Words Of Advice For People Who Stay In Hotels

  

I bounded off the plane after it touched down at the Rhein-Main-Flughafen in Frankfurt, Germany.  It was 1967, and I was eager to see what my first day in Europe would be like.

I took the airport bus into the city, checked into a hotel, took my suitcase up to my room, and looked out the window.  Germany!  I was in Germany!!  Time to explore!!!

First, a quick stop in the bathroom.  I went into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, took care of business, and then discovered that the door would not open.

I fiddled with the doorknob.  Right, left, up, down; the bathroom door did not budge.  I put my shoulder against the door and pushed; the bathroom door did not budge.  I saw that the bathroom door had a ventilation grate near the floor.  Being a red-blooded American boy, I always carried a penknife with me.  I unscrewed the grate, but the opening was too small for me to crawl through.

I realized that the cleaning crew would not be coming until the next day.  What was that, 20 hours from now?  20 hours without food.  Plenty of water, but no food.  And the bathroom floor was a cramped chilly place to sleep.

My first day in Europe, trapped in a hotel bathroom.

I needed to be rescued.  I curled up on the bathroom floor so my head was at ventilation grate level.  I pounded on the door three times.  I was in Germany, so I shouted: "Hilfe, Hilfe, Hilfe!  Zimmer Nummer Drei Hundert Sechs Und Zwanzig!"  For good measure, I repeated the pounding, but this time it was "Help, Help, Help!  Room Number Three Hundred and Twenty-Six!"

I repeated the phrases, over and over, increasingly sounding like a maniac.

Then came a muffled voice.  Someone in the hallway spoke in English: "I am going to get the manager."

"You don't need to get the manager.  Just come in my room and open the bathroom door."

"No thank you.  I am going to get the manager."

The manager came into the room and sprang me from my trap.  I stepped into my hotel room, and the manager, being a good German, began to admonish me.  "Look, there is nothing wrong with this doorknob."  He turned the doorknob and it looked like the bathroom doorknob was working properly.

I spoke to the manager: "If the doorknob is working properly, then step into the bathroom and close the door behind you."

His eyes narrowed a bit, "Oh, no need to do that.  It is obvious that the doorknob is working."

I felt vindicated.

The Internet tells me that I am not the only person to be trapped in a hotel bathroom.  

Johnny Quinn of the US Bobsled team got trapped in a bathroom in Sochi; Jenn Brown of ESPN was trapped in a bathroom.  But Quinn had the brute strength to destroy the door and bust his way out.  Brown had a cellphone to summon help.  .

We who have gotten trapped have all learned a lesson, and here are our words of advice: if you are the only person in a hotel room, never close the door to the bathroom.

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Here is a one-minute news report about Johnny Quinn, trapped in a bathroom in Sochi:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnSY6O0PdjI

Here is a two-minute news report about a pilot trapped in a bathroom on his own plane:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvX8VW0KHiA

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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

I Am From New York, And You Know Why I Am Here

I stepped up to the Reception Desk and said: "I am from New York, and you know why I am here."

They knew exactly why I was there.  The receptionist pointed, and said: "Go through that door and it will be on the right."

I was at the Crystal Bridges Museum Of American Art in the town of Bentonville (population 38,000) in northwestern Arkansas.  I was drawn there because Crystal Bridges is now the home of Kindred Spirits. This 1849 painting, considered to be Asher Durand's masterpiece, is in the style of the Hudson River School. 

The painting depicts Thomas Cole and William Cullen Bryant standing on a rocky ledge in the Catskills.  It appeared in one of my junior high school textbooks, basically as an icon for New York State.  

Kindred Spirits once hung on the walls of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, until the Library received an envelope with $35,000,000 of Wal-Mart money.  The painting now hangs on the walls in an art museum in a ravine in Arkansas.

Calling Crystal Bridges an art museum is an understatement.

