I was listening today to a podcast by a favorite talk radio host who is a genius at weaving history, personal experience, and current political issues into a masterpiece of creative, inimitable style of improvised storytelling. His erudition often diverges from the topic of our existential crisis in the U.S. into unexpected fields such as music. When he is mostly in despair over the real or perceived loss of our country and our freedoms, he plays classical music, particularly Mozart and Beethoven.
It was significant today because I remembered my World Literature teacher from high school, a very passionate and talented older gentleman who played the violin to perfection. He always brought his instrument to class. It was not a Stradivarius but it might as well have been, he was such an accomplished violinist.
When we studied certain pieces that evoked the winter of life or the follies of youth, he would play Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." When a character succeeded against all odds, Mr. Florian would play Beethoven's "Ode to Joy." The loss of a loved one prompted a somber piece, Mozart's "Requiem for the Dead."
He introduced us to so much classical music during the entire school year, we did not just study literature, we studied the mellifluous connection to the characters springing from the pages of the manuscript.
He was so passionate, tears would stream down his face. We were young, naive, and idealistic, we did not understand fully the struggle this man had in his soul between the harsh reality of daily communist life and that of living precariously through the dreams of the literature he was allowed to teach us. We did not understand his tears. Most students chuckled and considered him an insane old man. I thought him to be a genius - we were too young and naive to understand life with its cruel twists and turns.
He always prefaced his pieces with the advice to let our souls wonder freely in another time and another place, a subtle way of saying that there were better countries to live in, better ways to experience and appreciate good writing and good music.
He enriched our souls in so many ways, he was a master teacher, who in the twilight of his life and teaching career, dared to introduce to poor communist pupils a twinkle of hope through literature and music.
Mr. Florian retired at the end of the year, he was one of the few who defied the communist indoctrination, he followed his heart and his own lesson plans, at great peril to himself. I was sad that other generations of students missed this man's passion, courage, and genius.
I shudder to think that eventually we might be ruled by communists or worse, Shariah Law. What would happen to our writings, poetry, art, music, architecture, and films that enrich our lives in so many ways when coming in conflict with sixth century rules of behavior?
Would our art, music, and culture be destroyed like the Buddha statues in Afghanistan, blown up by the Taliban?
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Sorrento and Capri
The Blue Grotto was an elusive dream I've had ever since I read that kissing your mate while inside meant spending a lifetime together - it sounded so romantic and I was always a hopeless romantic.
Our journey started in Verona, Italy. We took the fast train to Rome. Because I speak Italian, we maneuvered easily among the crowds, purchased our tickets from the automated machines placed all over the station and thus avoided the crowds and the long lines.
First class tickets were twice as expensive so we settled for second class. I am used to being a second class citizen, traveling in cramped quarters, and flying with my knees bent to my chin.
Fast trains in Italy, however, even in second class are very comfortable, clean, and right down luxurious when compared to other countries.
Italian train stations are clean, crowded, with insufficient, smelly, and out of the way bathrooms. Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence, our first stop, was no exception.
The fast train, run by Trenitalia, Gruppo Ferrovie Dello Stato, a state-run system, had meal service brought by a steward with a well-appointed cart. The food was fresh and inexpensive.
We stopped in Florence for five days with plans to re-board the train later for Rome. We took in the sights, the Duomo, the Boboli Gardens, the Uffizi Gallery, Ponte Vecchio, Piti Palace, the open-air Loggia, David's Statue, the Medici Chapel by Michaelangelo, the colorful open air markets, Piazza della Signoria, Santa Maria della Croce with its walled and floored tombs of famous politicians, musicians and writers, the gold shops, and the famous leather makers.
Upon our arrival in the Roma Termini station, named after the ancient Baths of Diocletian, against our better judgment, we hired a taxi to take us to our hotel, two blocks from the Vatican. I can honestly say that I was relieved to get out of the tin can taxi with no seat belts. It was very clean and inexpensive, but the driver was so aggressive, we were generally within inches of most cars on both sides, front and back. Italians were honking angrily, shouting obscenities out the window, or flipping each other. This when they were not stopping right in the middle of traffic, getting out of their cars, and engaging in a direct fist fight.
We spent the days at the Vatican and taking in the sights and sounds of Rome, the out-of-the way churches with hidden tombs, eery and smelly catacombs, exquisite statues, monuments, parks, and museums.
It was not scary enough to visit Domitila's catacombs once, I had to go a second time with David. Against my better judgment, I agreed. I can honestly say that it was the first and last time I had gotten mosquito bites underground.
We were so overwhelmed by beauty, art, and architecture, after a while, we became like the rest of Italians, appreciative of everything surrounding us but unable to find the words or feelings to express its beauty anymore. How will it feel like returning to our simple, unadorned surroundings in America?
Fontana di Trevi and the Spanish steps were required stops - we threw coins in the fountain to make sure that we return to Rome someday.
The highlight was the Cappuccin Monks chapel with its bone collection of thousands and thousands who had been exhumed and turned into decorative art in the chapel. As much as I had wanted to see it, I had missed it on three previous trips because it was under repairs, we could not leave it fast enough, it gave me the creeps and the stench of death was nauseating.
Next stop was five days in Sorrento. We had spent five days visiting Florence, five days visiting Rome and we had traveled by fast train every leg of the journey. We abandoned the rail and decided to join a busload of people of all ages and nationalities to Sorrento and the Island of Capri.
The tour guide was a dashing Italian with a boundless love of women and little patience for anything else. We had to run on Guido's time or no time at all. I had promised David that I would behave and abide by Guido's schedule and outlandish rules. While holding my fingers crossed behind my back, I promised that I would not slip into Ileana's time machine and take my sweet time for pictures or sightseeing.
Guido preferred sitting in a busy cafe, feast his eyes on women, drink wine, smoke, and look sophisticated while in bad need of a bath. I wanted to walk all over town, I did not want to miss a thing - the vistas, the architecture, the blooming flowers, the shops, the people, the street vendors, the fruit stands, the dizzying drops to the sea, and the Roman road markers. I was on a quest for the perfect Sorrento music box to add to my collection with the melody, "Torno a Sorriento." I was definitely a thorn in Guido's side.
Sorrento would be a sleepy provincial town if it was not for an unending stream of tourists, foreign and domestic, coming by bus loads struggling to inch away from the rocks flanking the narrow roads.
Sorrento is nestled in the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Naples, a small town in Campania, southern Italy, with some 16,500 inhabitants. It is a very popular tourist destination which can be reached easily from Naples and Pompeii. Many viewpoints from the city allow sight of Naples, Vesuvius and the Isle of Capri.
The Amalfi Drive which connects Sorrento and Amalfi is a narrow road that threads along the high cliffs above the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a "mamma mia" moment to look over my shoulder to the mile drop below.
