An Obnoxious Tourist From Missouri

When I was a teenager, the world was under threat of nuclear annihilation as the Cold War was in full force and atomic bombs were being stockpiled by all the major powers in the world.  Life Magazine published an article about Mendoza, Argentina. The magazine declared Mendoza to be the city most likely to survive a global nuclear war.

My buddy Randy and I went to Mendoza when we visited Argentina in November 2012. 

We did not go to Mendoza because we were afraid of a nuclear holocaust.  We went there because it was in a desert, near the Andes, and the center of Argentina’s thriving wine industry, where the vineyards are irrigated by water from the Andes.  

Naturally we went on a winery tour while we were in Mendoza.

Each winery we visited mentioned that they used American oak for their barrels.  They mentioned that their vines grew on an American base.  I couldn’t help being an obnoxious tourist by pulling the winemakers aside and pointing out that those American oak barrels were really Missouri oak barrels.  And I pointed out that their American-based vines really grew on a Missouri base.

The French wine industry was in trouble in 1870 when an aphid started destroying roots and killing off vines.  Wine production fell off so much that some desperate French people actually switched to drinking whiskey.

Missouri to the rescue!   In 1870, it was the largest US wine producing state.  The state entomologist of Missouri took an interest in the French blight.  Yes, we have a state entomologist – today you can reach his office by phone at (573) 751-5505.

The entomologist in 1870 knew that Missouri vine roots were immune to this aphid, and he suggested that the French graft their vines onto Missouri roots.  This suggestion did not go over big with French pride. 

But the French had no alternative.  In 1872, Missouri sent 750,000 cuttings to France.  The wine industry stablized.  In the 1880's, Argentina started its wine industry, importing vines (with Missouri roots) from France.

There I was in Mendoza, pointing out to the Argentines that Missouri was the place from which the world wine industry rose again.

The Argentines were too polite to point out to me that, in case of nuclear holocaust, Mendoza is the place from which world civilization will rise again.

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ARGENTINA = TANGO.  Here is a YouTube video shot in the main shopping street of Mendoza (3 minutes):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTIZBGd6E0I

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Aida Should Not Have A Double Chin

I turned to the guy behind me in the ticket line and said: “We learned about this opera in sixth grade.”  He replied that he was impressed that I went to an elementary school where the kids learned about operas.

I had fully expected him to say, “Then why did you wait 58 years to see it?”

The opera was Aida, and the ticket I bought was for a Metropolitan Opera HD simulcast.  Because I had waited 58 years to see Aida, I wanted to see it in a special venue.  I crossed the Mississippi River to a little town with the oldest college in the state of Illinois.  Charles Dickens had visited this little town, and the town looks like it hasn’t changed much since his visit.

My main memories of learning about Aida 58 years ago: trumpets, slave girls, and how to translate “Giuseppe Verdi” into English. 

I settled into my seat in Illinois, and the conductor in New York lifted his baton.  The violins started playing the overture.  My mind immediately thought that this was all wrong.  Our sixth-grade music teacher did not play us violin music, she played us trumpet music.

Act two came to my rescue --- there was plenty of trumpet music.

But I was uncomfortable with the casting.  Aida was a slave girl in ancient Egypt.  In my mind, she should look emaciated and haggard.  The woman singing the role of Aida was well-fed and robust.  I know that you hire opera singers because of their voices, but surely, a woman with a double chin should not be singing the role of a slave girl.

Back in sixth grade, our music teacher, looking for a hook to get us interested in opera, told us that “Giuseppe Verdi” translates to “Joe Green”.

I was a volunteer in the school library at the time.  So was Steve Salorio.  One afternoon, Steve ran over to me and triumphantly announced that he had discovered someone checking out books using a false name.  A fifth-grader was using the name “Joe Green”.

To Steve and me, because we had just come from music class, it was obvious that the fifth-grader wasn't using his real name; instead he was playing off of Giuseppe Verdi’s fame.  Steve felt like he had unmasked an impostor.

The Metropolitan Opera HD simulcast lasted four hours. 

I got to hear trumpets.  I got to listen to a well-fed slave girl sing.  And I was reminded of the time when a fifth-grader was suspected of usurping the name of a famous Italian opera composer in order to check out books from an elementary school library.

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A YouTube video of the 1989 Triumphal March at the Metropolitan Opera (5 minutes).  Trumpets!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3w4I-KElxQ

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Yellow Blue Vase

On October 5, 1957, every newspaper in the country had a front page photograph of Sputnik.  The Soviets had launched the first satellite, and America was losing the Space Race.  This meant we were also losing the Cold War.

At night, we turned our eyes to the sky to catch a glimpse of Sputnik passing overhead.  During the day, we turned our eyes to the American education system to see how we could catch up to the Soviets.

At my high school, the students swung into action and asked the school to provide Russian language classes.  The school did.  They chose Mrs. Hunter, a local resident who grew up in Russia, to teach the classes; it proved to be a good choice.

