Last Blog - For A While...

I was in Fort Lauderdale to catch a plane home. For now my time in the Tropics was done. I was going to miss the sun and the sea, Tropics Radio and the stars, and an extra couple of hours of daylight. I arrived two days before my flight to search out the home of a literary hero. The man himself is most likely dead, well if he wasn’t fictional I mean. The author of the stories, John D. MacDonald, died back in 1987, a scant five years after I discovered his life’s work.

Slip F-18 at the Bahia Mar Hotel and Marina was the fictional home of Travis McGee from the first book published in 1964, to the last one published in 1985. In all a total of 21 literary adventures, and each one an influence on my life. Aboard his 52 foot “barge type houseboat” he set out to solve mysteries, right wrongs, and live the kind of life not many of us can anymore. A self-proclaimed “salvage consultant” who took things back from those who took it from you, and kept fifty percent of its appraised value as his fee. When you have nowhere else to turn, it’s a good deal. He was thoughtful, intelligent, quick, and given to extended periods of self-examination and searches for some context to the flaws of humanity. He taught me a lot about the thought process that has helped keep me sane, and at times slightly insane. I also learned that doing the right thing was often the hardest thing, and rarely the convenient thing.

I chose to stay at the hotel, a Hilton property. This puts me at ground zero in my hunt for a dedication plaque that was placed here by the Friends of Libraries USA. This was the first place they declared one of their Literary Landmarks. The day after my arrival I find the plaque in the Dockmaster’s Office after a morning of searching the complex. It’s a moment for me that has been coming since I read my first Travis McGee book as a much younger man.

Young men need dreams and aspirations in the same equal measure they need good mentors and effective education. I’ve been both fortunate and lucky there have been both in my life. Some of the mentors and what they taught me was very real and larger than life; some were quiet and lived in both reality and literature. I carry all of them and their lessons in heart and memory, thus they live on in the abundant theatre that is my imagination.

My travels have been guided to places that sounded interesting, and sometimes the journeys both physical and intellectual were sparked by the work of writers, actors, and musicians. The idea of the great cross country adventure to Key West was first dreamed up in the months following my high school graduation when I first heard Jimmy Buffett’s music. But the realities of life (money, jobs, people) can delay dreams and aspirations. When I did take that trip it was because it was the best time to take it.

Being in places like Key West and New Orleans held a different fascination than the literary references. My Key West experience showed me that the fiction of the Key West “lifestyle” was vastly at odds with the reality of living there. New Orleans opened my eyes to a Bourbon Street the locals stayed away from, the equivalent of what I found in Hawaii with Waikiki. To me the working locals were far more interesting than the tourist locations themselves. Not that any of those hard working people should ever be put on display. Not a very touristy attitude either but as you may have guessed from some of my writing, I’m not really much of a tourist.

Which is not to say I haven’t played tourist. My family once took a European coach tour during which we visited five countries in seven days. While we took a lot of memorable pictures on that trip, the 1969 movie “If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium” is the quintessential depiction of our European adventure, and I suspect the coach tour adventures of many others. That experience, and several others like it, soured me on travel in my 20’s and 30’s. In typical closed minded fashion that was the only experience I had known, I didn’t like it and therefore I wasn’t going to do it again. Until I discovered another way that encouraged me, an introvert, that it was alright to travel quietly alone, to see what I wanted, when I wanted.

Some of that encouragement came from my literary heroes who helped define to me that being on your own was not the same as being alone. As I worked more diligently on my own writing I found I needed to travel, to find new ways to describe and experience feelings, colors, tastes, smells, and people. It also helped to better define myself and my life.

So here I was in Fort Lauderdale hunting one of those heroes. I found the Marina was smaller, and faced an entirely different direction than I had thought. The hotel was not a massive concrete monstrosity but rather a quiet peaceful construct, and that Slip F-18 no longer existed. A few years back the marina was rebuilt to allow larger boats to have access. You can actually read into that large yachts and small ships. However, the marina is so popular in the literary world that the dedication plaque was moved into the Dockmaster’s office.

I spent a few minutes talking with Terry, who was behind the counter, and asked a few questions about whether people still come by to see the plaque, and if she had read the books herself. She kindly took the time to tell me that the plaque was very popular and that many people sought it out like I had, and that she had read some of the Travis McGee books but wasn’t familiar with any of John D. MacDonald’s other work. I mentioned that some of his short stories, including an earlier rough version of Travis McGee could be found in short story collections titled The Good Old Stuff, and More Good Old Stuff.

I left knowing that I wasn’t alone in having Travis McGee as a hero, and that people will always respond to strong characters and solid storytelling. And that is probably why I responded so strongly to Susan Cain’s assertion in her book “Quiet” that we now live in a Culture of Personality and not a Culture of Character.

After finding the plaque I wandered across the hotel’s overhead walkway to the public beach. I wanted to wander and ponder. The dark threatening sky and the high winds of the day before had calmed into a mild breeze and hot sun, which for me translated into thinking weather. I took my time walking the mostly empty beach. Its two days before American Thanksgiving, not a high traffic season for the Tropics. I’m not especially known for my coordination so sometimes I have to be careful about wandering and pondering at the same time. Some people walk into traffic because they’re focussed on their phone, for me it’s a cogent or tangential thought while playing the “what if’s” of intellectual musings.