Ferry boats and hydrofoils provide services to Naples, Amalfi, Positano, Capri and Ischia. Sorrento's sea cliffs and luxury hotels are very famous. Dave and I stayed in a gorgeous four star hotel with hand-painted tiled floors. Our balcony overlooked the bay. The beauty was not just in the perfect scenery, the carved rock formations, wild flowers, azzure blue waters, sunshine, and spectacular vistas, but the accommodations and the food were fit for kings.
You cannot go to Sorrento without tasting its famous limoncello, a digestif made from lemon rinds, alcohol, water and sugar. The balmy, Mediterranean climate grows huge citrus fruit, grapes, nuts and olives.
Wood craftsmanship is a fine art; like everything else, Italians do it to perfection. On a factory visit, I witnessed the carving of the intricate cameos, made from sea shells, carved on a end of a short stick, nestled in the bleeding, blistered palms of a master craftsman. I finally understood why cameos were so expensive and precious, they were literally carved in sweat and pain.
We took a ferry boat to reach the Island of Capri. From there, we were planning to take a hydrofoil, a smaller boat, and finally a dingy in order to reach the Blue Grotto. It was early June and the sea was agitated but not as bad as it could have been in winter time. It was dicey to actually enter the naturally carved cave.
We were determined to climb Capri on foot to the top in order to visit the remains of the Roman Emperor Tiberius' villa. It took us a good three and a half hours, but it was worth every effort. The historical significance and the breathtaking views were indescribable. Forgotten was the fact that we could only find one bathroom on the way to the top and did not have enough water by the time we reached the summit. We overlooked simple things such as food and water. We were in awe of Roman history and archeology.
Tiberius was a cruel emperor who habitually hurled his enemies and people he disliked or crossed him over the top wall of his villa into the foaming sea below. It was scary peering down the very spot where so many Romans met a swift and cruel death. We paused to admire the ruins and to imagine what must have been like living under such duress in Tiberius' villa.
Capri is not a very populated island, it has roughly 7,300 inhabitants. Anacapri is the opposing side of the island. The name comes from wild goats or from the Greek for wild boars. None of these wild animals are currently residing on the island.
There is a small beach area with smooth rocks instead of sand, quite difficult and painful to walk on or sit on. Once you hit the turquoise waters though, it is worth the pain.
The naturally carved rock formations are absolutely spectacular from a distance and up close. The most interesting is the Grotta Azzura, a naturally occurring cave which reflects light from two holes, one above the water and one below, giving the cave water its unusual filtered bright turquoise blue appearance. Visitors can only access it with a small two-passenger row boat. The Italian rower, as well as the passengers must lie back in the boat in order to clear the short and narrow opening without being decapitated. Once inside, the cave is quite large. Statues had been found inside dating back to Roman times.
We were treated to an Italian canzone while inside The Blue Grotto and I finally got the romantic kiss from the love of my life.
Our journey started in Verona, Italy. We took the fast train to Rome. Because I speak Italian, we maneuvered easily among the crowds, purchased our tickets from the automated machines placed all over the station and thus avoided the crowds and the long lines.
First class tickets were twice as expensive so we settled for second class. I am used to being a second class citizen, traveling in cramped quarters, and flying with my knees bent to my chin.
Fast trains in Italy, however, even in second class are very comfortable, clean, and right down luxurious when compared to other countries.
Italian train stations are clean, crowded, with insufficient, smelly, and out of the way bathrooms. Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence, our first stop, was no exception.
The fast train, run by Trenitalia, Gruppo Ferrovie Dello Stato, a state-run system, had meal service brought by a steward with a well-appointed cart. The food was fresh and inexpensive.
We stopped in Florence for five days with plans to re-board the train later for Rome. We took in the sights, the Duomo, the Boboli Gardens, the Uffizi Gallery, Ponte Vecchio, Piti Palace, the open-air Loggia, David's Statue, the Medici Chapel by Michaelangelo, the colorful open air markets, Piazza della Signoria, Santa Maria della Croce with its walled and floored tombs of famous politicians, musicians and writers, the gold shops, and the famous leather makers.
Upon our arrival in the Roma Termini station, named after the ancient Baths of Diocletian, against our better judgment, we hired a taxi to take us to our hotel, two blocks from the Vatican. I can honestly say that I was relieved to get out of the tin can taxi with no seat belts. It was very clean and inexpensive, but the driver was so aggressive, we were generally within inches of most cars on both sides, front and back. Italians were honking angrily, shouting obscenities out the window, or flipping each other. This when they were not stopping right in the middle of traffic, getting out of their cars, and engaging in a direct fist fight.
We spent the days at the Vatican and taking in the sights and sounds of Rome, the out-of-the way churches with hidden tombs, eery and smelly catacombs, exquisite statues, monuments, parks, and museums.
It was not scary enough to visit Domitila's catacombs once, I had to go a second time with David. Against my better judgment, I agreed. I can honestly say that it was the first and last time I had gotten mosquito bites underground.
We were so overwhelmed by beauty, art, and architecture, after a while, we became like the rest of Italians, appreciative of everything surrounding us but unable to find the words or feelings to express its beauty anymore. How will it feel like returning to our simple, unadorned surroundings in America?
Fontana di Trevi and the Spanish steps were required stops - we threw coins in the fountain to make sure that we return to Rome someday.
The highlight was the Cappuccin Monks chapel with its bone collection of thousands and thousands who had been exhumed and turned into decorative art in the chapel. As much as I had wanted to see it, I had missed it on three previous trips because it was under repairs, we could not leave it fast enough, it gave me the creeps and the stench of death was nauseating.
Next stop was five days in Sorrento. We had spent five days visiting Florence, five days visiting Rome and we had traveled by fast train every leg of the journey. We abandoned the rail and decided to join a busload of people of all ages and nationalities to Sorrento and the Island of Capri.
The tour guide was a dashing Italian with a boundless love of women and little patience for anything else. We had to run on Guido's time or no time at all. I had promised David that I would behave and abide by Guido's schedule and outlandish rules. While holding my fingers crossed behind my back, I promised that I would not slip into Ileana's time machine and take my sweet time for pictures or sightseeing.
Guido preferred sitting in a busy cafe, feast his eyes on women, drink wine, smoke, and look sophisticated while in bad need of a bath. I wanted to walk all over town, I did not want to miss a thing - the vistas, the architecture, the blooming flowers, the shops, the people, the street vendors, the fruit stands, the dizzying drops to the sea, and the Roman road markers. I was on a quest for the perfect Sorrento music box to add to my collection with the melody, "Torno a Sorriento." I was definitely a thorn in Guido's side.
Sorrento would be a sleepy provincial town if it was not for an unending stream of tourists, foreign and domestic, coming by bus loads struggling to inch away from the rocks flanking the narrow roads.
Sorrento is nestled in the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Naples, a small town in Campania, southern Italy, with some 16,500 inhabitants. It is a very popular tourist destination which can be reached easily from Naples and Pompeii. Many viewpoints from the city allow sight of Naples, Vesuvius and the Isle of Capri.
