Pacific Journal

The train was an hour late in getting to Santa Barbara. After a nice send off, I settled into an aisle seat on the ocean-facing side of the train. Somewhere passed Vandenberg I could see a large container ship plodding its way up the coast, a gray rectangle sitting right on the horizon.
I felt overwrought until dinner on the train. An expensive meal but I was lucky to be seated at table 18 with Miss Paso Robles/Hawaiian Tropic, her 3 year old daughter, Mia, and their Italian friend. They were returning home to Oakland after a vacation to Seaworld. I enjoyed their company immensely. Our food was an hour late in arriving but we filled the time with talk. I opined on spoiling children (good!), having siblings (good in small numbers), and food (butter, salt, and wine). Mia was eating a pad of butter with her Shamu spoon, after sprinkling salt on it and taking a sip of wine, “She is a gourmet!” I observed. They said I looked like a movie star. Couldn’t narrow it down - I didn’t offer any suggestions but I’m hoping they thought I was Kyle Mclaughlin.
I was able to secure two empty seats for a fitful nights sleep. Awoke to a beautiful snow covered pine forest in the mountains with a river running alongside the tracks. Unfortunately, we were still in California. The train was now running four hours behind schedule. More snowy scenery and the train was six hours late. Finally arrived in Portland, eight hours late. Got a cab and headed for the docks. Got lost, called the shipping agent, got the correct address, and made it to the boat a little after the New Year. The third engineer, Bjorn, led me to the elevator and up to my room. They were celebrating in the crew rec. room, so I left my bags, and went down to join them.

Captain Hans Kroeger:
I first meet the captain at lunch the day after I came aboard. He was just finishing as I sat down.
“Hello, Mr. Norris, pleased to aquaint you. I am Hans-Rudy Kroeger.”
“Hello,” I said.
“I have met before some Californians. Yes, I know you are one from your passport. You know Andrew Bingham? A very rich man. I ship cargo for him once. From Thailand to California - big stones. You know of this man? He owns all the pineapples in Hawaii. Very rich. What is it called, the pineapple company?”
“Dole?”
“Yes, that’s it, Dole. Very big. He has a very big property in California. He wanted these big boulders shipped from Asia to California. I met him. He flew out to Thailand in a private jet to see to the loading. He stayed on the ship for three days. Very interesting man. About sixty years, very short and wide.”
The first mate interrupted, handing the captain a walkie-talkie.
“O.K. so enjoy your lunch, I have to attend this.” And he was off.
That night we left Portland at around 3 am. I was told not to go to the bridge when the Pilot was onboard - guiding the ship in and out of port. Sometime in the early evening I woke to the sound of a helicopter and a search light flashed by my window. At breakfast the first mate told me the Pilot had left the ship by helicopter. The ship does not have a heli-pad - it landed on the containers. After lunch, after asking permission, I went up to the bridge. The ship was heading north along the coast of Washington State. The captain, second mate, and third engineer were on the bridge in mid conversation. I nodded at the two crew but the captain was facing away from me so I stood by the starboard window and admired the pine covered coastline. The captain had been speaking German but now switched to English and I caught snippets of a story, “ What kind of farmer comes on another’s farm without you know a greeting?” I sensed he had expected me to say hello when I first got on the bridge. There was a pause and I said, “Hello, Captain.” Then he acted like I had just appeared.
“Ah, hello, Mr. Norris. We are underway, calm seas no?” It was a very pretty day. I had already noted that the crew were all expecting me to be seasick but I felt great. “Did the helicopter wake you last night? Yes, most unusual, but the Pilot left by helicopter, the sea was too rough for pilot boat.”
The bridge stretches the width of the ship atop the quarters and living areas, with two outdoor wings on either side. Facing forward it is all windows and the main cockpit-two big chairs with large radar displays, to the aft are two rooms for the communications and navigation equipment.
“There is no steering wheel.” I noted to the captain.
“Yes, all computerized. Very modern. But bad design.” He now was speaking to everyone on the bridge. “These monitors should be centered, you sit here and see! Why they put them here I don’t know. I think ship designed by Americans!” He was clearly enjoying himself. The third engineer, a Filipino, interjected, smiling, “Or perhaps a Philippine design.”
“Hah! Yes, a Filipino... or more likely a Korean.” I knew from the first mate that they didn’t like working for the Koreans, the Hanjin Shipping company. The captain seemed to have finished venting, and spoke to me calmly.
“So, Mr. Norris, I must finish the story of this Bingham, very important. You see these boulders, some were sixty tons, all different sizes and shapes, we put them in the hold. But carefully. You see is designed for containers, rectangle boxes, not big stones. This man had more money than god I think. I asked him where he got the stones, he says to me, ‘You are German you must know the place... you know where the British prisoners of war were made to build the bridge.’”
“The Bridge over the River Kwai.” I interjected.
“Yes, of course. You know it. So they bring these boulders by hand and elephant down from this place, up in Cambodia, down the river to Thailand and we load with cranes into the ship.”
“Why did he say you should know this bridge because you are German? Did he think the Germans had something to do with it?” I interrupted.
“Ach no, he understood I knew the movie, you see. The movie is big known in Germany.”
“Alec Guness.” I said
“Yes, good actor.” I thought about mentioning that the Kwai was nowhere near Cambodia but I let it slide. He went on. “So this funny little man, Bingham, he fly out to oversee the loading of these great boulders, so I ask him ‘what you need these for?’ And he says he is going to put them on his big property in California, all arranged overlooking the ocean. He had too much money I think. So I know Californians.” O.K. I was thinking I could tell him I know Germans and a thing or two.
“Have you seen the movie “Lord Jim’? Starring Peter O’Toole?” I asked.
“No, I know this O’Toole - ‘Lawrence of Arabia’.”
“It is based on a book by Joseph Conrad, takes place in Cambodia.”
“Yes, I know you are going to Cambodia, first mate told me. Why you go there? Lots of girls, and I think what do you say... queers?” I let that slide.
“Well, I am writing a book about the making of this movie, ‘Lord Jim’ back in 1963.” he seemed not the least bit interested so I continued. “The book is about a first mate on a cargo ship that travels up this river to help the locals fight a warlord.” I tried to narrow down my summation to something he might understand.
“Yes, I have not seen this movie.” And that was that.

