  Mildred, my cat-sitter, even spent time with her on New Year's Eve.  But Marlee still wants to know why I get to have all the fun.  She's not buying my explanation that I was visiting my parents.

Really, I was...

From The Tangles Of Moss And History

It's been said that in Florida, "North is South and South is North."

The southern part of the Sunshine State--particularly Miami, Fort Lauderdale and Tampa--is filled with retirees and other transplants from colder climes, like the one in which I live.  The north, on the other hand--which includes the Panhandle and, depending on which definition you choose, anything north of Orlando--has more in common, genealogically and culturally, with Georgia or Alabama.

My parents live in the north-central part of the state, near Daytona Beach.  In cities like Palm Coast, where my parents live, or Daytona or Ormond Beach, there are people like my folks who moved from places north of the Potomac.  But outside of such cities, in the smaller towns and rural areas, the "good ol' boys" rule the roost.

Some native Floridians will tell you that in those towns, and in the surrounding countryside, you will find the "real" Florida.

Now, I am in no position to say that. But I can say that it's certainly more Southern than, ironically, some points further south.

I mean, you're not going to find anything like this along Collins Avenue in Miami Beach:

Of course, the moss hanging from the trees is a sign you're in Dixie.  But that's not the only thing that made my first ride on this path, more than two decades ago, one of my first truly Southern experiences in Florida.  It's also where I saw my first armadillo.

That path also is the entrance to the Bulow Plantation Ruins Historic Site. It is interesting to learn about the rise and fall of a plantation--and a society.  But its exhibits and signage reflect a bias that I've found in every other former plantation site I've visited:  It makes the building and operation of the plantation (and its sugar refinery) seem like a heroic act because the owners had to face, not only capricious Nature, but hostile Natives.  According to the text of the exhibits, the plantation was "swept away" in the Seminole War of 1836.

And, of course, the labor practices are whitewashed, if you know what I mean.

But it's certainly worth a visit, not only for the ruins and history lesson, but also to bike, hike, fish or simply be calm in a setting that is reverting to nature.

From the Bulow Plantation, I rode down Old Kings Road into Volusia County and made a right where the road ends--at the Old Dixie Highway.  Then I got to ride under more canopies of moss-draped trees--for about four miles!  Even if you are thinking about the history of the place, it's definitely a lovely ride.  And I found the drivers unusually courteous:  All gave me a wide berth and none honked.  It didn't matter whether the vehicles were Fiats or trucks, or whether they had license plates from Florida or New Jersey or Ontario or Michigan.  I guess anyone who drives on that road isn't in a hurry--and shouldn't be.

Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Florida!

Along the way, I stopped to see something that made me think, oddly enough, of the Ta Prohm temple I saw in Cambodia.

People know it as the "Tomb Raider" temple.  It's the one in which tree roots have wrapped themselves around its walls.  Now, of course, you're never going to find anything that looks like an Angkor Wat temple in Florida, or anywhere else in the US.  But seeing the Fairchild Oak in Bulow Creek State Park made me think of what those trees in Cambodia might have done if they didn't have a temple to ravel themselves around.  

It's easy to see why stories by writers like Faulkner and Welty are so often so intricate that they seem (or are) tangled.  That idea occured to me after leaving Bulow Creek and continuing along the Old Dixie Highway as it bisected a swamp and curved along the shore of the Halifax River on its way to Ormond Beach.

Riding Like A Rockefeller

I am writing from this desk

after eating lunch in this room

with an audience

in this house

All right, I was exaggerating, well, a little.  After all, if I were writing and eating in a place like that, I probably wouldn't have gotten there on this

Or maybe I would have.  After all, the person who is the reason was known to ride a bicycle, even after the automobile--which he loved--became common in the US. In fact, he loved autos so much that he was a denizen of the "birthplace of speed."

That cradle of velocity is a beach something like this one

in a city that borders the one best known for its race track.