The Amalfi Drive which connects Sorrento and Amalfi is a narrow road that threads along the high cliffs above the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a "mamma mia" moment to look over my shoulder to the mile drop below.
Ferry boats and hydrofoils provide services to Naples, Amalfi, Positano, Capri and Ischia. Sorrento's sea cliffs and luxury hotels are very famous. Dave and I stayed in a gorgeous four star hotel with hand-painted tiled floors. Our balcony overlooked the bay. The beauty was not just in the perfect scenery, the carved rock formations, wild flowers, azzure blue waters, sunshine, and spectacular vistas, but the accommodations and the food were fit for kings.
You cannot go to Sorrento without tasting its famous limoncello, a digestif made from lemon rinds, alcohol, water and sugar. The balmy, Mediterranean climate grows huge citrus fruit, grapes, nuts and olives.
Wood craftsmanship is a fine art; like everything else, Italians do it to perfection. On a factory visit, I witnessed the carving of the intricate cameos, made from sea shells, carved on a end of a short stick, nestled in the bleeding, blistered palms of a master craftsman. I finally understood why cameos were so expensive and precious, they were literally carved in sweat and pain.
We took a ferry boat to reach the Island of Capri. From there, we were planning to take a hydrofoil, a smaller boat, and finally a dingy in order to reach the Blue Grotto. It was early June and the sea was agitated but not as bad as it could have been in winter time. It was dicey to actually enter the naturally carved cave.
We were determined to climb Capri on foot to the top in order to visit the remains of the Roman Emperor Tiberius' villa. It took us a good three and a half hours, but it was worth every effort. The historical significance and the breathtaking views were indescribable. Forgotten was the fact that we could only find one bathroom on the way to the top and did not have enough water by the time we reached the summit. We overlooked simple things such as food and water. We were in awe of Roman history and archeology.
Tiberius was a cruel emperor who habitually hurled his enemies and people he disliked or crossed him over the top wall of his villa into the foaming sea below. It was scary peering down the very spot where so many Romans met a swift and cruel death. We paused to admire the ruins and to imagine what must have been like living under such duress in Tiberius' villa.
Capri is not a very populated island, it has roughly 7,300 inhabitants. Anacapri is the opposing side of the island. The name comes from wild goats or from the Greek for wild boars. None of these wild animals are currently residing on the island.
There is a small beach area with smooth rocks instead of sand, quite difficult and painful to walk on or sit on. Once you hit the turquoise waters though, it is worth the pain.
The naturally carved rock formations are absolutely spectacular from a distance and up close. The most interesting is the Grotta Azzura, a naturally occurring cave which reflects light from two holes, one above the water and one below, giving the cave water its unusual filtered bright turquoise blue appearance. Visitors can only access it with a small two-passenger row boat. The Italian rower, as well as the passengers must lie back in the boat in order to clear the short and narrow opening without being decapitated. Once inside, the cave is quite large. Statues had been found inside dating back to Roman times.
We were treated to an Italian canzone while inside The Blue Grotto and I finally got the romantic kiss from the love of my life.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
My train ride to Paris
I was visiting France and Monaco with 20 of my best students. April, who was 15 years old at the time, was joining us on her first trip to Europe. I was worried because she was so much younger than everyone else; I wanted her to be safe, but learn some independence and see the world outside of her American cocoon.
We were in beautiful Nice with the sloping, winding roads among gorgeous villas, white and pink blooms hanging from elaborate fences and trellises. We spent two nights in a four star hotel, with beautiful marble tiles, exquisite vistas, luxurious surroundings, sprawling gardens, delicious food, and rich tapestries and furniture from an area gone by.
I was mesmerized by the landscape, looking forward to the luxurious Mercedes bus ride to Paris, sightseeing the French countryside along the way. I knew it would be a long, long journey, but it seemed magical and I was full of trepidation, of discovering the wondrous unexpected.
To my surprise, our Italian guide, Giaccomo, who had driven us safely for 10 days within inches of our lives overhanging canyons miles deep, dangerous dead man curves, on winding roads that made us dizzy, pulled the Pullman bus within inches of the narrow walls carved into the granite of the cliff, into a parking area. That was the end of our journey under the care of Giaccomo. We had to take the overnight train to Paris, it was much faster. How much faster? A twelve hour train ride in a couchette, awaited us at the main train station in Nice. Some students were happy for the opportunity to sleep the night away, others were disappointed to miss the sights from the over sized Pullman windows. Either way, it was an unexpected twist and change to our carefully planned itinerary. I was sure, I would never hire this particular company on our next adventure.
We spent the day in Nice, visiting the sights, a perfume factory, and a famous porcelain manufacturer. At nightfall, we headed for the train station. We said our goodbyes to Giaccomo, took our luggage and started loading up on the train. To our surprise, a group of Canadians took our accommodations first and we were relegated to a long open car with sleeping recliners. It was an adventure, so we reluctantly agreed. Not that we could have done anything about it, the French were very unpleasant and unwilling to help the despised Americans.
We took our seats shortly before the 7 p.m. departure. Our arrival time in Paris was 7 a.m., on time to have breakfast in the Grand La Garre. April sat by the window, I took the aisle seat so I could get up and down the car, checking on my 20 charges. There were some adults with us from Texas, a couple of nurses, husband and wife, which eased my anxiety in case someone got sick.
I had a parent with us whose supervision proved to be much more difficult than all the other students combined. She kept disappearing for hours on end, always returning with bottles of wine which she consumed constantly and some giggolo she picked up on the way. No doubt, she was having a good time, no care in the world, her daughter was taking care of her. I had to make sure, we did not leave her behind in Monaco.
We pulled from the station and the country side started rolling past the windows until we reached the port Le Havre. The tracks were so close to the water, the furious waves were crashing into the concrete barriers and breaking into the train tracks. Our windows were misted with sea water. A large contingent of gypsies climbed onto the train. I knew from that moment on that we would have trouble. I was not confident that the two French conductors would keep them under check. They walked from car to car trying to sell drugs to passengers, accompanied by a huge dog. I was terrified when the dog passed me, he was taller than I was in my chair.
Sure enough, the trouble-seeking mom got into an altercation with the gypsies and we found her slumped in-between compartments, with a half-empty bottle of wine, passed out. We were not sure if she was drunk or took drugs, we could not wake her. We dragged her to her seat and the two nurses checked her pulse, positioned her head so she could breathe unobstructed and checked on her from time to time. We never knew what happened with the gypsies. We did know that she slept the entire 12 hours until we reached Paris and could not remember anything at all. As a matter of fact, she was the most rested of the entire group. I was worried and took catnaps of 10 minutes each before waking to make sure the gypsies had not returned.