I started my trip through the museum at Twentieth Century Art:

Then I noticed the architecture:

Then I started to look out the windows, and noticed how the museum pays homage to the nature around it:

I noticed a sculpture that caught the light:

I saw how the windows multiply an image:

Light was coming in from the sides and coming down from above me:

There were vistas:

There were shadows:

As the sun moved across the sky, the buildings took on different looks:

Even the interior doors were capturing light:

And there was water:

My mind was filling up; this place was so much more than art and sculpture.  Crystal Bridges was a convergence of many things.

I made it to the Nineteenth Century gallery.  I found Kindred Spirits.  I saluted the painting: “You may not be in New York State any more, but you are in a very fine place, indeed.”

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A 3-minute video about the museum:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEe-x0i3KjY

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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

Driving To Iowa; Waltzing To Iowa

I popped Greg Brown into my car's tape player and got on the Interstate to head to Iowa.

Greg Brown was appropriate music for my trip because one of his songs has become an anthem for the state of Iowa:

               Home in the midst of the corn, 

               The middle of the U.S.A. 

               Here's where I was born, 

               And here's where I'm goin' to stay. 

That was the first verse; then Greg sang the chorus: 

              Iowa, Iowa, 

              Winter, spring, summer, and fall. 

              Come and see, come dance with me, 

              To the beautiful Iowa Waltz.

I had written a few Scottish country dances, and when I heard Greg Brown sing "come dance with me", I knew I had to compose another one: a dance in waltz time celebrating Iowa.  The dance took form in my head while I was driving.

When I arrived at my friend's house in Ames, Iowa, I rang the doorbell, entered, pointed to the living room, and asked her to try out the dance with me.  She polished some rough edges, and I wrote the dance down.

The Central Iowa Scottish Country Dancers like my dance.  So much so that they always make it the opening dance on the program for their annual ball.

            We take care of our own; take care of our young, 

            Make hay while the sun shines. 

            Growing our crops, singing our songs, 

            And planting until harvest time.

My dance is called Waltzing To Iowa, and I never expected it to be popular outside the borders of Iowa.  Then an Iowa dancer took my dance to Australia, and said that the dancers Down Under really liked it.

I am not sure how the dance started to spread after that. 

An email showed up in my inbox from someone I did not know.  It was a woman in New Mexico, and she had a question about my dance.  How did somebody in New Mexico know about Waltzing To Iowa?  It is on YouTube.

On YouTube?  Waltzing To Iowa is on YouTube?  I logged on and watched a group of young people in Erie, Pennsylvania, dance it.  Oh, no!  They got the dance wrong; their version had an awkward turn in it.  

Then I found another YouTube video.  This time it was Palo Alto, California.  They must have been inspired by the dancers in Erie, because they had an awkward turn; California got the dance wrong.

A third video showed another group of dancers who got the dance wrong.

I quickly emailed the woman in New Mexico the real instructions for Waltzing To Iowa, in hopes that New Mexico would get the dance right.

My dance has gone viral, but it has gone viral with an error in it.  How will I ever get it back?  

The Internet also told me that it has been danced in Cambridge, England, in November 2012, and my heart sank.  There was no YouTube video, but I can only assume that the viral version crossed the Atlantic Ocean, and Great Britain got the dance wrong.

I will see what I can do about damage control, but I am afraid that Waltzing To Iowa has waltzed off on its own.

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Greg Brown's song, The Iowa Waltz, sung as a nice duet (3 minutes): 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgNy9IwwY2Y

My dance, Waltzing To Iowa, on YouTube, with an awkward turn (4 minutes):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idxzI7FhZR0

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HERE ARE THE CORRECT DANCE INSTRUCTIONS:

WALTZING TO IOWA

A 32-bar Waltz for couples in a circle.

Couples facing center of circle, nearer hands joined.

  1 -  4    Waltz towards center of circle with nearer hands joined for two bars and retire for two bars.

  5 -  8    Turn toward partner to face out of the circle and waltz away from center with nearer hands joined for two bars and retire for two bars.  Finish facing partner.

  9 - 12   Gypsy with partner, dancing around each other back to place, keeping eye contact but no hands joined.