That city, of course, is this one:

and the 'burg on its border is Ormond Beach, home to the "Birthplace of Speed" and the house I visited yesterday.

The house is known colloquially as The Casements.  John D. Rockefeller. Contrary to what some people believe, he didn't actually commission it.  He did, however, put his unmistakable stamp on it.  And, the fact that he lived in it for the last two decades of his life is probably what saved it from the wreckers' ball when it fell into ruin after plans to turn it into a resort hotel never materialized.

Another misconception about the house is that it was the first to be built with casement windows.  Actually, the style existed for about two centuries before they were incorporated into Rockefeller's residence.  One could argue, however, that the house helped to popularize them in the US, particularly in Florida.

After my date with royalty (or, at least, the closest we come to having it in the US), I rode to Daytona Beach and back up State Route A1A, where I could spend days taking in the views of the ocean and flora and fauna.

After pedaling through Painters Hill (I'm still looking for the hill!), I turned away from A1A and the ocean.  After crossing the bridge over the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway, I rode the path along Palm Coast Parkway and saw some of the prettier roadside vegetation I've encountered.

All of that, and 120 kilometers of cycling.  Not a bad day, I'd say.

Lunch, Palm And Moss

Yesterday I had lunch with my mother and her friend at the local Cracker Barrel.  The place has a split personality :  The restaurant serves homey Southern-style and comfort foods ( no avocado toast), while it’s shop sells overpriced kitsch.  Mom, Iris and I had chicken pot pies , which had more chicken in them than you’ll find in a plate of chicken strips in a hipster bistro.

After lunch and conversation , there were still a couple of hours of daylight remaining.  So I went for a ride along the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway, which parallels the ocean coastline a few hundred meters inland. The waterway is popular with boaters, recreational fishermen and bird-watchers, while its path connects with other trails, including this one.

It seems that, within a quarter-mile or so, you can find every kind of palm or fern lining a section of this dirt trail that loops away from the main bike and pedestrian lane.

E

From there, I rode along Colbert Lane to the head of the Lehigh Rail Trail, where a wooden bridge leads to a moss-canopied lane.  You couldn’t find anything more Southern Romantic.

Riding Out The Old Year And Into The New

This is the way the year ends
Not with a bang but a bike ride.

All right, so that's not how T.S. Eliot ended The Hollow Men. But, the other day I ended 2018 with one of the best rides I've taken in Florida.

The wind pushed against me for the entire 30 miles (50 kilometers) from my parents' house to the Daytona Beach boardwalk.   But I didn't mind, even though I was riding a rusty baloon-tire beach bomber:  It was a great excuse to bomb onto the beach and into the water.

This is something you definitely wouldn't do in New York on New Year's Eve (unless, perhaps, you are a member of the Polar Bear Club.)  I mean, the temperature doesn't reach 82F (28C) on Coney Island Beach on the last day of the year--though it could happen some year, given the effects of climate change.  On the other hand, my hometown probably won't have the sky or sunshine I experienced on my ride.  (I got sunburned even though I applied sunscreen twice.)  

I also wouldn't see anything like this

or this

 both of which I encountered on the way back, along Route A1A, between Ormond Beach and Gamble Rogers State Park.  Nor would I have seen this

which greeted me in Beverly Beach, near the aptly-named Painters Hill.

Because I took the route through Beverly Beach and Painters Hill, the ride back was longer.  But it was also easier, because the wind I pushed against was pushing at my back.  So, in all, I rode about 65 miles (105 kilometers) for my last trip of the year.

The following day (yesterday), I started 2019 by riding along A1A in the opposite direction, to St. Augustine. The temperature reached the previous day's levels, and the sun shone brightly, but only a breeze blew at my back on the way up, and into my face on the way back.  In all, I covered about the same distance--just over 100 kilometers--I did to end the previous day, and year.

The ride took me over a bridge that spans Matanzas Inlet.  Now, if you know more Spanish than I, you know "matanzas" means "slaughters". 