To everyone's delight, at the last stop before Paris, a contingent of French legionnaires climbed aboard and filled our entire car. The students were relieved that they were now safe - the mere presence of the tall and buff legionnaires was enough to chase the ticketless gypsies off the train. But I knew better. The French legionnaires were soldiers-for-hire from all over Europe, killers and murderers with the training to break someone's neck on a whim if necessary. And they were not paid that well, 20,000 euros per year.
Across from April and me were two fierce looking soldiers-of-fortune. I decided to strike up a conversation with them under the belief that they would leave us alone if I, the leader of the group, befriended them. One was Irish and the other one was Ukrainian. I spoke Russian and French so I was comfortable with Igor and his Irish bunk-mate. As a matter of fact, they helped me with the passed-out woman, she was hefty to pick up, and she kept falling out of her seat.
I still did not sleep much, waking every 15 minutes or so out of sheer worry for my April and my student's safety. When we reached Paris, these legionnaires, who were on leave to spend fun time in Paris, helped us off the train with all of our luggage and were perfect gentlemen. I was so pleasantly surprised, we invited them to have breakfast with us. There was a happy ending to my twelve hour turmoil on a French night train to Paris.
We loaded another bus, another driver, another guide, and we started to tour Paris immediately. When we got to the Louvre, all the exhaustion and the previous night's travails were forgotten, until now when they flooded back into my memory.
We were in beautiful Nice with the sloping, winding roads among gorgeous villas, white and pink blooms hanging from elaborate fences and trellises. We spent two nights in a four star hotel, with beautiful marble tiles, exquisite vistas, luxurious surroundings, sprawling gardens, delicious food, and rich tapestries and furniture from an area gone by.
I was mesmerized by the landscape, looking forward to the luxurious Mercedes bus ride to Paris, sightseeing the French countryside along the way. I knew it would be a long, long journey, but it seemed magical and I was full of trepidation, of discovering the wondrous unexpected.
To my surprise, our Italian guide, Giaccomo, who had driven us safely for 10 days within inches of our lives overhanging canyons miles deep, dangerous dead man curves, on winding roads that made us dizzy, pulled the Pullman bus within inches of the narrow walls carved into the granite of the cliff, into a parking area. That was the end of our journey under the care of Giaccomo. We had to take the overnight train to Paris, it was much faster. How much faster? A twelve hour train ride in a couchette, awaited us at the main train station in Nice. Some students were happy for the opportunity to sleep the night away, others were disappointed to miss the sights from the over sized Pullman windows. Either way, it was an unexpected twist and change to our carefully planned itinerary. I was sure, I would never hire this particular company on our next adventure.
We spent the day in Nice, visiting the sights, a perfume factory, and a famous porcelain manufacturer. At nightfall, we headed for the train station. We said our goodbyes to Giaccomo, took our luggage and started loading up on the train. To our surprise, a group of Canadians took our accommodations first and we were relegated to a long open car with sleeping recliners. It was an adventure, so we reluctantly agreed. Not that we could have done anything about it, the French were very unpleasant and unwilling to help the despised Americans.
We took our seats shortly before the 7 p.m. departure. Our arrival time in Paris was 7 a.m., on time to have breakfast in the Grand La Garre. April sat by the window, I took the aisle seat so I could get up and down the car, checking on my 20 charges. There were some adults with us from Texas, a couple of nurses, husband and wife, which eased my anxiety in case someone got sick.
I had a parent with us whose supervision proved to be much more difficult than all the other students combined. She kept disappearing for hours on end, always returning with bottles of wine which she consumed constantly and some giggolo she picked up on the way. No doubt, she was having a good time, no care in the world, her daughter was taking care of her. I had to make sure, we did not leave her behind in Monaco.
We pulled from the station and the country side started rolling past the windows until we reached the port Le Havre. The tracks were so close to the water, the furious waves were crashing into the concrete barriers and breaking into the train tracks. Our windows were misted with sea water. A large contingent of gypsies climbed onto the train. I knew from that moment on that we would have trouble. I was not confident that the two French conductors would keep them under check. They walked from car to car trying to sell drugs to passengers, accompanied by a huge dog. I was terrified when the dog passed me, he was taller than I was in my chair.
Sure enough, the trouble-seeking mom got into an altercation with the gypsies and we found her slumped in-between compartments, with a half-empty bottle of wine, passed out. We were not sure if she was drunk or took drugs, we could not wake her. We dragged her to her seat and the two nurses checked her pulse, positioned her head so she could breathe unobstructed and checked on her from time to time. We never knew what happened with the gypsies. We did know that she slept the entire 12 hours until we reached Paris and could not remember anything at all. As a matter of fact, she was the most rested of the entire group. I was worried and took catnaps of 10 minutes each before waking to make sure the gypsies had not returned.
To everyone's delight, at the last stop before Paris, a contingent of French legionnaires climbed aboard and filled our entire car. The students were relieved that they were now safe - the mere presence of the tall and buff legionnaires was enough to chase the ticketless gypsies off the train. But I knew better. The French legionnaires were soldiers-for-hire from all over Europe, killers and murderers with the training to break someone's neck on a whim if necessary. And they were not paid that well, 20,000 euros per year.
Across from April and me were two fierce looking soldiers-of-fortune. I decided to strike up a conversation with them under the belief that they would leave us alone if I, the leader of the group, befriended them. One was Irish and the other one was Ukrainian. I spoke Russian and French so I was comfortable with Igor and his Irish bunk-mate. As a matter of fact, they helped me with the passed-out woman, she was hefty to pick up, and she kept falling out of her seat.
I still did not sleep much, waking every 15 minutes or so out of sheer worry for my April and my student's safety. When we reached Paris, these legionnaires, who were on leave to spend fun time in Paris, helped us off the train with all of our luggage and were perfect gentlemen. I was so pleasantly surprised, we invited them to have breakfast with us. There was a happy ending to my twelve hour turmoil on a French night train to Paris.
We loaded another bus, another driver, another guide, and we started to tour Paris immediately. When we got to the Louvre, all the exhaustion and the previous night's travails were forgotten, until now when they flooded back into my memory.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Thirty years of fun
It is hard to believe that I spent thirty years doing what I enjoyed most - teaching. I have done this many times for free - it came so easy to me and I felt that I owed back to society my expertise and the experience I had gained through many years of education both in Europe and the United States, living and traveling overseas. I spent twenty-five years as a full-time teacher and five years as a private teacher and graduate teaching assistant.
I remember playtime always involved me as the teacher, while my friends had to be dutiful students. There was no time in my mind that I contemplated very seriously doing something else.
I remember the trepidation of the first day of school, entering the classroom and seeing the anxious eyes of my students, wondering who is going to be the class clown, the brilliant but quiet student, the brown-noser, the know-it-all, the goth, the shy, cannot-fit-in, the non-conformist, the loud-mouth, the creative, and the beauty queen who excelled at being popular.
My reputation preceded me, one generation of students told the other about the Romanian teacher who spoke 14 languages. It seemed that every year, the number of languages increased with my fame. I started with six and it had reached 14.