The next morning we were being piloted into Seattle past the islands, a sunny day, the city’s glass and steel buildings gleaming in the morning sun.
“Yes, you know I am from a small island, one hundred some miles north of Hamburg. It is there Jimmy Hendrix had his last big outdoor concert before he died in some London hotel.”
“Seattle has a museum for...”
“Yes, of course I know, the Jimmy Hendrix museum, the chief told me last night they have such a thing, I have never been. But his last concert was on our little island...”
We were still inching into dock around dinner time. I decided to sup on ship and then head ashore to look up Michelle and Laurent. At dinner the captain was in a state about the Koreans. Talking excitedly with the first mate in German. After he took his leave to meet the Port Agent, the 1st told me that the shipping company wanted us to leave at 3:30 instead of the scheduled 5:30. I didn’t see the significance until I realized he meant 3:30 am the next morning instead of 5:30 pm the next day. So I had only tonight to be in Seattle.
I went ashore with three of the Filipino crew, they were friendly to me as we had all gotten drunk together on New Years Eve. They were heading for the Seaman’s Club and I asked them where there might be a phone. They pointed down the road, “McDonalds has three phones, just a few blocks down.” The port was right downtown, next to the ferry terminal so there were a lot of shops, bookshops, bars and coffeehouses. I went into a cozy place called the Central and ordered an Irish Coffee, as it was freezing out and I needed some change. I called and spoke with Laurent. They were just sitting down to dinner, so I said I would call back. I walked down the street to a Starbucks that had a T-Mobile wireless hotspot and logged on. I wrote a quick response to everyone and then went back to the Central. Michelle said they would be by in fifteen minutes. They asked me what I needed to do. “Bookstore, Liquor Store, Internet Cafe.” I said. We went to a big mall with a Barnes and Noble, I bought a DVD of ‘Lord Jim’ and a copy of Shaw’s ‘Major Barbara’. Then we went to a liquor store where I bought a carton and a half of Exports and a bottle of Shiraz. Then we went to a dark bar that they used to frequent. We talked of old times and caught up on the intervening years. It was wonderful to see them. Then we went to a coffee bar around the corner that had wireless access, had tea and I showed them pictures from the ship and the web site of the FCC in cambodia. They drove me back to the pier and we said our goodbyes near enough to the ship that I could point out my three port side windows two levels below the bridge. The lady at the security checkpoint asked for my ID, I flashed my expired California drivers license, she didn’t look at it and let me through.
That last paragraph (as far as the captain story goes) can be summed up thusly; at Seattle I went ashore and bought cigarettes and a copy of ‘Lord Jim’ on DVD.
The ship left early the next morning. Quickly leaving sight of land the ship headed for the Aleutian Islands. There were several large storms to be avoided so our course would take us in-between the island chain and up into the Bering Sea, then across to the Russian peninsula and then down towards Japan. That evening at dinner I told the chief engineer and first mate that I had bought a DVD and I wanted to give it to the ship but I needed to make sure it would play on their equipment (PAL vs NTSC ect...) So they suggested I try it in the Officer’s Lounge. After dinner the chief engineer and I went to the lounge and I started up the movie which played fine. I asked if they wanted to watch it and they said, “Ya, let it play...” Later, a few other officers stopped in. The movie (I had forgotten) begins with Jim taking a first officer position on a rust bucket cargo ship run by a drunken crew and despotic German captain that runs into bad weather while transporting hundreds of Muslims to Mecca. The crew abandons ship without freeing the other life boats, and Jim falls or jumps in with them out of fear. They arrive in port and discover that the ship did not sink and that they were branded as the worst kind of cowards. The rest of the tale is of his redemption by helping the natives of a Malay village free themselves from Eli Wallach, which was filmed of course in Cambodia. He finally must either leave the town for breaking his word or he must die. He chooses to die, so that his redemption is complete. After the movie, only two of the crew sat through the whole thing (which I had forgotten is intolerably long and overly sentimental), and I commented to them, “The moral of the story is to not abandon ship if there are still passengers onboard...”
Now some quotes from O’Toole on the making of that movie:
"If I live to be a thousand," says O'Toole, "I want nothing like Cambodia again. It was a bloody nightmare.”
“Nicest thing you could say about the food was that it was grotesque."
One day Crown Prince Sihanouk, Cambodia's ruler, showed up. "He started yelling the usual anti-British crud," says O'Toole. "I walked up to him and said, 'I couldn't agree with you more. I'm Irish meself.'"
“ I really hated it there. How much so you can judge by the fact that after six months in the Orient I hadn't picked up a single word there, whereas after nine months in the desert on Lawrence I was speaking Arabic pretty well."

We are now off the coast of Russia. It is snowing. I went up to the bridge earlier when a bit of sun was shining and you could see the Kuril Islands all white and remote off the starboard bow, and the captain and 3rd officer were putting together a needle point kit. The design was of a German farm scene. I watched them fuss with the rollers and the 3rd officer, Rex, from the Philippines, showed the captain how to thread the needle and make a stitch. Then I made my way to lunch. The steward invited me to his birthday party tonight, which will probably be like the New Years Eve party and the 2nd engineer’s birthday party of the night before: ten or so Philippines and a couple of germans sitting in a small lounge listening to the most awful fucking 90’s music.
The captain can be a real pain in the ass. I wandered into the ship’s office, where I usually found the chief officer, Jan Schumann, but the captain and 1st engineer, 3rd engineer, and the mechanic were having their tea there. “Hello, Mr. Norris. Yes, of course, come join us for tea. You can sit and say nothing like you usually do.”
So I did. I literally sat and had my tea and said nothing. They went on in german like I wasn’t there. Finally the 1st engineer got up and asked if I would like to see the engine room. I said yes and bolted.
But apparently the captain and I have something in common. At lunch he asked me where I had been, as he never saw me at meals. I considered this odd as I had not missed a single meal since the first breakfast. So I said, “Well, I’ve been...” I thought for a moment, “Where have you been?”
“Of course, yes, you know I’m not at these parties they are always having,” He looked at the steward whose birthday party was after dinner, “Too many parties they are having...” The steward, Alexander, took his cue and departed. “I am not having drink no more. They took away my license after third time. You know after first offense it is a month’s wages and three days jail, but after third - no driver’s license. But, you know, small island, you can still drive without license.” He then went on to tell me how he had been ripped off by prostitutes in Pusan. I took this as an opportunity to describe how I had been ripped off by prostitutes in Hong Kong, “Yeah they didn’t believe my signature was the same as on the card so they made me sign another check for the same amount. I got billed twice!” He was leaving as I said this and I’m not sure he understood my english.
I should point out that he and I were not talking about your usual kind of prostitute, but what could be called taxi girls, like taxi dancers, they sit with you and make eyes at you and you buy them a cola that costs three times more than your vodka tonic.
The captain has an easy way with his crew, he jokes around with them a lot and takes their back talk in stride. This is probably good as they are all communists. Not just run of the mill communists but Trotskyites. If he were a hard ass they would eat him for tea fucking time. I learned this after teaching the chief engineer, Peter, and second engineer, Edward, how to play scopa at the steward’s birthday party. Most of the officers are in fact from the former East Germany (Edward is from Kenya). They started to warm to me after I established that I was more fervently anti-Bush than they were. They liked Swartzenegger’s movies but couldn’t believe he was governor of California, “another Austrian, no?” I guessed the reference to Hitler. I’m thinking the Captain is no Bush lover too but we haven't discussed politics. Although, when we were in sight of the Kurils I said, “Those are Russian islands?” and he replied, “You think they are maybe American? Of course, no, not yet.”