In this case I got safely away from traffic and found a small beach bar, World Famous by its own admission, and with its own resident artist who worked in wax crayon. The Florida Ale was $4.50 a glass and it was cold. I watched the artist sketch the tourists while I pondered my beer, and the strengths and weaknesses of characters in both real life and various literary worlds. That’s the thing about good character; if you value its strength then you appreciate when you find it in others. But first you must be exposed to those who have it, and who amply demonstrate it, before you can understand and value why it’s so important.

I once worked for someone who said they didn’t read books, just magazines. This individual knew nothing of history and wasn’t interested anyway. I got the impression they felt that having an arrogant short thought persona was somehow more useful than having actual personal and intellectual integrity. In short order staff was alienated and grew fearful, in some cases hostile, and in others distrustful. The lack of demonstrated good character destroyed years of teamwork and positive relationship building. Sadly, this personality method is increasingly being demonstrated in organizations where a culture of arrogant autocracy thinly masquerades as barely effective corporate and public leadership. In short, a demonstration of the clash between the Culture of Personality and the Culture of Character.

Good character and bad character is essential to both literary and real world definitions of good and evil. Without the literary heroes who demonstrate it in the theatre of the mind, and the real world characters who we actually see live it, we would lose our sense of what we truly value in ourselves and what we truly despise in our other worlds. And the truly strange thing about people of good character is that while sometimes we can’t define what it is, we know it when we see it and we know it when we don’t. That doesn’t mean we should take a fatalistic approach and not speak up when bad character is apparent. We should be engaging with those of bad character the same way we engage in discussions about how to effectively deal with schoolyard bullying. Sadly, we’re not making much headway there.

I came to Fort Lauderdale to catch a plane. I’m leaving after having dined on a delicious steak, sipped the “Perfect Martini”, taken a long walk on a wonderful beach, indulged a cold beer while watching a beach bar artist create and inspire, all the while taking the opportunity to indulge in some wandering and pondering on issues important to me, and finding the home of a literary hero of good character. Not a bad way to spend my last 48 hours here in the Tropics!

 

 

For the next few months I’m taking a break from blogging. I have some other gardens that are blooming in my life and I need to tend to them. Thanks to you all for taking time out of your busy lives to read my meandering musings. And special thanks to those who took the time to write me back to say you enjoyed the journeys.

Mahalo, and Aloha Nui Loa.

WARNING - CONTAINS IMAGES OFFENSIVE TO FRENCH CHEFS

I’m conflicted. Not in a negative sense, but I’m conflicting because I’m trying to understand both sides of an issue. I have long felt that to really look at both sides is to be able to find a common solution, compromise, or the holy grail of consensus. It’s why you won’t find me always supporting business versus labour, or one political party over another. I prefer solutions that are not filtered by ideology, greed, or authoritarian intellectualism.

My parents went well out of their way to treat my brothers and I very fairly, with the result being that we generally get along well, and each of us tries to respect and understand the other. We also have a tendency to approach the world in a fair, practical, and mostly impartial manor. I always found it easier to find practical solutions when I wasn’t blinded by the “fluff” of position based reasoning. I have to admit however, that with life not actually being “fair” it has raised some interesting ethical issues.

But back to today’s reason for inviting you here. It’s about dinner, or lunch, or breakfast. In my travels I have shared with you many a delightful meal in fabulous and not so fabulous places. On occasion I have even supplied pictures. Turns out not all chefs are fond of you taking pictures of their food. Somewhere along the way someone decided to give such photography a derogatory name, “Food Porn”. I find the term highly offensive. I have shared many a shot of very attractive ribs, though I have had little to offer in the way of leg of lamb and chicken thigh. Really, “food porn”?  I don’t think so!

I share dining experiences from the road because they’re a huge part of the travel adventure, and my basic survival. A Prime Rib in Idaho, a shrimp Po Boy and exquisite beignets in New Orleans, fresh Stone Crab chowder, Lobster Mac & Cheese, Ribs from Corky’s in Memphis and Big Kenny’s in Key Largo, the Waimea Wings from Buffett’s at The Beachcomber, Cumin Crusted Mahi Tacos at Senor Frijole's, even the “full English” breakfast at the Brewer’s Fayre, all of which were standouts. The “sausage patties” at Arnold’s Classic Diner in Rapid City were a standout example of how eating on the road can be a different kind of adventure, especially when faced with an undiscovered Goodyear product.

I try to write about good food. I take pictures of good food. I also write about family and good family experiences. That doesn’t mean my “visual aids” should carry an offensive label. Food and travel were the conflicting thoughts as I read the article. As a teenager my parents took us a lot of places. In our teen years they took us to Europe twice (each time for a month), took a two week escorted bus tour through California and Nevada, and to Hawaii a couple of times. Once with most of the neighbourhood along at the same time. I also had the opportunity to spend seven weeks in Montreal after my father got a 16 year old me a job working for the Olympic Broadcaster in 1976. That’s how I learned about Mr. Sub, St. Hubert Chicken, and how to microwave a baked potato!