Meeting with parents twice a year on Parents and Orientation Day was also a whirlwind of fun since there were anxious expectations on both sides. I knew I would do my job in an exceptional way but I had to reassure the parents that their children will receive world-class education, unlike any institution they attended before. None of the teachers were unionized, most of them had Ph.D.s and considered teaching a vocation and their life's calling.
As a perfectionist, I did not want to teach unless I did it to perfection, unless I went far beyond the call of duty. No matter how much I was paid, my salary was never enough to compensate for the long hours and effort I put in to prepare my lessons and my delivery. I was always on a stage, giving 150%, whether it was 8 a.m. or 8 p.m., whether I felt poorly or terribly, my students deserved and got the best.
I had regrets often that I could not spend more time with my children as they grew up so fast. I cried when I could not spend time with them but I brought them with me into the classroom all the time. Since first grade, they were a fixture in the back of my classroom, doing their homework, rolling their eyes at mom's delivery and antics, after all, I was mom, I could not seriously be a teacher, a teacher is a goddess on a pedestal, and I was just "mom." How could I be anything else?
I allowed students to be themselves within certain understood parameters of classroom behavior. I allowed them to think, be creative, and express opinions in a non-threatening environment, while respecting the views of others. We traveled to far-away places and brought lessons back that were forever etched in their memories.
Some of the names have faded from my memory but their faces are still in my mind's eye. I have pictures of every class I've taught and, as I look at pictures of what some of my students have become, it is hard to match the high school or college photo with the adult of today.
I associate some students with minor mishaps such as accidentally shining a laser beam in the teacher's eye and blinding her for four days with minor permanent damage to one eye, special clothing they wore, hilarious hairdos, projects they completed, trips they took during which time they've gotten lost in a foreign country, winter formals, Tales from the Crypt, and Depression Day.
My students kept me young, smiling, laughing, and eager to go to work every day even though I disliked my colleagues who indoctrinated students every day into the vile communism that I had escaped in 1978. I closed my eyes and focused on the positive aspect of the job, teaching young minds to become proud and productive Americans.
Most of my pupils were naive idealists, socialists and communists at heart, wearing Che Guevara t-shirts, not really understanding the reality of what they believed in and advertised.
My former high school and college students are now productive members of society, with families, responsibilities, and I am proud that I was a tiny part of what they have become today, I am in essence touching the future, even though I have retired.
I remember playtime always involved me as the teacher, while my friends had to be dutiful students. There was no time in my mind that I contemplated very seriously doing something else.
I remember the trepidation of the first day of school, entering the classroom and seeing the anxious eyes of my students, wondering who is going to be the class clown, the brilliant but quiet student, the brown-noser, the know-it-all, the goth, the shy, cannot-fit-in, the non-conformist, the loud-mouth, the creative, and the beauty queen who excelled at being popular.
My reputation preceded me, one generation of students told the other about the Romanian teacher who spoke 14 languages. It seemed that every year, the number of languages increased with my fame. I started with six and it had reached 14.
Meeting with parents twice a year on Parents and Orientation Day was also a whirlwind of fun since there were anxious expectations on both sides. I knew I would do my job in an exceptional way but I had to reassure the parents that their children will receive world-class education, unlike any institution they attended before. None of the teachers were unionized, most of them had Ph.D.s and considered teaching a vocation and their life's calling.
As a perfectionist, I did not want to teach unless I did it to perfection, unless I went far beyond the call of duty. No matter how much I was paid, my salary was never enough to compensate for the long hours and effort I put in to prepare my lessons and my delivery. I was always on a stage, giving 150%, whether it was 8 a.m. or 8 p.m., whether I felt poorly or terribly, my students deserved and got the best.
I had regrets often that I could not spend more time with my children as they grew up so fast. I cried when I could not spend time with them but I brought them with me into the classroom all the time. Since first grade, they were a fixture in the back of my classroom, doing their homework, rolling their eyes at mom's delivery and antics, after all, I was mom, I could not seriously be a teacher, a teacher is a goddess on a pedestal, and I was just "mom." How could I be anything else?
I allowed students to be themselves within certain understood parameters of classroom behavior. I allowed them to think, be creative, and express opinions in a non-threatening environment, while respecting the views of others. We traveled to far-away places and brought lessons back that were forever etched in their memories.
Some of the names have faded from my memory but their faces are still in my mind's eye. I have pictures of every class I've taught and, as I look at pictures of what some of my students have become, it is hard to match the high school or college photo with the adult of today.
I associate some students with minor mishaps such as accidentally shining a laser beam in the teacher's eye and blinding her for four days with minor permanent damage to one eye, special clothing they wore, hilarious hairdos, projects they completed, trips they took during which time they've gotten lost in a foreign country, winter formals, Tales from the Crypt, and Depression Day.
My students kept me young, smiling, laughing, and eager to go to work every day even though I disliked my colleagues who indoctrinated students every day into the vile communism that I had escaped in 1978. I closed my eyes and focused on the positive aspect of the job, teaching young minds to become proud and productive Americans.
Most of my pupils were naive idealists, socialists and communists at heart, wearing Che Guevara t-shirts, not really understanding the reality of what they believed in and advertised.
My former high school and college students are now productive members of society, with families, responsibilities, and I am proud that I was a tiny part of what they have become today, I am in essence touching the future, even though I have retired.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Fill her up!
I pulled up to my corner gas station and noticed that the price of gas had inched up ten cents more. Every day the price goes up by a few cents. It is now over three dollars a gallon. I thank God I no longer own the Toyota that only accepted premium gasoline. If I tried to cheat and mix it with lower grades, it sputtered and jerked unhappily until it stopped.
I noticed the few Prius owners giving me superior looks of "I am saving the planet, why are you driving something else?" I am picturing the huge battery in the trunk of a hybrid that is very toxic and expensive to dispose of, actually causing more damage to the environment than my conventional exhaust spewing engine. Who thinks that a Prius is a nice-looking, muscle car?
I asked the gas station owner why his prices are going up every day. He tells me that there is a tacit collusion between owners, he would get chewed if he did not charge the same price as the other owners. As far as why he thinks gas is going up, he shrugs his shoulders and goes about his morning routine.
I am thinking of OPEC and their overt collusive successful attempts of controlling oil prices and production. The 11-member Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries has reduced production of oil times and times again in the interest of raising prices world-wide. In a sense, since they are producing 40% of the world's oil production, they have the power to control how we live and what we pay to fuel our economy.
OPEC is a cartel and economists in general view cartels as terrible forms of market organization as it is inefficient and flies in the face of consumer welfare. They control somewhat the price and certainly the flow of oil. History has shown that price controls on various commodities have caused painful shortages.
A war in 1973 between Israel and Arab nations caused OPEC to quadruple oil prices. Prices of raw materials shot through the roof while food prices increased as well in part due to poor harvests in various parts of the world. As energy became more expensive, businesses cut back, causing a reduction in productivity and thus a recession.