The classes were held twice a week after school.  Mrs. Hunter was enthusiastic and optimistic as we navigated the language.  Russian has a cool alphabet (that’s a plus) and a strange idea of what is plural and what is singular (that’s a minus).

She brought a samovar to class and we got to try Russian tea (not a plus or a minus).  She invited the students to her house for a Russian Easter party.  The class visited the Russian Orthodox church across the harbor from our town.

It is fifty-three years since I took those classes.  I don’t remember much of the Russian language.  I do remember that Mrs. Hunter was delightful.  Most of all, I remember a story that Mrs. Hunter told us and a song that Mrs. Hunter taught us.

The story that Mrs. Hunter told us is how Edward Hunter, an American journalist, proposed to her.  She was sitting on a sofa when he got down on one knee, looked intensely into her eyes, and said, “Yellow Blue Vase.”  She had no idea what he meant.  He repeated, he continued to look intensely, and then showed her an engagement ring.  Then it dawned on her: he must have asked someone how to say “I love you” in Russian.  The phrase sounded like “Yellow Blue Vase” to Edward.  Once she figured out what he was saying, she said, “Yes”.

The song that Mrs. Hunter taught us was Подмосковные вечера ("Moscow Nights").  Here is a 3-minute version in English:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbZHzF-Av1I

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FOOTNOTE: Mrs. Hunter’s husband coined the word “brainwashing”:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Hunter_(U.S._journalist)

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Frankincense To Offer Have I

I have been in one and only one Christmas pageant.  I appeared on stage at Flower Hill Elementary School with two other guys.  We were the three kings.  I was destined to be king number two, the one who brought the frankincense.

When the music teacher chose me to be a king, I ran home to tell my mother.  Kings wear robes, and I expected my mother to sit down at her sewing machine and produce a kingly costume for me.  Instead, my mother pointed out that I already owned a robe.  Namely, a bathrobe.  That would be my costume…and my mother did not have to sit down at her sewing machine.

What about the frankincense I have to carry?  I expected my mother to go to her craft supplies and whip up something regal.  Instead, she handed me a music box she kept on the top of her dresser.  It held her powder puff and played Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms when you lifted the lid.  That would be my prop…and my mother did not have to use any of her craft supplies.

So, I had my costume and my prop.  I memorized the words to We Three Kings of Orient Are, and I was ready to sing in public. 

The three of us walked slowly on to the stage singing the chorus in unison.  The king with the gold stepped forward and sang his verse solo.  Then I stepped forward and sang my verse solo.  Then the third king, who was bearing myrrh, stepped forward and burst into tears.

We heard a big PSSSSST coming from the music teacher, and we exited the stage at that point while king number three was still blubbering.

The Bible is a bit hazy about the Three Kings, but king number two is believed to be named Balthazar, who lived in Africa.  When I did some genealogical research on my father’s side of the family, I discovered that my family tree has two Balthazar Schneiders:  one born in 1792 and one born in 1828.

I have lived in Africa, in Sokoto State in northeastern Nigeria.  I once discovered frankincense on a list of exports for Sokoto State.  Frankincense is a resin, and I got someone to point out a frankincense tree to me.  I touched the tree.

I am related to two Balthazars.  I have lived in Africa and I have touched a frankincense tree.  I am not shy about wearing my bathrobe in public.

Yes, I was destined to be king number two.

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Here is a 4-minute video of Trace Adkins singing We Three Kings:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMbn3hb_6y4

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Don't Weep For Me, Buenos Aires

Just like Paris in the old days.

That’s what I expected when my buddy Randy and I arrived in Buenos Aires.  And, architecturally, it was like Paris about a century ago.  Wonderful turn-of-the–century buildings, none of them overshadowed by skyscrapers.  So impressive to walk around a human-sized city, each building standing proud. 

How Buenos Aires got frozen in time, I do not know.  Somehow the Argentines didn’t tear down their early 20^th Century buildings.  The city was so old-fashioned that I was happy when I spotted a Lady Gaga poster.  The poster reassured me that I was in the 21^st Century, even if this city kept on telling me otherwise.

Yes, the city’s buildings stood old and proud, but they also stood vulnerable. 

I had to keep my eyes at second story level or higher.  Buenos Aires has not found a way to control graffiti.  The facades on the upper floors looked fine, but the street level façades were all defaced with spray paint.  Building after defaced building, especially when you got away from the Plaza de la Republica:

Whle the city could not control graffiti, some individual buildings had found ways to protect themselves.  There was a physical approach: paint the fin de siècle stonework black:

There was an aesthetic approach.  Graffitists consider themselves artists; so, the assumption is that if your street-level façade is a work of art (preferably painted by a graffiti artist), then no other graffitist will deface it:

Or you can go a step beyond paint.  An optometrist glued old eyeglass frames to his building, creating portraits that were two stories tall:

Buenos Aires was reminiscent of Paris in the 1920’s, which impressed me.  Buenos Aires was also reminiscent of New York City subway cars in the 1970’s, which almost made me weep.

I did not weep because it is hard to weep for a city that knits sweaters for its trees:

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com