A few notes about the sea:
When we left Portland the sea was calm, the ship stayed close to the coastline. From Seattle we were out in the open Pacific. It was relatively clear but the swells were big and the ship tilted back and forth 30 plus degrees akimbo to the horizon. I never felt the least bit seasick, but it was difficult to sleep as I was constantly rolling around, tensing my muscles to stay flat on the bed. A hammock would have been the right solution. I know this could have been worse because the elevator never stopped working, the chief explained how it will shut down automatically in heavy swells. The crew were very aware of how unpleasant a big storm can be, and the Pacific in winter has lots of them. We took the extreme northern route and avoided three of these low pressure systems, outrunning one just barely. We passed through the Aleutians at night so I never got a look at them. We also were in a thick fog, you could not see the prow of the ship from the bridge. Eventually the fog lifted but now we were at the furthest extent of our northward progress and the sun barely rose and it was light for just a few hours. I had imagined I would be able to see the stars really well from out in the middle of the Pacific but it was always overcast. On the southbound leg, along the Kamchatka peninsula, it began to snow. There were some pretty big swells too. Blizzard white out conditions at night. It snowed pretty much constantly until we reached Hokkaido and passed through the very crowded strait there. It was a semi-clear day and the coast of Japan was coated in snow, very beautiful. The Sea of Japan is my favorite. It is just like those old paintings of the white capped waves all in a row. And birds flying alongside the ship. And the colors of the sea - indescribable. Finally we had our first true blue sky just off Korea. Korea was discernible from a great distance because it is ensconced in a great brown smog bank. I thought I would have more to say about the ocean... Let’s just say I didn’t get seasick and I would do it over and over again until I could see those stars.

Korea:
We arrived at Pusan at sunset and the Pilot came aboard to slowly steer the ship to dock. Pilots are treated very differently than anyone else. There is a big cabin next to the Captain’s - the Pilot’s Cabin and Day room. They are revered in a strange way. I suppose in this age of computerized navigation the only real challenge is getting into Port, which is done manually by the Pilot. The Pilot knows every current and shoal in the port and must guide dozens of ships per day in and out of harbor. I was thinking of the creatures in DUNE that guide the starships; same kind of veneration. I should note that although the ship has no steering wheel, it does have a joystick. When we were approaching Pusan I had just finished dinner and was waiting for the elevator, the doors opened and the 1st and a little Korean man were there, the 1st held out his hand to mean stop, “Pilot.” he said in explanation. The Pilot bowed to me and I bowed back, he said to the first mate, “It’s all right.” “No,”said the first,”We would have to stop again.” And they went up without me.
After docking everyone has to stay onboard until the Shipping Agent comes aboard. The Agent is not revered like the Pilot, far from it. The Agent is the main conduit between the shipping company and the ship for mail, paychecks, manifests, visas, repair orders and so forth. If the Agent is late or forgot something (like the crew’s mail) or didn’t arrange for requested parts or repairmen then everything is fucked. Nothing you can do about it. They are treated humanely even cordially, but most every problem can be laid squarely upon their head. The agent in Pusan was late. He forgot the mail and did not know of the requests for parts and repairmen. He spoke less english than the captain. But he was efficient in his deficiencies, and got off the ship in a hurry. He took me with him. as I said; they are responsible for visas and mine required a little extra attention owing to my status as a supernumerary. So I follow him to his car, he is on his high tech cell phone, “Mister, please sit.” I got in the passenger seat - the floor of which was littered with empty cigarette boxes. He finished his call and got in. We drove to the main gatehouse. Five armed police were sitting at desks, as I walked in through the metal detector the alarm went off (I was carrying my computer in my bag). One or two looked up then went back to eating or playing cards. I set my bag down on the x-ray machine conveyor belt, and just to show that it was my bag that set off the alarm I walked back through the detector. The alarm went off again, they looked up again. End of story. The agent gave one of them my debarkation pass and signaled me to come with him. So I grabbed my bag and stepped into Korea with my atomic bomb undiscovered. Why would anyone give these guys guns? They do just as half-assed a job as the american port security do without the added burden of side arms. And why five? Four would be better for card games. We get back into the Agent’s car and drive for awhile, he would occasionally talk on his cell phone, occasionally he would stop at a red light. The area was a maze of cargo containers stacked three high, with great speeding trucks zooming back and forth and little cars like the one I was in zipping in between them. Finally we are in a more or less residential area. I need to be reassured so I ask,”Where are we going?”
“Immigration Office.” He says. “First we stop.”
I had already given up on understanding him so I just worried about his driving skills. We turn down a very narrow street, mostly gravel, and continue to turn down ever narrower winding streets, finally stopping in a back alleyway. The street was too narrow for me to open my door so I just sat there. The agent got out and used his cell phone. The person he was calling stepped out from behind a parked car and got in the back seat. “Hello, Mister!” He said gregariously. “Now we go to immigration,” said the Agent. The new guy also worked for Hanjin, and his english was better and he had a sunny disposition, he asked me where I was staying in Pusan. “On the ship,” I said slowly.
“Ah,” said he, “so what you do in Pusan, you want shopping? Girls?”
“No, no shopping, I am looking for an internet connection, wireless preferably.”
“Ah, wireless, yes we have all over Pusan. Very modern city.”
“For my computer, someplace I can get on the internet.” I emphasized internet because I was pretty sure this was the word for it in most languages.
“Ah, intanet...” Then the two had an extended conversation punctuated occasionally by “intanet”.
Then they each talked to someone on their cell phones, “intanet...”
Finally the guy in back said, “No, not sure. You want go to Texas?” I don’t know how to spell this place but that’s what it sounds like. I knew from the Filipinos going ashore that it was the bar district and I knew I didn’t want to go to Texas in any language.
“Do you know the hotel Commodore?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, very expensive... Commodore Hotel.”
“Yes, but perhaps it has intanet?” I was already speaking a word of Korean.
We arrived at the immigration office. They both went in and arranged my visas. I got both my arrival stamp and departure stamp at the same time. I didn’t know if I were coming or going. We got back in the car and they said “Where you want to go?”
I said, “Well someplace I might get on the intanet, maybe the Commodore Hotel?”
“Ah, yes...” We drove along, both of them back on their phones, still occasionally saying “intanet”. The Agent slammed on his breaks and pulled his emergency break to avoid slamming into the back of a container truck. Finally, we arrive at a nice modern train station and what looks like a bustling downtown. We had clearly reached my destination.
“Is the Commodore around here?”
“Yes, not far.” said one.
“This is Texas.” said the other.



I’m sorry dear readers but I’m going to leave off the Pusan adventure there. I will only say that I walked around Texas until I realized it was unacceptably freezing and I was not about to walk into anyplace that didn’t have a word of english on the marquee, nor anyplace that had a big mural of King Kong on it even if it did say ‘Beer Haus’. So I took a cab to the Commodore Hotel which was not “not far”. They thought I was a guest at the hotel and let me use their internet gratis. When I was done I confidently got into a cab. Confident because I had made sure to have the Agent write directions for the dock in Korean in my notebook. The cabby followed the directions and dropped me at the wrong dock and I walked for half an hour in the sub zero chill to the boat. Nothing funny there...

The next port in Korea was Kwangyang, we arrived there the next day. I stayed on the boat.