Indeed, people were slaughtered there:  specifically, French Huguenots who had the temerity to build a refuge for themselves at Fort Caroline, in what is now Jacksonville.  The problem was that they didn't fortify or defend their garrison very well.  So, when the Spanish attacked, it fell easily.  At the same time, a French flotilla sailed from Fort Caroline with the purpose of attacking St. Augustine.  It, however, was blown off course by a storm.  When some French survivors were found, Pedro Menendez de Aviles, the founder of St. Augustine, ordered their execution.

Of course, I'm sure nobody on the beach was thinking about that. I could hardly blame them:  The clear skies, warm air and calm sea wouldn't bring slaughter or execution to very many people's minds.  And, I admit, for me, the serene littoral vista made for a nearly perfect ride to start a new year.

Happy KREM Classic!

Happy New Year!

Different countries and cultures have different ways of turning the page on their calendars.  One of the most interesting and best is a bicycle race that is one of the country's major sporting events.

Is that country in Europe?  Or is it Japan?  Australia?

From the 2016 KREM Classic

No, it's Belize.  That a bike race would help to bring in its new year isn't surprising when you realize it was, until 1981, a colony of a nation with a strong cycling history and culture:  England.  And, much like Jamaica, Guyana and even Canada, it has retained British culture and customs to a much greater degree than the United States.

The 2018 women's winners

The race I'm talking about is the KREM Classic, sponsored by the country's first independent radio station.  The first edition of the race was  held in 1991.  One interesting feature of this race is that cash prizes are awarded to the winners of each stage as well as for the best overall finishes.  It also features a women's as well as a men's race.

Oh, and the race is clean:  During the last few years,  all of the riders have been tested and none came up positive.  How many major races can say that?

Taking Flight In The Snow

So...How am I ending 2018 or beginning 2019?

The more accurate questions are "where?" and "with whom?"

As to the first question, here is a clue:

I arrived in Florida yesterday.  Palm Coast, to be exact.  That's my parents' yard, complete with canal.   

So I answered the other question.  The last few years, I've come down to the Sunshine State around the 6th or the 7th of January, to avoid the holiday rush.  But I decided to come earlier this season for a couple of reasons I'll mention later.

It started to snow in New York about five minutes after my flight took off.  When I got off the plane in Daytona Beach, it was warm enough to jump in the ocean. I didn't do that, of course. But I might today, during the course of the ride I'll take.

Then I'll join my parents in sending out the old year and bringing in the new one.  It's funny that in my advanced middle age, I am doing something I did as a child.  The difference, of course, is that this is a choice.  And, of course, it will be preceded by a bike ride.

What If We'd Worn Them?

If you're of my generation, you didn't wear a bike helmet when you were a kid.  But, if you have kids, you probably are making them wear helmets when they ride--at least if you're in the US.

That got me to wondering:  What would our childhoods have been like if we wore bike helmets?

From Pixabay

You Don't Need Math To Do This

A few years after graduating from college, I bumped into a classmate in the Columbus Circle subway station.  Working for a then-new technology company, she said she liked the work and it paid decently but "nothing is what I expected it to be."

She explained that she got into the work she was doing after being a lawyer for a couple of years and "hating it even more than I thought I would."

"So you went to law school even though you didn't think you'd like practicing law?"

She nodded.  "Why?," I wondered.

"Because I didn't know what else to do.  And I can't do math."

That, for a time, was a running joke:  You got your undergraduate degree in whatever and you can't figure out what to do with it.  You may not know what you can or want to do, but at least if you can't do math, there's always law school.

I considered law school for about 15 minutes, but of course never went.  I must say, though, that some of my other choices have been influenced by my numerical ineptitude:  majoring in English literature and history as an undergraduate, working in publishing and public relations, writing and, of course, teaching.   None of the work I've done has required more computational skill than balancing a checkbook.