Things are never as simple as they seem because there are too many variables coming into play. If one adds enough variables, just about every economic theory proves to be wrong and so are the textbooks espousing them.
In 1933, President Franklin Roosevelt established that the U.S. would buy and sell gold at the constant rate of $35 per ounce. Officials at Bretton Woods conference in New Hampshire turned to the dollar as the basis for a new international economic order after World War II since the U.S. held the lion's share of the world's gold reserves.
When Richard Nixon ended in 1971 the dollar to gold convertibility, Pandora's box of ills was opened wide. The dollar had been fixed at $35 per gold ounce for a long time. Anybody knew how to convert foreign currencies on any given day into gold and into dollars. There was no fluctuation between currencies on a day by day basis. Money was always worth a certain amount of silver and gold and that never changed.
Nixon opened a huge can of worms, allowing politicians in Washington to print paper dollars out of thin air, without any backing by goods and services, thus causing inflation. And the out-of-control spending began.
Gold is a commodity in relative short supply as all the gold that was ever mined can fit into the cargo hold of a large petroleum tanker. We are not likely to find any huge reserves to be mined any time soon. Mining for gold is a very painstaking and expensive process as it takes the removal of tones of dirt and/or stone to harvest one ounce of gold. Gold prices go up and down, currently most up, in the stratosphere of $1,300 plus per ounce, but its worth as commodity money never changes. It is the value of the dollar with which gold is purchased that fluctuates wildly since the dollar is a currency deemed "worthy" by "fiat" by the American government. "Fiat" is a Latin term for "let it be." Otherwise the dollar is only worth the cotton/linen paper it is printed on and the labor and ink involved in printing it. The wild fluctuation in value has to do with the amount of currency in circulation and the faith and trust in American government and its investments.
The worth of a currency is determined by many factors such as inflation, demand for investment and goods in a specific country, interest rates in that country, just to name a few. The most interesting variable that makes a currency desirable or not desirable to have is the faith in the government of that country and the political stability of its government. We all know right now how much faith American people have in their own government, its policies, and its ability to run the country. If Americans don't trust their government, how worthy is the U.S. dollar? If public confidence sinks, the dollar devalues. This devaluation of the dollar by printing money without backing of goods and services is called inflation. And the Federal Reserve System, our central bank, is doing just that at the moment, in order to deal with the vast spending that the 111th Congress engaged in 2010. As a matter of fact, this Congress has spent more this year than all the previous 110 Congresses had.
Complicating the picture are petrodollars, or oil dollars. Petrodollars are U.S. dollars earned by a country from the sale of petroleum. The term was coined in 1973 by Ibrahim Oweiss, a professor at Georgetown University.
The Bretton Woods conference in New Hampshire established the dollar as the world's "reserve currency." This is a fly in the ointment because oil is bought all over the world using the U.S. dollar as an international currency, a global medium of exchange. OPEC keeps increasing the price of crude to guard themselves against future drops in the value of the U.S. dollar which is the international currency that oil trades in.
If the U.S. allows the free fall of the dollar by printing huge amounts to deal with its government out-of-control spending, OPEC sees its revenues plunge and has no other choice but to raise oil prices. Add to the problem the speculating on the Chicago Board of Trade of oil, currency, and gold commodities futures and you have a severe crisis.
Since gold is a reliable commodity, people are buying it in larger quantities, including oil rich Arabs who see their dollar holdings worth less, day by day, thanks to the American government's inept handling of the economy and out-of-control spending. Whether this is done on purpose to bankrupt our country, that is another issue.
After 1971, U.S. could buy crude oil for as little as $1 a barrel - now it is approaching $100 a barrel. Consumers could buy premium gas for as little as 28 cents a gallon in the early 70s. Gasoline is now approaching $4 a gallon in some states.
Are we a self-sufficient nation that could drill its way out of this problem instead of shipping our wealth and prosperity to oil rich nations who wish as harm? The seven year moratorium on drilling in the U.S. imposed recently by the Obama administration certainly dooms our ability to become self-sufficient in oil production. Many nations such as China, Russia, Cuba, Vietnam, Venezuela, Brazil, to name just a few, are furiously buying oil leases and drilling in the Gulf of Mexico, right in our own back yards, exploiting our reserves while we are forbidden by our own government to drill.
There are rich oil shales that could be exploited as well, but environmentalists lobby Congress constantly to forbid drilling and exploration in their zealous attempt to either protect the environment or some endangered species of rodent, amphibian, bird, or fish. In the process, the interest of protecting humans becomes irrelevant as humans are seen as more expendable. According to environmentalists, there are almost 7 billion of us, and we are straining the resources of the planet. White House czars advise that population must be culled drastically in order to reduce the permanent damage we cause to the environment by our mere existence.
As we watch the price of oil escalate yet again, our economy and standard of living will suffer immeasurably, since crude oil is the engine that drives the energy behind our productivity. Our way of life and survivability are inexorably threatened.
I noticed the few Prius owners giving me superior looks of "I am saving the planet, why are you driving something else?" I am picturing the huge battery in the trunk of a hybrid that is very toxic and expensive to dispose of, actually causing more damage to the environment than my conventional exhaust spewing engine. Who thinks that a Prius is a nice-looking, muscle car?
I asked the gas station owner why his prices are going up every day. He tells me that there is a tacit collusion between owners, he would get chewed if he did not charge the same price as the other owners. As far as why he thinks gas is going up, he shrugs his shoulders and goes about his morning routine.
I am thinking of OPEC and their overt collusive successful attempts of controlling oil prices and production. The 11-member Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries has reduced production of oil times and times again in the interest of raising prices world-wide. In a sense, since they are producing 40% of the world's oil production, they have the power to control how we live and what we pay to fuel our economy.
OPEC is a cartel and economists in general view cartels as terrible forms of market organization as it is inefficient and flies in the face of consumer welfare. They control somewhat the price and certainly the flow of oil. History has shown that price controls on various commodities have caused painful shortages.
A war in 1973 between Israel and Arab nations caused OPEC to quadruple oil prices. Prices of raw materials shot through the roof while food prices increased as well in part due to poor harvests in various parts of the world. As energy became more expensive, businesses cut back, causing a reduction in productivity and thus a recession.
Things are never as simple as they seem because there are too many variables coming into play. If one adds enough variables, just about every economic theory proves to be wrong and so are the textbooks espousing them.
In 1933, President Franklin Roosevelt established that the U.S. would buy and sell gold at the constant rate of $35 per ounce. Officials at Bretton Woods conference in New Hampshire turned to the dollar as the basis for a new international economic order after World War II since the U.S. held the lion's share of the world's gold reserves.