Pusan was an idustrial port city, Kwangyang was an industrial port port. These places create their own weather - you can see this from the ocean - and it is not pretty weather.


An interlude: The second officer, Daniel Dieter Masera, who is the youngest crew member at 25, and is also the chief security and medical officer, spoke to me at dinner, “So you are Californian?”
“Yes,” Said I.
“How can you live there with all the earthquakes?”
“Well...” I always have to think of the most succinct way to answer these kinds of questions. “You get used to it.” I said, although I was thinking of building codes and school drills and how not many people get hurt, and how exciting they can be, but I left it at that. He seemed unsatisfied with my answer. So I added, “Although I must tell you, I haven’t felt the least bit seasick, even in these big swells, but at night, when the ship quakes - like it has slipped a gear or something, I jump out of bed and stand in the doorway out of instinct.” I smiled as if to say - see? we Californians really are wierd.
“Well, gutten eats...” He said as he left the dinning room.


China:
We arrived at Shanghai in the evening. The dock is a long way from town. A few of the crew were going ashore and I had hoped to tag along but the new Agent needed to take me to immigration. We took a shuttle to the gate where he had a car and driver waiting. We left the port directly, no security check. The agent spoke english better than anyone yet. He had a few things to do but he asked me what I needed to do. I wanted to use the internet I said. He couldn’t think of anyplace. I suggested that a big hotel probably would offer it. He offered to let me use his computer at home. I said I needed to use mine. He said that would be O.K. I said, “DSL?” He said yes. So I agreed. We are driving over a great modern bridge into downtown Shanghai, and he asks from the back seat if I would pay the driver $40. I had assumed the driver was with the shipping company. We had been driving for about 30 minutes so I thought this was a poorly timed request. I had $50 cash american and some travellers checks. I politely asked why I should pay as we weren’t exactly going anyplace I wanted to go, and weren’t you going this way too? He had already shown me he had an excellent grasp of the english language, so I calmly explained further that I didn’t have that much money and would need to stop at a bank. He lowered the price to $30. I asked if this included a ride back to the ship. He thought about it a while and then said, “OK”. We arrived at his home, a little bit of squalor in the shadow of the gleaming Hilton. “Wait here.”He went up some darkened stairs and turned the lights on. It looked better in the dark. On the second floor he had a tiny room crowded with all kinds of belongings, the shared bathroom was down the hall. It reminded me of Phnom Penh. He had an old PC and I hooked up my computer to his DSL. He went to work on his computer. “I have to file manifests for seven ships now. I work for another shiping company as well as Hanjin,.” And niether seems to pay you enough, I thought.
I’m trying to think of a way to describe the difference between Pusan and Shanghai, if Shanghai were Paris than Pusan would be Tiajuana. And I do compare Shanghai to Paris, it had a nice mix of the very old and very new. Broad boulevards with fasionable people walking around and chic shops. It is well kept up but, as in Paris, there are areas that are like your favorite pair of shoes; scruffy, well worn, but comfortable to walk in.

We reached Hong Kong in the morning. I didn’t even wait for the Agent.


“We make preparations for Pirates starting tomorrow night.” Said the chief at lunch.
“Oh, what sort of preparations?” He had said it like he was expecting them for tea.
“We will put paper up on all the windows of the doors.” I felt safer already. I wanted to ask, “colored paper? with ribbons and bows?”
“You will keep your blinds drawn. All the ships lights will be turned off.” The defense against pirates is to hope they won’t see us.
“Is that all you can do?”
“No, there are other methods. I could post a watch on all sides, all night, and use water canons to repel any pirates. But I don’t like this method, I haven’t enough crew to post watch, and the pirates have machine guns, once they shoot no one wants to man the water canon. And then they come on board angry.”
O.K. so lights out it is.
“Have you had any trouble with pirates?” I asked.
“Sure, sure. Not here, but off of Kenya. But many Hanjin ships are attacked here, in the Straights of Malaca.”

Old rants

For your reading pleasure, unsent letters to the editor:
#1
It is no doubt an unintended irony that your editorial would suggest that “international assistance to build schools and clear mines will never lead to real progress so long as the past remains un-examined...”, in Cambodia it is worth noting for the record where those mines came from: the United States, France, China, Eastern Europe, ect.... It is also worth noting what happened to the schools and infrastructure during the Nixon/Kissenger bombing campaign. There were notable abuses of power commited by Lon Nol and his cohorts (installed by the US because of King Sihanouk’s insistance on nuetrality). Will there ever be a trial investigating america’s complicity in the destruction of Cambodia? If we apply the Nueremburg principles to Cambodia the trial would be adjudicated by the Vietnamese, because they were the ones who finally defeated the Khmer Rouge, just as the judges at Nueremburg were not an international body but were made up of the victor countries. Of course, because it was the Vietnamese who pushed the KR out to the provinces, the Reagan administration compounded Nixon’s abuse of the Cambodian people by backing the KR during the ‘80s. The UN is often credited with restoring free elections after sending an international peacekeeping force in 1993 that legitimized the current dictator, Hun Sen, who clearly lost that election but was forced to share power with the actual winner, Prince Rennarid, who he later ousted in a coup. The UN troops left a black stain on Cambodia in the form of drugs and prostitution as well as forcing the economy to be based on US dollars. The UNHCR also played a role in the continuing struggle after the elections by indirectly supporting the KR when they were pushed out of their lair in Pailin and took refuge in Thailand. All these actions by the international community to meddle in Cambodia have gone “un-examined” for the past 38 years. The right course of action for the UN would be to have a tribunal to calculate the amount of money the various nations involved have spent providing mines and weapons and directly bombing this once beautiful and peaceful country, then require those responsible to pay reparations.
#2
The debate about liberal indoctrination in universities is apt for our local politics as many here believe the citizens attending UCSB have an undue left wing influence on local elections. In a recent letter, however, the writer claims to know the “truth” about liberal professors who “dish out rhetorical slogans in the class room”. In case you are not clear about what a rhetorical slogan is he provides ample examples: “the bankrupt philosophy of leftism”, “far-left dogma”, “left-wing baggage”, and “welfare/warfare leviathan state”. If it were the author’s goal to equip youngsters to think critically about any dogma being “shoved down their throats” he should refrain from using the language of demagoguery to make his fascist argument.



Or...

“Graduates...are usually so unprepared to grapple with the realities of politics that they typically end up voting for left-wing baggage like the Clintons, and supporting the welfare/warfare leviathan state” and they vote for Gore only to realize democracy is more complicated than majority rule. It’s lucky for the god fearing corporatists that these wacko-lefties’ votes don’t matter. Now if we can just put them away someplace where we don’t have to hear their whining about thier “rights”.


Or...

If David Engles screed is any indication of the ability of conservatives to think critically I am glad there are so few right wing professors.


Or...

It seems that the right would be just as capable of “indoctrinating” our impressionable young students into accepting the bankrupt philosophy of fascism if given the chance. Conservatives, representing a shrinking population of oligarchs, seem less and less willing to support democratic institutions. They would have us believe that a liberal wins the support of a majority of citizens because the voters are “unprepared to deal with the reality of politics”. Perhaps we should end this messy buisness of a national presidential vote and just let the congress and electoral college select our national leader, to avoid the input of the brain-washed masses who are under the yoke of the leftist academia-media empire.

