A few days ago, I wrote about congestion pricing and the wonderful effects it's having on people's physical and mental health--not to mention pedestrians' and cyclists' safety--in Center City London and beyond. It's been proposed here in New York but it's gone over about as well as lead bagels.
The funny thing is that the people who are most vehemently opposed to it are always complaining about parking. I should think that, if anything, it would make parking easier. It might even prevent scenes like this:
Recently, I mentioned Ernest Hemingway in one of my classes. Not a single student had heard of him, let alone read any of his works.
I have very mixed feelings about that. On one hand, I'm appalled that they'd gotten to college without knowing about one of the most famous American writers. On the other, I'm not so sorry, as I've gone through periods of absolutely loathing him (the man as well as the work) for the all-but-complete absence of credible, let alone substantial, female characters and the testosterone-soaked world he created and image he projected.
Then again, there is an economy and precision in his language that few other writers have equaled--and which, ironically, makes him easy to parody. And for all that he glorified masculine pursuits, few writers have shown war-weariness from a combatant's point of view as well as he did.
Whether I've loved or hated him, there is one work of his I always loved: A Moveable Feast, which was published posthumously. Even after having lived in Paris and enjoyed a few extended visits in the City of Light, I am still moved by his descriptions of his life there. Also, I always had the sense that if he ever let his guard down as a writer, he did so in writing that book.
If he was capable of sighing, he did it in that book. In particular, he expresses regret--and seems almost apologetic--in talking about one topic about which he couldn't write: bicycle racing.
One of the things that all of those English teachers never mentioned while they were ramming The Snows of Kilimanjaro and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place down the throats of my generation was that, while in Paris, he became a big fan of bicycle racing and that he was an active cyclist through much of his life. A friend of his, Mike Ward, introduced him to it after giving up betting on horse racing because, he said, he'd found something better in bicycle racing.
Hemingway similarly became enamored of two-wheeled pursuits after turning his attentions away from the trotters. Given that he wrote stories about hunting and fishing, which he also loved, it's no surprise that he would want to write about bike racing. But, as he recounts in A Moveable Feast:
"I have started many stories about bicycle racing but have never written one that is as good as the races are both on the indoor tracks and the roads."
He gives one possible reason why he couldn't write a story he liked about racing:
"French is the only language it has ever been written in properly and the terms are all in French and that is what makes it hard to write."
Still, he is glad to have been introduced to the sport:
"Mike was right about it, there is no need to bet. But that comes at another time in Paris."
Maybe it's time for me to read him again.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, there was a time when I actually regarded Coca-Cola as an energy drink. I'm sure some cyclists still do. In fact, some might regard it as a performance-enhancing drug.
Like nearly every cyclist in the developed world, I've seen innumerable Coke ads on billboards, storefronts and even painted on the sides of buildings. But I've never seen one quite like this:
It's a still from Late Spring (Banshu), a 1949 film directed by Yasujiro Ozu. Based on Kazuo Hirotsu's novel Father and Daughter (Chichi to musume), it belongs to a genre of Japanese film called shomingeki, which deals with the ordinary daily lives of modern working- and middle-class Japanese people. This genre flourished during the immediate postwar period, in spite (or, some say, because) of the heavy censorship imposed by Allied occupying forces.
Such films usually focused on families, featured simple plots and were shot with static cameras. This genre might be compared, in some ways, to the Italian neo-realist films of the same period (such as Rome, Open City and The Bicycle Thief) and the French New Wave that brought us the likes of Le Quatre Cent Coups (The 400 Blows) a decade later.
There's a certain irony to seeing a Coca-Cola road sign in a film that's supposed to--at least on the surface--celebrate an idealized version of Japanese family life. Then again, some have seen it as one of the ways Ozu subverted the censorship of the time.
Hmm...Coca-Cola presented as a threat to traditional authority in order to subvert the censorship imposed by an occupier. It's a bit much to wrap my head around. Maybe it's easier to think of Coke as an energy drink--or even a performance-enhancing drug!