When Richard Nixon ended in 1971 the dollar to gold convertibility, Pandora's box of ills was opened wide. The dollar had been fixed at $35 per gold ounce for a long time. Anybody knew how to convert foreign currencies on any given day into gold and into dollars. There was no fluctuation between currencies on a day by day basis. Money was always worth a certain amount of silver and gold and that never changed.
Nixon opened a huge can of worms, allowing politicians in Washington to print paper dollars out of thin air, without any backing by goods and services, thus causing inflation. And the out-of-control spending began.
Gold is a commodity in relative short supply as all the gold that was ever mined can fit into the cargo hold of a large petroleum tanker. We are not likely to find any huge reserves to be mined any time soon. Mining for gold is a very painstaking and expensive process as it takes the removal of tones of dirt and/or stone to harvest one ounce of gold. Gold prices go up and down, currently most up, in the stratosphere of $1,300 plus per ounce, but its worth as commodity money never changes. It is the value of the dollar with which gold is purchased that fluctuates wildly since the dollar is a currency deemed "worthy" by "fiat" by the American government. "Fiat" is a Latin term for "let it be." Otherwise the dollar is only worth the cotton/linen paper it is printed on and the labor and ink involved in printing it. The wild fluctuation in value has to do with the amount of currency in circulation and the faith and trust in American government and its investments.
The worth of a currency is determined by many factors such as inflation, demand for investment and goods in a specific country, interest rates in that country, just to name a few. The most interesting variable that makes a currency desirable or not desirable to have is the faith in the government of that country and the political stability of its government. We all know right now how much faith American people have in their own government, its policies, and its ability to run the country. If Americans don't trust their government, how worthy is the U.S. dollar? If public confidence sinks, the dollar devalues. This devaluation of the dollar by printing money without backing of goods and services is called inflation. And the Federal Reserve System, our central bank, is doing just that at the moment, in order to deal with the vast spending that the 111th Congress engaged in 2010. As a matter of fact, this Congress has spent more this year than all the previous 110 Congresses had.
Complicating the picture are petrodollars, or oil dollars. Petrodollars are U.S. dollars earned by a country from the sale of petroleum. The term was coined in 1973 by Ibrahim Oweiss, a professor at Georgetown University.
The Bretton Woods conference in New Hampshire established the dollar as the world's "reserve currency." This is a fly in the ointment because oil is bought all over the world using the U.S. dollar as an international currency, a global medium of exchange. OPEC keeps increasing the price of crude to guard themselves against future drops in the value of the U.S. dollar which is the international currency that oil trades in.
If the U.S. allows the free fall of the dollar by printing huge amounts to deal with its government out-of-control spending, OPEC sees its revenues plunge and has no other choice but to raise oil prices. Add to the problem the speculating on the Chicago Board of Trade of oil, currency, and gold commodities futures and you have a severe crisis.
Since gold is a reliable commodity, people are buying it in larger quantities, including oil rich Arabs who see their dollar holdings worth less, day by day, thanks to the American government's inept handling of the economy and out-of-control spending. Whether this is done on purpose to bankrupt our country, that is another issue.
After 1971, U.S. could buy crude oil for as little as $1 a barrel - now it is approaching $100 a barrel. Consumers could buy premium gas for as little as 28 cents a gallon in the early 70s. Gasoline is now approaching $4 a gallon in some states.
Are we a self-sufficient nation that could drill its way out of this problem instead of shipping our wealth and prosperity to oil rich nations who wish as harm? The seven year moratorium on drilling in the U.S. imposed recently by the Obama administration certainly dooms our ability to become self-sufficient in oil production. Many nations such as China, Russia, Cuba, Vietnam, Venezuela, Brazil, to name just a few, are furiously buying oil leases and drilling in the Gulf of Mexico, right in our own back yards, exploiting our reserves while we are forbidden by our own government to drill.
There are rich oil shales that could be exploited as well, but environmentalists lobby Congress constantly to forbid drilling and exploration in their zealous attempt to either protect the environment or some endangered species of rodent, amphibian, bird, or fish. In the process, the interest of protecting humans becomes irrelevant as humans are seen as more expendable. According to environmentalists, there are almost 7 billion of us, and we are straining the resources of the planet. White House czars advise that population must be culled drastically in order to reduce the permanent damage we cause to the environment by our mere existence.
As we watch the price of oil escalate yet again, our economy and standard of living will suffer immeasurably, since crude oil is the engine that drives the energy behind our productivity. Our way of life and survivability are inexorably threatened.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Education or Common Sense?
When I was a little girl, having a baccalaureate degree meant something. Although literate, most people were not college educated. Graduating from a professional high school that actually taught a trade was highly respected. Attending and graduating from a two-year technical school was an achievement. Few people attended college in spite of the fact that it was free. There was no shortage of people wanting to go, just a shortage of colleges, professors, and resources.
The competition to attend a university was so fierce, there were at least 10 students viying for one seat. You really had to be the creme de la creme - perfect grades, perfect scores on high school exit exams, and stellar scores on college entrance exams.
Socialism promised equality and free education for the masses, but resources were limited and thus rationing had to be instituted through very tough entrance criteria - only a select few could attend. Often, those select few were children of the ruling elite and thus automatically admitted in spite of their mediocre scores.
People were proud and content to have an eighth, tenth, or twelfth grade education. Each represented a different ability level and professional track. I say twelfth grade because many students were unable to get their high school diploma as they could not pass the baccalaureate exams.
When mom was young, under the monarchy, education was not free and most college students were children whose parents could afford, managed to borrow, or saved to pay the tuition. Most families were large and could ill afford to send so many children to college. Perhaps one of out six siblings attended college, the rest chose professions or trades with less education.
Villagers had large families - their children cared for their younger siblings and raised and harvested the crops that provided the family's survival. There was no birth control and religious beliefs forbade abortion.
Children skipped school a lot to help on the farm; their education was not up to par and many dropped out of school completely by the seventh or eighth grade. Most of my mom and dad's siblings had to complete their education as adults in night school during the communist regime.
People tend to confuse education with intelligence by assuming that anybody who is college educated must be very intelligent and those who are school drop-outs must be unintelligent. That is certainly not true.
Common sense and intelligence are also misunderstood - one can be intelligent and have no common sense or conversely, have common sense but not be particularly bright. Stereotypes and human values are assigned to all people based on their educational level, perceived intelligence, and common sense or lack thereof.
The wisest sage in my grandpa's village was the shephard who walked around half-enabriated most of the time, with a happy smile and an infectiously positive life view that astonished everybody. He never completed fifth grade and had difficulty signging his name, it was painful to watch him scrawl his name for five minutes. He had a lot of common sense and innate intelligence.
I've met my share of educated people from prestigious universities who had no common sense, a warped and shallow world view, and superficial knowledge in general. Their only claim to wisdom was the diploma that stated the potential to learn.
The competition to attend a university was so fierce, there were at least 10 students viying for one seat. You really had to be the creme de la creme - perfect grades, perfect scores on high school exit exams, and stellar scores on college entrance exams.