Welcome!

This is my first post...
So a quote:
Simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest tresures.

There is no greater misfortune
than underestimating your enemy.
Underestimating your enemy
means thinking he is evil.
Thus you destroy your three treasures
and become an enemy yourself.

There is no greater illusion than fear,
no greater wrong than preparing to defend yourself,
no greater misfortune than having an enemy.

When rich speculators prosper
while farmers lose their land;
when government officials spend money
on weapons instead of cures;
when the upper class is extravagant and irresponsible
while the poor have nowhere to turn-
all this is robbery and chaos.
It is not in keeping with the Tao.

When a country obtains great power,
it becomes like the sea:
all streams run downward into it.
The more powerful it grows,
the greater the need for humility.
Humility means trusting balance,
thus never needing to be defensive.

A great nation is like a great man:
When he makes a mistake, he realizes it.
Having realized it, he admits it.
Having admited it, he corrects it.
He considers those who point out his faults
as his most benevolent teachers.
He thinks of his enemy
as the shadow that he casts himself.

If a nation is centered in the Tao,
if it nourishes its own people
and doesn't meddle in the affairs of others,
it will be a light to all nations in the world.

People are born soft and supple;
dead, they are stiff and hard.
Plants are born tender and pliant;
dead, they are brittle and dry.

Thus whoever is stiff and inflexible
is a disciple of death.
Whoever is soft and yielding
is a disciple of life.

The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail.

Nothing in the world
is as soft and yielding as water.
Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,
nothing can surpass it.

The soft overcomes the hard;
the gentle overcomes the rigid.
Everyone knows this is true,
but few can put it into practice.

Therefor the master remains
serene in the midst of sorrow.
Evil cannot enter his heart.

-Lao Tsu circa 500BC

Europe 1997

My Freaking Trip to Europe


Tuesday, Sept 10th

I made the ten am flight to JFK. Robbie Robertson and two buddhist monks were on the plane. After deplaning I was smoking at the curbside of the terminal and saw one of the monks pull a cell phone from within the folds of his robe. The other monk bowed a greeting to him but got no response.

Wednesday, Sept 11th

I made the eight pm flight to Heathrow. The movie was "The Arrival", about yuppie aliens terraforming the earth to suit their own smog-breathing ecosystem. There was a lengthy promo for ABC-Disney-American Airlines-NFL monday nights that was clearly a rip on "Independence Day". This was followed by a Nightline episode about "life on Mars" that featured scenes from the movie...Coincidence?



Slept well, skipped breakfast. Passed easily through customs and soon found myself on the tube to Earl's Court. Upon exiting the subway station a man asked if I was looking for a hotel. He wanted to direct me to one down the street. I asked how much for a room with a bath. He said 35 pounds. I took out my guide book and asked about the Green Court Hotel. "Oh, you don't want to go there, mate, run by Indians..." I told him I was going to shop around. There were hotels everywhere you look. I went into the first one, the Ramses, and asked for a single with bath. The Indian behind the counter gave me a key to look at a 30 pound room. It was tiny, had a shower at the foot of the bed, a sink at the head of the bed, and no toilet. I went down and asked if any rooms had tubs. He said no, none of the hotels in the area had tubs. I thanked him and left. Across the street was a larger hotel, a Best Western. I asked for a single with bath, they replied yes all our rooms have baths. The receptionist asks if I understood the rates (they were posted right next to her head). 65 pounds. I said yes that's fine. She asked how long I was staying I said one night and the other receptionist suddenly is saying sorry we don't have any singles but we can give you a double...there's a convention you know...I went to a few other hotels and was given some version of the same scam. Finally I reached the Green Court. A very friendly Indian man gave me the key to a single on the 1st landing. He said it was 25 pounds. It had a sink at the foot of the bed and a separate room with toilet and a tub. The window faced the tube tracks and the sheets were moldy. (Although when I returned later they had put fresh sheets on.)



I took the tube to Covent Garden and stopped at a restaurant for lunch and I asked the american waitress if she knew how to find a number through information, or if she had a phone directory. She was no help, said she had similar problems figuring out the English phone system. I walked around then took the tube to Glouster Road, bought a map, and walked towards Earls Court. I bought a watch for 40 quid, it is by Naf Naf. Back at Earls Court I went to a phone service and tried calling everyone. Paid 10 pence for reaching an answering machine in France. Stopped at a pub for a pint and asked to see a phone directory. No listing for Simon but I found an internet service nearby, "declare". It was just round the corner from my hotel. Mostly LCIIIs, they didn't serve food or drinks. I logged on (5/hr) checked my eMail. I tried to update my journal with an old version of Fetch but it uploaded everything as .htm.txt files. Went to another pub. Called Matt. Back to my hotel ( new sheets!). Then took a much needed hot bath. Whoever had changed the sheets had left a girlie mag in the night stand. Then I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant across the street. Went to a grocery store and bought yogurt, beer, sweets, and a Time Out. Back at the hotel I read in the Time Out where all the internet cafes were and a listing of hotels, one of which was the Windermere near Victoria. It was listed at 65 per single. I watched tele for a bit and fell asleep.



Thursday Sept 12th

The next morning I got up and called the hotel. They had a room. I went down the street and made some calls. Took the tube to Sloan Square and then a cab to the hotel (it was 10 am). They let me have a nice double for 65. It had a nice shower and a big bed. I set off for the Internet Cafe near Victoria. I logged on and got my eMail and sent a note to the QTVR list saying I was traveling through Europe, and listed my itinerary. It was a beautiful day. I walked up the road to Buckingham Palace and took three panoramas. Walked up to Piccadilly Circus, found the Global Cafe. Logged on again. Talked to the manager about QTVR, he was interested in having some done when they finished redecorating. I gave him my card and said I'd be back in November. He said he would eMail me a proposal. Took the tube back to Victoria. Stopped for a pint. Took a shower at the hotel, put on my white shirt and went down to happy hour at the hotel bar (7:30pm). I had two Pernods for one then sat down to dinner (Turkey Provençal). Chatted with the french bartender and chef, then went up to sleep.


