Out and about in Tucson, Miami, Greater Boston, and elsewhere
In New York, a cab is stopped at an intersection. A man is outside, panhandling. The cabbie — a South Asian immigrant — hands him two coins. The panhandler hands them back, saying, “What am I supposed to do with this?” The cabbie, upset, says, “It’s 50 cents!” The panhandler says, “I would have to stand out here for hours, just to get a sandwich!”
Driving on, the cabbie is still upset. Distressed. Insulted. “It was 50 cents! That’s not nothing!”
The panhandler, incidentally, was a white American, native-born. The immigrant clearly finds the attitude baffling.
• Tucson. Is there a city in the United States with a stranger pronunciation, in light of the spelling? What do you tell a foreigner? The “c” is silent? I suppose you do.
I think I can remember when I said “Tuckson,” as a kid. It was probably watching the NCAA basketball tournament, with the University of Arizona, that set me straight.
• Hey, speaking of the University of Arizona — nice, eh?
• Here is some more, with an attractive, earthy red brick:
• The weather is heavenly — warm days, cool nights. Not a drop (is that the word?) of humidity. One could get used to it (and does).
• Inside the U of A rec center, the people are healthy-looking — sinewy, gleaming. Of course, they’re all young. There is a snack bar with . . . milkshakes. I make a beeline for it. A chocolate shake is advertised (along with vanilla, I think, and a few others). The sign says something like: “A Wendy’s frosty has nothing on ours!”
I order it. The beautiful young woman behind the counter says, “What kind of milk would you like? No-fat, low-fat, almond, or oat?” I gulp a little. I probably can’t say, “None of the above?” So I say, “Um, would almond milk work well?” The young woman says, brightly, “Yes, absolutely!”
It was good. And one felt practically . . . virtuous.
• Outside, on campus, a little robot goes by, just as nice as you please. An R2-D2-like thing. It is delivering food. I am startled by it. No one else is — they’re all used to it.
Caught one of these suckers at rest, at night.
And the next day, in the rain, doing its thing:
• I arrive at a lunch, at a kind of resort. Not sure exactly where to go. In a courtyard, there are two people, a man and a woman, well-dressed. I say, “You’re so well-dressed, you look like you might work here.” The woman says, “A lot of people have been saying that!” Then, gesturing toward the man, she says, “Actually, he’s the groom.”
Ah. So he is. And the bride? About 15 yards behind him, in a classic white dress, about to come down the “aisle.”
I have walked into the middle of a wedding. And everyone is as nice, and as happy, as can be. A beautiful scene.
• A typical “look,” for Tucson or another city in the desert, wouldn’t you say? Nice.
• I was touched to see this: “Abba & Sons.” I remember when I first went to Israel, and heard kids call their father “Abba” — what Jesus called his father. Rather amazing.
• Like other cities, Tucson has a Bowery, or a Skid Row. All Skid Rows are basically the same, in my experience: scruffiness, blankets, bottles, pipes. Vacant eyes. Eyes that reflect resignation and defeat. Eyes that say, “Addiction. Hopelessness. Dull despair.”
The needs of these people are not material. Oh, sure, they need food, clothing, and shelter, like everyone else. But fundamentally, their needs are not material, but rather mental and spiritual, and these can be very tough nuts to crack.
• Quick change of mood? A very pretty blue house, with a handsome wrought-iron gate:
• Behold, a Dutch restaurant, at the edge of the U of A campus: a real Dutch restaurant, complete with Indonesian touches. Marvelous.
• “TuGo,” get it? (Think of the name of the city — “Tucson.”)
• At the Atlanta airport, a woman is wearing a shirt with a remarkable message: “Self-love is so gangster.” I hope to remember that.
• In Miami, a driver apologizes for his English: “I’ve been here for a year. I’m from Cuba, and I lived in Spain for five years. I want to learn English, but I’m working all day, and it’s hard to find time to study. And most people around me speak Spanish.”
He’s doing really well, in all respects.
• Miami Beach. A place drenched in sex, if I may say so. An atmosphere of sensuality.
• It happens to be spring break. People are twerking and being twerked at. I am speaking both literally and metaphorically.
• Scantily clad people take selfies. Endless selfies. They pout into the camera and so on. Everyone today is Narcissus.
• There are people who are scantily clad — very much exposed — who . . . should not be. A physique is not among their gifts, put it that way. I’m of two minds: (1) It’s gross. But (2) I admire their lack of vanity, or self-acceptance.