13 - 16   Right hand turn with partner.

17 - 18   Retaining right hands with partner, link left hands with neighbor to form a large circle with men facing in and women facing out; everyone balances right and left.

19 - 20   Change places with neighbor using the left hand.

21 - 22   Retaining left hands with neighbor, link right hands with new person to form a large circle with men facing out and women facing in; everyone balances right and left.

23 - 24   Turn neighbor with left hand halfway.  Finish facing partner.

25 - 28   Dance back-to-back with partner.

29 - 32   Pass partner by the right shoulder; turn new partner with two hands to face center of circle, nearer hands joined.

   

Dance written by Doug Schneider in 1993.

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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

Doing It Myself

When I was a teenager, I had saved up enough money to make the transition.  This was the transition from listening to music on my parents' phonograph to listening to music on my very own hi-fi system.  

My parents' phonograph was an all-in-one unit.  The hi-fi system I was dreaming of would consist of separate components, each of which had knobs and buttons and lights and shiny faceplates.  I was sure the sound would be dazzling.

My hi-fi system would be stereophonic, of course.  Stereo was new; only five years had passed since the first commercial stereo record had been released (which was recorded by The Dukes Of Dixieland).

My first step toward my dream was to buy an amplifier, the heart of a hi-fi system.  

I scoured recent issues of audio magazines, and decided on a Harman-Kardon.  The audio magazines told me that Harman-Kardon had designed the Citation II amplifier with the highest possible bandwidth, including sounds that went beyond the range of the human ear.  I was impressed.

But once deciding on a Citation II, I still had a choice.  

I could save $20.00 if I purchased a do-it-yourself kit instead of buying the amplifier factory-assembled.  $20.00 was a lot of money to me, but when I realized that I would have to do some soldering, I definitely went for the do-it-yourself kit.  I had never soldered before, and the thought of holding a gun that was hot enough to melt something was very intriguing.

The do-it-yourself amplifier came in a nice box, every piece was labeled, and the instruction manual was clear.  Step-by-step, I put the amplifier together --- after reading up on how to solder.

The final step was complete.  I plugged in my newly-assembled Citation II, and it made a loud buzzing sound.

Something was wrong.  I was defeated.

The only recourse: take my amplifier to the Harman-Kardon factory, which was only ten miles from my parents’ house.  They fixed the amplifier.  When I went to pick it up, the factory told me they had to fix all the bad soldering joints.  They presented me with a repair bill for $19.95.

My do-it-yourself adventure had saved me a nickel.

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Vacuum tube amplifier enthusiasts drool over the Harman-Kardon Citation II, even today.  Here is what can only be called someone's tribute of love to his amplifier - a 30-second video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-QupUJxHfM  

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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

The Seeds Of Architecture

I arrived at university facing two mandatory requirements for freshmen: we had to be able to swim twenty-five yards and we had to write English to the faculty's satisfaction.

Swimming twenty-five yards was not a problem for me. Convincing an English professor that I could write, however, was a challenge.  

The challenge was intensified by the fact that if you didn't get a B in Freshman Composition the first semester, you had to take another semester of it.  The heat was on, and the heat was turned up when the English professor failed nearly everyone's first composition.

The professor chose architecture as the theme for the class, and we had to read a book of architecture essays.  It was the first time I had to think about architecture in my life.

The first assignment was to write an essay about Lever House in New York.  The guy who wrote the book thought it was a marvelous building, so my essay praised Lever House.  

The guy who wrote the book thought that the Seagram Building was uninspired, so my next essay degraded the Seagram Building.

We were given an assignment to choose a building on campus and write about it.  Some buildings were bland; a few campus buildings were exuberant - in a style that a friend nicknamed "nosebleed Gothic".  My essay mocked one of the exuberant buildings.

I climbed from an “F” to a “D” to a “C” to a “B”.  I had convinced the professor that I knew how to write.

When sophomore year rolled around, it was time to choose a college major.  I was torn; I enjoyed both liberal arts and science.  To help me choose, I took an aptitude test.  I was hoping the test would point me in one direction or the other.