Friday, Sept 13

Next morning I went down to breakfast ( bacon and eggs, very tasty). Got my things in order. The hotel owner was kind enough to give me a lift to another hotel. It was closer to the station but the room was on the 4th floor. It had a tub. Walked over to the internet cafe, got eMail from Daniel Brugger in Switzerland and Tim Carrol in Paris, both responding to my posting on the QTVR list. Got a note from Matt. Sent notes to Matt and the eCafe. I looked in on the live cam at the eCafe but it was 5am there...
There was a tour bus leaving from across the street. It was one of those double decker jobs with an open top. I figured I could get some good shots and it would be nicer than taking the tube. I asked the driver how much, he said ten bob, but you could get on and off all day- the busses ran every 15 minutes. So I got on. It wasn't very interesting...we passed the American embassy and a large group of protesters were gathered there but the tour guide only mentioned the wing span of the eagle stuck to the side of the soviet-style building, "It's as wide as this bus..." We eventually got to Parliament and I got off. I hadn't bought a ticket so I got a nice free ride around town. The weather was glorious so I took lots of photos (I remember Parliament being black now it’s gold). Walked along the Thames to the Embankment and took the tube to Gough Road. Had a sushi lunch with beer and saki. Then just around the corner was Cyberia. As I was standing in line for a terminal, a guy asked why I had a spirit level on my camera. I explained it was for QuickTime VR panoramas. He says he manages Cyberia and edits an internet magazine and would like to know more ( but he was in a hurry). I gave him my card. Logged on, got a note from Xroads with Andy Bower's eMail address and a note from William Donelson (QTVRer from Earls Court) saying I should call.


I took the tube to the hotel ( stopped at a pub for a pint and a gimlet-the bartender had never heard of a gimlet).Very unfriendly fuckers at every pub so far. Bought some bubble bath. Went back and used it. Fell asleep early- no dinner.



Saturday, Sept 14

Got up for breakfast ( overcooked eggs and greasy bacon with a side of deep fried wonderbread) Took a shower, packed and paid up. Walked to the station and put my bags in a locker. Went to the internet cafe. Note from Matt. Took the tube to Earls Court, to make phone calls. Was able to contact Keith's girlfriend in Prague, she said he was going to be in the Ukraine until October 3rd. I gave her my e mail address and said I would be in Prague around the 1st. I walked to South Kensington, had lunch at the Gran Cafe near the V&A. Went to 'declare' but their system was down, went to phone place- no contact. Took the tube back to Victoria, bought a ticket on the overnight train/ferry to Amsterdam. Departs 7pm arrives 9am. 60 quid. Unfortunately leaves from Liverpool Street on the other side of town. I go kill a few hours at the internet cafe. Then get my bags and take the Circle Line.


On the tube: A street musician is just stepping off the train telling everyone, "I'll be playing at so and so pub next Wednesday...", in a thick Irish brogue. A pinstriped suited old man stepping on says,"get off you IRA bastard!". The longhair with the guitar responds,"You've got as much intelligence as the boot end of my arse you narrow-minded ponce..."

Sometime later

OK, so I'm on the fucking ferry. Sitting in the middle of this fucking disco, talking to my new friend, Roderick, from Utrcht (excuse me). We are talking about this German girl sitting with her friends. I go over and introduce myself, offer to buy them drinks, they ignore me. Later, Roderick, after talking with one of the other German girls tells me that they thought I was 40...So I go to the fucking casino on the fucking ferry and blow 5 pounds on roulette...So its a fucking 7 hour ride through disco hell. I'm just drunk enough to be in sync with the boat...I should have taken the chunnel, like fucking Tom Cruise.



Sunday, September 16th

OK, I feel better. I slept for a while, then we were herded off the boat, given validations. My friend Roderick took the train to Rotterdam and I took the express to Amsterdam. When I arrived I tossed a coin three times: heads go directly to Zwolle, tails stay in Amsterdam. Heads three times, so I bought a ticket to Zwolle.


At this point I'm in some serious hurt. I drag myself off the train in Zwolle and to a taxi. I tell him to take me to a reasonable hotel. It is 150 whatever a night. OK. It has a jacuzzi bath. OK. It won't be ready for an hour. OK. It's a ten minute walk to town. I leave my bags. Take a map with me. The town has a moat. I see Annemieke's old address on the map so I walk by. Nice place. So I'm downtown now- it's Sunday morning- like a fucking neutron bomb went off. A few people ride around on bikes. Thousands of bikes parked everywhere- none locked. I look like an extra from Pulp Fiction in my black two button jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans - I get funny looks. I go back to the hotel, draw a bubble bath (nice big tub), peel off my clothes, and dive in. I still hurt. Crawl into bed and sleep until six. Shave, put my hair in order and go out. I walk to the center of town, legs sore but unencumbered by anything but my journal. I'm taking stock of my aches and pains- mostly my left shoulder, thighs and both knees. I puruse various restaurants, no one is particularly friendly but they all speak english. So I settle on a place called 'Weekends'. I have tomato soup and chicken Sate (the waitress explained that it is a traditional Dutch preparation- chicken skewers with peanut sauce- I asked if that was anything like the Thai dish, she gave me a confused look.



Monday, Sept 17th

Get up early, have breakfast: grapenuts, coffee, oj, canned fruit salad, cold cuts and bread. The coffee was good. Gave my laundry to the hotelier. Organized my camera bag and set out. I stopped at some store; it was either a realtor or travel agency, everyone was sitting at a computer. I said, " This is a little off the wall, but do you know of anyplace in town that has internet access, perhaps a university?" They said, " Yes, there is a university but its quite far to walk..." Another said, " Don't you have a car?", "No I don't have a car", "Taxi, you could take a taxi" I thanked them and left. I walked to the main plaza, set up and took a panorama. Then I walked around town, took another pano of a castle and fountain. Then I walked back to the square and bought some postcards and a Herald. On the way back to the hotel I passed a bar that had a small Mel's style pool table. I ordered a beer and asked to play. Three college kids were playing, one, an asian, was quite good. I played (and won) several games. We talked, they were very friendly. One was wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Finally I lost and went back to the hotel. I told them I would be back later.


At the hotel I changed clothes and left my equipment. I set out again for town, stopping on the way at Annemieke's old house. There was a piece of paper taped next to the buzzer: M= 1 buzz W= 2 buzz C= 3 buzz F= 4 buzz Jehovas= 10 buzz. I rang once and got no answer so I rang twice. A young man answered. I told him I was looking for Annemieke. He invited me into the foyer and showed me her address pinned to the wall. He gave me a piece of paper to write on. I wrote down her number, then walked back to the bar. The same guys were still there. I bought them all beers and played another game. I tried calling A's number but got a weird out-of order tone. I asked my new friends what that meant. "Oh, yes, we have a new prefix in Zwolle, you must dial 4 first" So I did. A man answered, undaunted I asked for Annemieke. After a pause she was on the line.

"Hello, Annemieke, this is Mark, Mark Norris, from Amerika,"
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I know it's been awhile, a year or so, we met in Chiapas..."
"Yes, of course...This is unexpected. How are you..."
"I'm fine, I was wondering if I could take you to dinner."
"Dinner...?But..."
"I'm in Zwolle...I'm staying at the hotel Fidder."
"You are in Zwolle!" I could hear her talking in Dutch to someone.
Then,"What brings you to Holland?"
"I'm just passing through on my way to Prague, I'm doing photography for the internet..."
"Oh, yes so you are doing the same..."
"Yes, and you, are you still in radio?"
"Yes, yes, a different company but still radio..." There was a pause.
" So I invite you to dinner, here; I will cook for you..."
"OK, that would be nice"
"Yes, you can see my place...just give me an hour and a half. Yes? I need to clean up..."
"OK."
"And if you get lost call I will pick you up, I have a car now..."