Now I'm going to make a confession:  One of the reasons I'm such a dedicated cyclist is that it, too, does not require any math.

All right, that's not really true.  But whether you are an astrophysicist or someone who uses a calculator to figure out how much your lunch cost, you can enjoy cycling. Just ask Nick Charalambous.

Nick Charalambous.  Photo by Ken Ruinard for the Anderson Independent Mail

The Anderson, South Carolina native undertook around his home state.  Yes, literally around it:  His route zigged and zagged along its Atlantic coastline, Savannah River banks and the border with North Carolina.  He'd been battling a rare form of lymphoma, and his ride was a way to celebrate his recovery and raise money for the Lukemia and Lymphoma Society.

He completed the ride.  But two mathematical calculations made it even more of a success than he'd anticipated.

First of all, he calculated that his 14-day ride would span 820 miles.  But, at the end of his ride, he realized his tabulations were erroneous:  When he looked at his maps and other information, he found out he'd actually pedaled 930 miles.

His second numerical mistake had to do with the money he raised.  His original goal was around $1000, and his pledges, he thought, would bring him to that amount.  But he underestimated his sponsors' generosity:  In the end, he raised $5250.

Nick Charlambous may not be very good at math.  But he makes up for that with his determination, which is how he completed his trip, even though he had never before taken a bike ride approaching its length or scope.  He also credits his faith which, he said, showed him that he was given "a body new" after his illness.

What he didn't gain, of course, was mathematical ability.  But he doesn't need it:  After all, who said you have to be any good at it to ride your bike?

The Sidewalk Was The Path To His Death

One thing I've learned during my trips to Florida is that many sidewalks are de facto bike lanes.  

More precisely, there are ribbons of concrete that wind and wend alongside multilane roads where the speed limit is 45 MPH (70 KPH)--which, in Florida, means 65 MPH.  One rarely sees a pedestrian on those "sidewalks", so there are no prohibitions against cycling on them.  

The good thing about them is that they are usually separated by at least a meter of something--usually grass or other vegetation--from the roadway.  Interestingly, I almost never see motorists pulling into them. I don't know whether there's a law against doing so.  My theory is that the drivers know some of those little "lawns" might actually be mini-swamps, and their vehicles could get stuck in them.

Riding on the "sidewalks" isn't bad:  Most are well-maintained and rather spacious.  But there are two major hazards I've found, both of which might be reasons why Florida has, by far, the highest death rate for cyclists in the US.

One is crossing traffic intersections.  Nearly all of those sidewalks lead cyclists and pedestrians into the path of right-turning vehicles, who are often going fast.  To make things worse, sightlines are often poor, so even the most conscientious of drivers could hit a cyclist who's clad head-to-toe in safety yellow.

Another is that, sometimes, parts of those sidewalks are blocked, without warning.  So, if you are moseying along and suddenly you find a crew from the power or water company drilling into your path, you have nowhere to go--except the roadway which, as often as not, doesn't have a shoulder.

Dr. Robert Dalton Jr.

Dr. Robert Dalton Jr. encountered such a scenario while pedaling from his home to the Maitland Sun Rail station where, on a normal day, he'd catch the train that would take him to Orlando Health, where he practiced his profession as a cardiologist.

His work no doubt saved more than a few lives.  But nobody could save his on 17 December, when he was struck by a driver.

The sidewalk was blocked for construction of an apartment complex.  This has led to some finger-pointing between the local officials--who say that the construction company should have erected scaffolding that would have allowed cyclists and pedestrians to pass underneath--and the construction company, who say that the city or county or whomever should have put out blinking lights or other warnings for drivers to slow down.

Of course, the scaffolding would have been the better alternative.  But even that would not have addressed other problems, like the ones I've mentioned, that are found on Florida sidewalks-cum-bike lanes.  And, of course, nothing will bring back a well-regarded doctor and beloved member of his family and community.