The test figured me out, and suggested a career that combined both liberal arts and science: architecture.  You needed liberal arts to design buildings that please the eyes; you needed science to make sure those buildings don't fall down.

Choosing architecture as a career was problematical: my university did not teach architecture.  The nearby art college did teach architecture, but it was a five-year course.  

At that art college all the painting, ceramics, and sculpture students dressed as if they were beatniks who spent endless hours in coffeehouses discussing philosophy; the architecture students, however, dressed differently.  They dressed as if they were were going to an important business meeting.

I did not want to attend an art college; I did not want to spend five years studying one single subject; I did not want to figure out how to dress differently. 

I did not become an architect.  But the seeds had been planted.

Thirty-four years after graduating from college, I was at an outdoor music festival where they announced a short architectural walking tour of the neighborhood.  I went on the tour.  I noticed that the person leading the tour was reading from note cards.  These were the kind of note cards you can buy at Walgreens.

So, I decided that I would go to Walgreens, buy some note cards, and volunteer to be a St. Louis walking tour guide. I went; I bought; I volunteered.  I have been leading tours for thirteen years now.  

The seeds had finally sprouted, not into an architect, but into an architectural tour guide.

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Why do architects insist on dressing differently from everyone else? A 5 minute Pandemonium video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qh3-YsS6GNU

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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

There Are No Mongrels Here

When I was visiting Santa Fe, New Mexico, a friend and I were walking along a road on the outskirts of the city and a van stopped and offered us a ride.  We hopped in the van, and I turned to the dog sitting in the back, and said: “Hello, Ralph”.

The dog wagged its tail and the driver expressed his amazement: “How did you know my dog’s name is Ralph?”

I said: “All dogs are named Ralph.  Just ask a dog what its name is, and it will say ‘Ralph! Ralph!’”. 

I did not go on to explain that I learned this fact when I was a teenager and a big fan of Pogo, the comic strip.  In the strip, all the dogs said “Ralph! Ralph!” instead of “Woof! Woof!”

I have always wanted to name a dog Ralph, so that I could get a chuckle out of asking my dog “What is your name?” and hearing it respond with “Ralph!”

I moved to Nigeria in 1975 to teach at the Advanced Teachers College in Sokoto.  I got a puppy and named him Ralph.

The name became problematical.  Nigerians had difficulty pronouncing Ralph --- it came out as “Raouf”.  OK, so I switched the puppy’s name to Raouf, the same name as the cheerful pot-bellied Arabic teacher at the college where I worked.

Now the name became even more problematical.  I found out that Raouf is one of the names of Allah.  It  (الرؤوف) means God The Kind One.  It is definitely uncool, if not blasphemous, to give a dog one of Allah’s names.

I was at a loss, and mentioned to some Belgian friends that I had a problem and needed a name for my puppy.  “What kind of dog is it?”  “Oh, he’s the typical Nigerian mongrel.”  I got scolded.  “Oh, no – no, no, no – the dogs here are not mongrels; they are sloughis.”

To drive their point home, the Belgians got out their illustrated French dictionary and showed me a picture of a sloughi.  I came to two quick realizations:

    1. Sloughi must be the French word for saluki.

    2. My puppy looked nothing like the dog in the illustrated French dictionary.

I wondered if the Belgians were playing a prank on me.  But, never mind, my problem had been solved.  

I anglicized the French word, and called my puppy “Slouggy”.  Nigerians could pronounce the name, the name had no connection to the Muslim religion, and I always got a chuckle out of knowing that my mongrel dog had a pedigreed name.

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Here is a 2-minute video of a saluki singing along with Eva Cassidy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0h25RVd5LI

Here is a 7-minute video of Eva Cassidy (solo) at the Blues Alley.  Four years after her death, this woman, virtually unknown outside Washington DC, climbed to the top of the charts in Britain and has sold over 10,000,000 CDs worldwide.  A history of her career is at the end of the video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzFdlLzhVhM

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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