Socialism promised equality and free education for the masses, but resources were limited and thus rationing had to be instituted through very tough entrance criteria - only a select few could attend. Often, those select few were children of the ruling elite and thus automatically admitted in spite of their mediocre scores.
People were proud and content to have an eighth, tenth, or twelfth grade education. Each represented a different ability level and professional track. I say twelfth grade because many students were unable to get their high school diploma as they could not pass the baccalaureate exams.
When mom was young, under the monarchy, education was not free and most college students were children whose parents could afford, managed to borrow, or saved to pay the tuition. Most families were large and could ill afford to send so many children to college. Perhaps one of out six siblings attended college, the rest chose professions or trades with less education.
Villagers had large families - their children cared for their younger siblings and raised and harvested the crops that provided the family's survival. There was no birth control and religious beliefs forbade abortion.
Children skipped school a lot to help on the farm; their education was not up to par and many dropped out of school completely by the seventh or eighth grade. Most of my mom and dad's siblings had to complete their education as adults in night school during the communist regime.
People tend to confuse education with intelligence by assuming that anybody who is college educated must be very intelligent and those who are school drop-outs must be unintelligent. That is certainly not true.
Common sense and intelligence are also misunderstood - one can be intelligent and have no common sense or conversely, have common sense but not be particularly bright. Stereotypes and human values are assigned to all people based on their educational level, perceived intelligence, and common sense or lack thereof.
The wisest sage in my grandpa's village was the shephard who walked around half-enabriated most of the time, with a happy smile and an infectiously positive life view that astonished everybody. He never completed fifth grade and had difficulty signging his name, it was painful to watch him scrawl his name for five minutes. He had a lot of common sense and innate intelligence.
I've met my share of educated people from prestigious universities who had no common sense, a warped and shallow world view, and superficial knowledge in general. Their only claim to wisdom was the diploma that stated the potential to learn.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Green Salad in December?
I am staring at my beautiful ceramic bowl filled with a luscious chicken Cobb salad. The lettuce is crisp and fresh green, the cheese aromatic, the balsamic vinegar is divine, small strips of organic chicken, diced fresh tomatoes, bits of eggs, and the piece de resistance, real bacon.
The room is cozy and the fireplace radiates warmth from the dancing flames. There are smiling, glowing faces all around me. I let the moment sink in as I ponder where all this abundance comes from. It certainly is not from the government or my garden, but the hard work of so many people driven by their self-interest of the "evil" capitalist system. Here I am, an ordinary citizen, having a wonderful green, fresh, and colorful salad in December.
Could I have had this delicious treat that we take for granted every day in my former country, communist Romania? Not by a long shot. The ruling elite would be able to eat anything they wanted but not the "unwashed masses." We were relegated to dried beans, bones stripped of meat, or canned vegetables - if we were lucky.
Government bureaucrats told us how much we could and should buy on the market via five year plans that failed miserably to provide enough food, nutrition, and goods for the needs of the population. Central planning did not take into account demand and size of the population, it was based solely on perceived need and centralized supply, randomly and haphazardly determined by people who had no idea what they were doing, beyond the ideological rhetoric of communism.
There was never an abundance of anything. The best food was shipped to export for hard currency and the rejects were brought to the market to be divided unfairly between the large substrata of the population. Luck, barter, rationing coupons, black market prices, patience waiting in interminable lines were some of the variables determining whether you ate or not that day.
The hard currency bought industrial equipment and expertise, to develop an industry that had no chance of flourishing because factories were never run on a competitive model, they always lost money, and were bailed out by the government.
I wonder how liberals would feel if they had to do without their organic food, fresh food, or food in general? Would they change their "save the earth" tune or "capitalism is evil" tune if they were starving? Do they realize that abundance does not just happen, it is not willed or ordered by the government bureaucrats, it is the coming together of many self-interests driven by the lure of profit? We are successful because we work hard, knowing that in the end, we get to keep part of our hard-earned labor. We don't have to wait for the government to bring us what we need because, frankly, they cannot do so.
I thank farmers for growing my lettuce, tomatoes, chicken, pigs, grapes, dairy cows, and olive trees. All gave me the opportunity to buy this luscious salad today. Less than 3% of the population feeds the rest of us. It is an unsung profession but highly respectable and important to our survival. They work very hard to provide the fruits of their labor to the market with the lure of profit in mind. It is not evil, it is justly theirs for getting up very early every day during the growing season and going to bed very late at night during harvest. They are unsung heroes who give sustenance and blood to our way of life, the highly successful capitalist model.
The room is cozy and the fireplace radiates warmth from the dancing flames. There are smiling, glowing faces all around me. I let the moment sink in as I ponder where all this abundance comes from. It certainly is not from the government or my garden, but the hard work of so many people driven by their self-interest of the "evil" capitalist system. Here I am, an ordinary citizen, having a wonderful green, fresh, and colorful salad in December.
Could I have had this delicious treat that we take for granted every day in my former country, communist Romania? Not by a long shot. The ruling elite would be able to eat anything they wanted but not the "unwashed masses." We were relegated to dried beans, bones stripped of meat, or canned vegetables - if we were lucky.
Government bureaucrats told us how much we could and should buy on the market via five year plans that failed miserably to provide enough food, nutrition, and goods for the needs of the population. Central planning did not take into account demand and size of the population, it was based solely on perceived need and centralized supply, randomly and haphazardly determined by people who had no idea what they were doing, beyond the ideological rhetoric of communism.
There was never an abundance of anything. The best food was shipped to export for hard currency and the rejects were brought to the market to be divided unfairly between the large substrata of the population. Luck, barter, rationing coupons, black market prices, patience waiting in interminable lines were some of the variables determining whether you ate or not that day.
The hard currency bought industrial equipment and expertise, to develop an industry that had no chance of flourishing because factories were never run on a competitive model, they always lost money, and were bailed out by the government.
I wonder how liberals would feel if they had to do without their organic food, fresh food, or food in general? Would they change their "save the earth" tune or "capitalism is evil" tune if they were starving? Do they realize that abundance does not just happen, it is not willed or ordered by the government bureaucrats, it is the coming together of many self-interests driven by the lure of profit? We are successful because we work hard, knowing that in the end, we get to keep part of our hard-earned labor. We don't have to wait for the government to bring us what we need because, frankly, they cannot do so.
I thank farmers for growing my lettuce, tomatoes, chicken, pigs, grapes, dairy cows, and olive trees. All gave me the opportunity to buy this luscious salad today. Less than 3% of the population feeds the rest of us. It is an unsung profession but highly respectable and important to our survival. They work very hard to provide the fruits of their labor to the market with the lure of profit in mind. It is not evil, it is justly theirs for getting up very early every day during the growing season and going to bed very late at night during harvest. They are unsung heroes who give sustenance and blood to our way of life, the highly successful capitalist model.
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