I’ve returned from the National Review cruise of the British Isles. It was great fun, but exhausting. And now that I’ve landed in the States, I’ve also landed in that plane of Hell which went unmentioned by Dante–the realm of overdue books. I don’t mean in the library sense but in the dear-god-the-publisher-needs-it-when sense. I will be working overtime for the remainder of this summer. This means things will be unpleasant not just for me, but for everybody around me. Indeed, if I see anyone having a pleasant summer, I will sidle up to them and do something vile to their cornflakes while they’re not looking.
I still have some catching up to do on current events. The Internet wasn’t my friend on the boat, and I’ve been digging out ever since I got back. So this will be a very light G-File. Sort of a letter to readers kind of thing.
First, here’s what I learned on the cruise. There’s very little reason to go to Belfast. Edinburrrrrrrrrrrruh is a great town. The Lake District in England looks exactly like what you’d think the Lake District should look like. It’s a lot easier to see where Tolkien was coming from when he described the Shire.
Don’t ever go to the Jameson’s distillery in Dublin–because it isn’t there. It’s an Epcot Center-style recreation of a distillery. Even worse is the Guinness Brewery tour which is almost exactly like Nike Town, except instead of sneakers there’s really thick bready beer. But again, no actual brewing is included on the tour.
I was completely charmed by the Island of Guernsey where I had one of the best lunches of my life at a restaurant called L’Escalier. So, you know, the next time you’re in Guernsey. . .
Anyway, here’s the stuff you really wanted to know about.
Mark Steyn is infuriatingly nice, which shouldn’t be the case given his talent. He was also not remotely slovenly, but actually something of a Beau Brummell and several dozen pounds trimmer than that fuzzy picture of him would suggest. Smart, charming, and by common assent the best dancer on the boat. In short, I hate him.
I didn’t have a chance to chat with Paul Johnson, though I spoke several times with his lovely bride. But I was shocked to discover I disagreed with him more than any other NR speaker. Considering how much I love the man’s work, I was fairly stunned. He was bizarrely optimistic about nigh upon everything I would expect him to be pessimistic about. He seemed to believe that France and Germany were one election away from mounting up and fighting alongside America in Iraq and elsewhere. He also found no reason to worry about American universities. I was on one panel with him when he suggested that the universities will purge the Left in due course. Stop laughing.
As proof he said that whenever he visits American universities he finds interesting, right-thinking, and intelligent people who give him nothing but hope for American higher education. I didn’t say it then, but his comment reminded me of how Richard Nixon once said it was obvious to him that the world was overpopulated because every where he went around the globe he saw enormous crowds. It seemed not to occur to him that huge crowds form around presidents of the United States. Similarly, I suspect that interesting, intelligent, right-thinking folk tend to muster whenever they hear Paul Johnson is coming to campus. I should have suggested he walk over to the student union and study the bulletin boards a bit more. Take a few fliers about lesbian Maoist origami seminars (or, more properly, ovulars) and call me in the morning.
The Podhoretzes (Norman and Midge) were just delightful. Though they seemed to be drinking from the same bowl as Steyn and the O’Sullivans, who also seemed to believe that singing show tunes and the like was a requirement of sea life. I’ve seen Norman Podhoretz sing “Making Whoopee.” Deal with it. I’m trying too.
I did what now?
While at sea I searched Nexis-Lexis, as I often do, to see which wise and humane newspapers have opted to carry my syndicated column (and to see if any practitioners of mopery and villainy had recently slandered me). An item in The New York Sun popped up. I clicked on it and discovered something fascinating, in an entirely narcissistic sense. It was an article by Colin Miner about the real Deadwood–the town on which the HBO series is based. Miner writes: “One of the few businesses with real ties to the Deadwood of old is Goldberg’s Casino. . . . Originally Big Horn Grocery, it was a tent set up by pioneer Jonah Goldberg in 1876. It operated until the 1980s as a grocery store, but when parking was banned on Main Street in 1989, it was converted into a gaming hall.”As far as I know, this is the oldest known example of another person named Jonah Goldberg. The previous record-holder–I’ve been told–was a high-ranking chaplain in the Navy or Air Force in the 1970s. Unfortunately, you can’t have the memory cells I just clogged-up with that information back.
Potpourri
We were told that the railway bridge outside Edinburrrrrrrruh (it crosses the Firth of Forth) replaced an earlier one designed by a man named William Botch. The earlier bridge never worked out, which is why today we have the word “Botch.” (“So does that mean ‘to goldberg’ will someday mean to phone in a column?”–The Couch)At our favorite Indian restaurant in the world, Chutney Mary on Kings Road in London, the maitre d’ told us something I’m having a hard time believing. He explained that Veeraswamy in London (owned by the same people) is the oldest Indian Restaurant in London. That’s entirely believable. But he also said it was the oldest in the world. I blanched at that and said, “You must mean outside of India?”
He said, no, no. It’s the oldest Indian restaurant anywhere–and it was opened in 1927. He said that there was no culture or economy for restaurants in India prior to British colonization. The only such establishments catered to the British, mostly at swanky hotels. People just didn’t eat out. (He also said the Indians were too busy trying to get rid of the British. Maybe, I thought, they could have done this quicker if they’d had a nice meal.) I found this hard to believe. But then I said: Well, they must have had food stalls and the like.
And he said, no, not really. He said that the food stalls came with the British exodus. The enormous refugee flows between India and Pakistan resulted in the need for a lot of food on the go. Now, food stalls are commonplace everywhere in India.
I found this very hard to believe and still do. Indians are such innovative, entrepreneurial people. I have some recently acquired Indian relatives (through my wife’s family) and they remind me so much of Jews–guilt, study, family, study, family, work, work, work, guilt–I just think it’s amazing that in that vast sprawling civilization of theirs nobody ever said, “Hey people need to nosh and it’s too hot to cook. Let’s sell some poppadoms.”
Anyway, it’s good to be back. I missed you guys.