So I ate a lot of different food in a lot of different places. A cold cherry soup in Germany, and a fried spam sandwich billed as a hamburger on the Isle Of Man are always good for a shared laugh with my brothers. Even today, long after my parents have passed on, we try and get together at local restaurants for breakfast on Sunday mornings. It carrys on a long family tradition of Sunday breakfasts together.

And we do laugh because the food gave us positive common experiences. When we were quite small our parents would take us to Seattle where we would visit the new Space Needle, the Pacific Science Center, and the amusement park next to them both. We had to dress up for lunch (changing in the back of the car) because we went to a place that served the best plate of restaurant spaghetti I ever had. My mother would always be very concerned because we had on our dress white shirts and in typical kid fashion we would wind up with small specks of tomato sauce on them. Never mind that we got directions to the place from a motorcycle cop who looked suspiciously like Gertrude from the local kid’s TV show, J.P. Patches. Sadly I have never been able to find it again, but all restaurant spaghetti is measured against those memories.

Childhood travel memories were built around meal times on the road, but also life lessons on the value of road time together. By now my brothers are wondering why I haven’t brought up the camping trips where mom had to cook on the camp stove. It’s because those mealtimes weren’t always pleasant, and gave us a whole different type of road trip meal memories. Poor mom had to work three times as hard to feed us, and we weren’t quite old enough to understand what all that meant for her. I’m glad for the memories and the lessons learned, but I’m not too sad for the lack of pictures. Suffice to say that after that road trip the whole family cheerfully abandoned the great outdoors in a pop up tent trailer for hotels and restaurants. It’s one of the reasons our little tribe has survived together as long as it has. It was a conscious decision to try and keep ourselves happy on the road.

 

But back to the conflicting thoughts. The article I was reading, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/10641913/French-chefs-hit-back-at-food-porn-photos-in-their-restaurants.html, puts forth that French chefs are upset that by the time the customer has finished “staging” the plate on the table to take a picture, the food is cold. In my experience “staging” has been no more than making sure the beer bottle label faces the camera, or the wine glass doesn’t seem to be sprouting out of the napkins. 

The chefs also complain of flashes going off distracting other diners. I’ll buy into that one, because it really is annoying. At Shula’s On The Beach in Fort Lauderdale I accidentally flashed on my plate while taking a picture of “The Perfect Martini”, my $43 Filet steak and the $8 baked potato. I felt badly because the place was dark and the couples at the other tables were having what I supposed were romantic evenings, and it only flashed once. But I wasn’t paying those prices without some kind of souvenir besides the quiet memory of an exquisitely beautiful piece of meat, and a wonderful dining experience where the staff made me, a solitary diner, feel very welcome.

Then there are the times I wish I had taken food pictures. Like the time myself and a friend/colleague were on assignment in Athens during the 2004 Olympics. We were working for different organizations but we managed to find time in our very busy schedules for lunch at a Taverna in the Plaka. We were in the shadow of the Acropolis, right outside the gates of the Agora. We sat outside on a hot August afternoon under a Greek blue sky, and ate souvlaki while we chatted about our common interests inside and outside of work. Mealtimes on the working road can be rushed affairs but we took our time, fending off vendors selling bootleg CD’s and other trinkets. I wish I had taken pictures to remind me in the years to come what a great time I was having.

Or the numerous times on the road when I wish I had taken pictures of working meals. The fabulous team I worked long hours with on a tragic and deadly landslide outside of Kaslo is one. The only hotel we could find, The Ainsworth Hot Springs Resort, was twenty miles from town. There weren’t a lot of options. We had to rush to get back before the restaurant closed at 8 (one night I nearly collided with a cow on the road that had slipped its gate), and the wonderful hotel staff who stayed late to feed us when we squeaked in at five minutes after. 

Then there was the time in Vernon when after a very long and stressful day covering a forest fire evacuation a single colleague stayed behind to help me pack my work truck, making us both late for a group dinner. We managed to mostly make it in time for dinner, and she deviously treated me to my meal. All of those meals were made special by both circumstance and company.

Food and meal times whether travelling or around town are moments I choose to share and remember. I often find food is enhanced by the company and surroundings, the intangible emotional component. I have found solace in a good meal alone, and friendship and companionship with great people in great places both for fun, and sometimes in the presence of great tragedy. It’s tribal and primitive in its ability to keep humans enjoying other humans doing human things, and sometimes helps to bring forth context, meaning and comfort. 

As any real food person will tell you, it’s the effort of love that you put into the process of creating and serving that helps to determine the final, total experience of cooking. A woman I know whose passion is cooking says she likes nothing more than to cook for family and friends, whether it’s a sandwich in the kitchen or a full sit down dinner for ten. 

If we choose to take pictures to remind us of our togetherness or to celebrate dining excellence then stop complaining, it’s not “porn”! Though I’m sure the guy standing on the chair to get the shot of the whole table might need a lesson in table manners and basic etiquette. And watch out for the flash!

Conflict resolved.