So I bought another round for the gang, told them my good news. We played more pool but eventually we just sat around talking about films and conspiracy theories. They were looking forward to the impending release of "Independence Day". Coincidence?


After an hour or so I walked over to Annemieke's. She lived just across from the train station. She answered the door, I didn't recognize her at first. She had short hair. The apartment was dark, she led me down a dark hall to the kitchen. Her boyfriend was at the stove. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I sat down. They chopped food and we chatted. A bottle of wine was opened. They were making cheese fondue. We went outside to set the table but it was too cold. We drank another bottle of wine. Annemieke's friend, Margoram, who was with her in Chiapas, came over. I gave them a picture I took of them there. The boyfriend was in entertainment tv. We talked about politics. He is a Palestinian. Margoram doesn't like him. I drank another bottle of wine (white wine! I should have known better...) I even made myself a martini...Annemieke said she would drive me back to my hotel. Margoram left and Annemieke drove me back (she was very proud of her plastic car). I don't remember what I said to her but I think I said I was glad to see her again. She hastily wrote her address and number on a receipt laying on the dash. This artifact is all I have to show it all went well. I went up to my room, tossed my case on the bed and walked to town. I asked a taxi to take me to "girls"...He drove me down some back alleys and deposited me in front of a garage door that had a video camera. I knocked and was buzzed in. It was a tacky bar, one large blonde at the counter. She was the bartender. I asked for a beer. I talked with her for a while, she asked if I wanted to take a Jacuzzi. I asked 'how much?'. She said 100 of whatever they called money. I had to go to the bank. I walked around the darkened alleys, found the bank, found my way back, and ended up in the tub with this large Dutch woman surrounded by stuffed animals. I asked ' what's up with all the teddy bears?' She said they belong to the Russian girls; this was their room. It was a big room, filled with stuffed animals, with a big bed at one end and a big Jacuzzi at the other. I asked 'where are the Russians?'. She said 'they're around'...


Tuesday

The next morning I was woken at 9 by someone asking if I was coming down to breakfast (served until 10). I said , "No, I would like some coffee." I packed up and went down. A woman I hadn't seen before was behind the desk. She wore a black low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage. She gave me the bill ( the phone bill was more than the room). I asked her to call me a cab and add a pot of coffee to the bill. She said I could have the coffee free because I missed breakfast. The taxi took me to the station. I bought a ticket and sat at a cafe for more coffee and a ham sandwich. I felt like shit. Took the train. I actually got annoyed at all the chain smoking going on around me. Walked right out of the station in Amsterdam and got on a tram. The driver wanted to know how far I was going. I said I didn't know, I would get off when I saw something I liked. She sold me a 3 gilder ticket, saying,"It is good for the center." I rode a few blocks and got off. She seemed disappointed. I walked away from the busy streets until I found a hotel that seemed like it would be clean and quiet. The Nova Hotel; 150 guilders for a single with shower. It was a tacky, modern room compared to Zwolle and it faced a street with a tram track, it had porno on the TV. So I chilled for a bit, took a shower. I asked at the desk where the internet cafe was. They showed me on a map the general area they thought it was. I think they misunderstood me because they sent me to the red-light district (intercourse cafe? intersex cafe?). I walked around worriedly. A lot of seedy looking people lurking in dark alleyways. Some cute girls standing behind windows in their undies. They would tap the glass with their rings as I passed by. Finally, I had dinner at a sushi place (mental note: do not ever go to a sushi place in Europe-they all suck). Then went back to the hotel to watch bad porn and 'Get Shorty'.

Wednesday

Next day, got up and went out with my camera. Went to the Mini-Office, a computer center with internet . Very slow connection. Checked my mail. I asked about the internet cafe and they looked it up in a guide book. I headed towards it, stopped at a used clothing store because it was cold. I wanted to buy a Gaberdine coat but they didn't take credit cards. So I headed for a bank. End up at Top's Internet Cafe. Log on, drink coffee, get eMail. I fix my journal a bit using Fetch on their Mac. Go back towards the hotel, stop at bank, have lunch, write postcards, back to clothing store, buy coat. I go back to the hotel and rest, watch CNN. Get up, take a shower, head for 'Top's'. Stop on the way at 'Shiva' for a delicious dinner (chicken tikka). (mental note: Indian restaurants in Europe are better than sushi places). Very satisfied, I walk through Rembrant Platz, passed-up all the strip joints and made it to 'Tops'. Ordered a beer and started updating my journal. Got as far as Zwolle. More beers at the bar, inhaling all the second hand hash smoke. If I weren't alone and traveling tomorrow I'd be tempted to get some. I'm pretty pleased with my stay in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, I'll check my bags at the station, buy a ticket for Paris, and spend the day photographing. I get a bit freaked out when I think about how much this is costing and how I should have more to show for it. But, I'm learning and I'm writing, and I should have some good photos. Had a few more beers and talked to the manager of 'Tops' about QTVR. He was interested but hadn't downloaded the plug-ins. On the way home I bought some Gaulois Blondes and had a Guiness.



Thursday

Having breakfast at the Nova, I figure I should stay another night. Get some good panos today and tomorrow. I need to rest my leg ( my right shin is fucked-up) Went to the post office, mailed 11 cards. Took a pano from a pretty bridge. Walked and walked, had a shwarma for lunch and ended up at Top's. Had a beer, only seven messages- all to the QTVR list. Bit low on cash so I didn't send any mail nor update my page. Played pinball. Walked towards the Rikjsmuseum, stopped at the Amnesty International bar/cafe/movie house. Some thoughts on Europe: I grew up in a very different England. London, I remember, was a dark, dismal place. The countryside was bucolic, small villages unmarred by superhighways and chain stores where the local pub was a friendly meeting place (yes, even as a little kid I was hanging out in bars). Now London is a big, americanized melting pot boiling over with hatred and mistrust.



The Dutch really pride themselves on speaking English but someone needs to point out that they aren't very good at it. Usually, they speak in a broken pig English (is that redundant?), which is fine, but they don't seem to always understand what is being said. They hear what they want to hear. I suppose, because they are taught English from an early age and they deal with so many tourists, they think it is too easy, but they miss the subtleties. Don't get me wrong, I can't even order a beer in Dutch, this is not some rant about English-uber-alles, I think people should preserve their culture through language. When I go to another country I don't mind if no one speaks my language. It is always possible to make oneself understood. It forces you to pay greater attention to people. I think of Marco Polo traveling the spice route through a myriad of established, exotic cultures; the respect and wonder he showed their customs. He didn't have a phrase book. He didn't eat at the local McDuce's pizzeria everywhere he went. So, to give credit where due, the Dutch speak English better than the Germans, the French, and the English. And they are a handsome race.



What's up with all these Russian whores everywhere? They had them in Cambodia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Zwolle...Isn't it enough that Amerika won the cold war, they also have to turn all russian women into sex slaves? How proud to be a Russian today: dad's a drunk, mom works at McDonalds, sis is a whore, little boris is a thug, gramma and gramps are in the street, and I'm in the Mafia...Well I haven't been to Russia yet, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm sure I'll have something to say about the French when I get there. I've been boycotting French wine for a while now because of their killing of a photographer on the Greenpeace boat that their spies blew up in New Zealand.