• Ladies and gentlemen, the whole country is tattooed. I mean, the whole frickin’ country — from San Diego to Bangor, from Seattle to Key West. Every single person is tattooed to the gills. I hate it. None of my business, but I hate it. Self-vandalism, in my (irrelevant) opinion.
• A sweeping scene:
• Doesn’t this little hut look like Lisa Simpson?
• Here’s a light-purple one (reminds me of the colors of Miami Vice, of yore):
• When I’m in the Alps, I try to remember “God’s Grandeur” (the Hopkins poem) and can’t. Staring out into the ocean, I try to remember “L’infinito” (Leopardi) — and can’t.
• One Uber driver has a lot of hats — billed caps — on his dashboard. One says “Let’s Go Brandon.” Another is very, very vulgar. The driver is sweet as pie.
• Another driver says he’s been to Michigan (my home state). I say, “Great. Where in Michigan?” He says, “Oh, Toledo. Chicago. Places like that.”
• Kind of interesting little floaty puffs:
• An amazing town — where they name hotels after Supreme Court justices:
• It’s 7:45 at night, and dark. Kids are playing football in a park, by the water. They are four or five years old. Some dads stand around, coaching, supervising, encouraging. Very nice.
• The next morning, I walk into a bakery. The man behind the counter looks at me and says, “Sir, do you recognize me? I had the pleasure of serving you at the Cuban restaurant last night.” I say, “And you work here too? Do you ever get any sleep?” He smiles and says, “Four or five hours.”
Charming guy. From Cuba. Working his tail off. Enjoying life, too. American Dream stuff.
• It would be strange if every city in America were a Miami. It would be strange if every city were a Provo too. I like the diversity. I like both the pluribus and the unum. The whole and its parts. Personally, I hate gambling and prostitution. I think these ought to be banned, broadly speaking. But if I were czar, would I permit Las Vegas, Reno, and Atlantic City? Sure. They belong to the pageant — the American show.
• Outside of Boston, I see the names “Revere” and “Everett.” Very New England — and very Massachusetts. (Paul Revere, you know well. To refresh yourself on Edward Everett — the impressive man who spoke before Lincoln at Gettysburg — go here.)
• There is a New England look, as I see it: a look of the towns and cities. Unmistakable. If you were transported at random from outer space, and landed in a New England town, you would know the region, without asking.
What makes the towns and cities look the way they do? We can go into detail another time. For now — it’s just so. (I think the sky — often low and cloudy — makes a difference, in addition to the houses and other such structures.)
• On a street in Medford — or is it Somerville? — a high-schooler has his hockey skates slung over his shoulder. A sure sign you’re in a cold-weather state. Love it.
• I once said to Jeff Hart, “Is Hemingway overrated?” (I suspected so.) He said, “No. Underrated.” (Professor Hart was the scholar of English who doubled as a senior editor of National Review.) In the same spirit, I ask: Are there too many schools and other things in America named after Lincoln? No — too few.
• “Chelsea,” as you know, is an English name. Apparently, Chelsea, Mass., was once called “Winnisimmet” — as you can see in this sign, squinting at the small print:
• The athletic squads of Tufts University are the Jumbos? Never knew it. Let me quote from an explanatory note:
The tale of Tufts’ official mascot, Jumbo the elephant, dates back to 1885. Circus showman P.T. Barnum was an early trustee and benefactor of Tufts and he donated the stuffed hide of Jumbo to the university.
I’ll be darned. (“Tufts’” or “Tufts’s”? Ess apostrophe, or ess, apostrophe, ess? I’m not doing language notes in this column. Later.)
• Back in New York, I almost run into a lady on the sidewalk. (Not my fault.) (Or hers.) I say, apologetically, “Excuse me.” She says, “You can’t help it, you’re from Michigan.” I realize I’m wearing a University of Michigan hat. I laugh. She says, “My niece goes to Ohio State. I have a hat from her, but I’m not wearing it.” I say, “Well, you’re loyal.” She says, “Yup.”
A bona fide New York lady.
• End with Beethoven in Central Park? Yeah, why not. Thank you for joining me, everyone. I realize I shouldn’t be doing a light travel journal in very, very dark times. But I have been writing about Ukraine almost non-stop (and wrote copiously about the subject before it was screamingly urgent). And I think a break is permissible, maybe.
Anyway, Beethoven in Central Park. Catch you later.
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