O.K., enough of that. I'm at a bar called Balls. I think that is because they have pool tables but I'm not sure. The music has turned sour here at Balls. So I'll move on. A bicyclist just rode by singing, "the secret life...of a-ra-bia.." I thought that was amusing. My choice of bars now, just within blocks of my hotel, has dwindled. The last one was packed, no place to sit, a mix of Americans and Dutch but too typical. I walked by the 'Kandinski', which has a nice ring to it, but aside from a few couples necking there was no one there. I chose the place I am now because of the cute bartendress. It is dark with beer stiens and antelope heads on the walls. Full of only self-absorbed Dutch people. Still, it's better than television. It is just after midnight. I will have all day tomorrow to finish my Amsterdam experience.


These fucking French cigarettes suck. Cobblestones are pretty but they wreak hell on my shins. Still, outside of Elsie's, New York, the eCafe, parts of Seattle, San Francisco and LA, Amerika blows compared to Holland. The Dutch do have that annoying throat-clearing conflux of syllables when they speak their own language. I'll have to recommend this bar, if I ever figure out what it's called. It gives a realistic impression of Dutch life. The average Dutchman wears either a windbreaker or a stylish KGB-style leather jacket, wide-collar shirt, and jeans. The women wear short skirts with black stockings, cable turtleneck sweaters. I'm wearing my new gaberdine overcoat, blue shirt, black sweatshirt, black jeans, scarf and Vans. My black-dyed hair is usually standing on end from sleeping on the train or too small a bed. I'll have one more smoke then go back to the hotel.


I was thinking before I left on this trip that I needed to live more to write more and to find a quiet place, free of distractions where I could commit it all to paper, but I haven't really done anything. It is good to write this journal because it is clearing the cobwebs out of my head - but I need to spend some serious time putting it together in a readable format. And I need to write a sensible story involving my dreams and ambitions. Perhaps in this journal I should concentrate less on my comings and goings and more on the atmosphere of places I am. Aside from my asides I have skipped a lot of the visual, tactile details of this trip. The piss smell of the London tube for example. I said this cafe was dark; bars in Holland are called 'brown cafes' because the centuries of tobacco smoke have turned the walls brown. I haven't met anyone who doesn't smoke. Sitting at Top's internet cafe I could taste the second hand hash smoke. So sweet smelling. Luckily, at the time I still had some Exports. I'd rather smoke hash than these shitty french cigarettes.

sometime later

There are similarities in Steve Erickson's stories, particularly his very autobiographical 'Amnesiascope', to my own untold stories and dreams. His obsession with a girl he calls Sally is so similar to my feelings towards Sophie. Each of his previous books have in some way focused on his relation to her. Of equal importance is his respect for the meaning of dreams - not necessarily that his or mine mean anything or are precognitive but he gives their mystery the deference deserved. His stories interweave dreams and a dreamlike reality and are propelled by the passions of very real characters. The best writers I can think of use similar techniques - essentially they are driven to find the truth of consciousness using self-perception and unconscious archetypes. Thomas Pynchon, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Phillip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, Ursurla K. LeGuin, Martin Amis, Steve Erickson, Jonathan Lethem...that's all that come to mind at the moment. This is an aside but Erickson mentions one of my favorite movies, "In a Lonely Place" in Amnesiascope. It stars Humphrey Bogart as an alcoholic screenwriter accused of murder. Very intense depiction of writer's block. Another great movie few people have ever heard of is "Cry of the Penguins" starring a youthful John Hurt.



I am sitting here in the Lizard Lounge in Le Marais a few blocks from my hotel, the Grand Hotel Mahler. I had a lovely dinner; poulet citron, and was pleased to find it full of and run by americans ( the lounge not my chicken). Now they are playing Portishead so I decided to stay and drink.

Europe 1997

Tuesday, Sept 10th

I made the ten am flight to JFK. Robbie Robertson and two buddhist monks were on the plane. After deplaning I was smoking at the curbside of the terminal and saw one of the monks pull a cell phone from within the folds of his robe. The other monk bowed a greeting to him but got no response.

Wednesday, Sept 11th

I made the eight pm flight to Heathrow. The movie was "The Arrival", about yuppie aliens terraforming the earth to suit their own smog-breathing ecosystem. There was a lengthy promo for ABC-Disney-American Airlines-NFL monday nights that was clearly a rip on "Independence Day". This was followed by a Nightline episode about "life on Mars" that featured scenes from the movie...Coincidence?



Slept well, skipped breakfast. Passed easily through customs and soon found myself on the tube to Earl's Court. Upon exiting the subway station a man asked if I was looking for a hotel. He wanted to direct me to one down the street. I asked how much for a room with a bath. He said 35 pounds. I took out my guide book and asked about the Green Court Hotel. "Oh, you don't want to go there, mate, run by Indians..." I told him I was going to shop around. There were hotels everywhere you look. I went into the first one, the Ramses, and asked for a single with bath. The Indian behind the counter gave me a key to look at a 30 pound room. It was tiny, had a shower at the foot of the bed, a sink at the head of the bed, and no toilet. I went down and asked if any rooms had tubs. He said no, none of the hotels in the area had tubs. I thanked him and left. Across the street was a larger hotel, a Best Western. I asked for a single with bath, they replied yes all our rooms have baths. The receptionist asks if I understood the rates (they were posted right next to her head). 65 pounds. I said yes that's fine. She asked how long I was staying I said one night and the other receptionist suddenly is saying sorry we don't have any singles but we can give you a double...there's a convention you know...I went to a few other hotels and was given some version of the same scam. Finally I reached the Green Court. A very friendly Indian man gave me the key to a single on the 1st landing. He said it was 25 pounds. It had a sink at the foot of the bed and a separate room with toilet and a tub. The window faced the tube tracks and the sheets were moldy. (Although when I returned later they had put fresh sheets on.)



I took the tube to Covent Garden and stopped at a restaurant for lunch and I asked the american waitress if she knew how to find a number through information, or if she had a phone directory. She was no help, said she had similar problems figuring out the English phone system. I walked around then took the tube to Glouster Road, bought a map, and walked towards Earls Court. I bought a watch for 40 quid, it is by Naf Naf. Back at Earls Court I went to a phone service and tried calling everyone. Paid 10 pence for reaching an answering machine in France. Stopped at a pub for a pint and asked to see a phone directory. No listing for Simon but I found an internet service nearby, "declare". It was just round the corner from my hotel. Mostly LCIIIs, they didn't serve food or drinks. I logged on (5/hr) checked my eMail. I tried to update my journal with an old version of Fetch but it uploaded everything as .htm.txt files. Went to another pub. Called Matt. Back to my hotel ( new sheets!). Then took a much needed hot bath. Whoever had changed the sheets had left a girlie mag in the night stand. Then I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant across the street. Went to a grocery store and bought yogurt, beer, sweets, and a Time Out. Back at the hotel I read in the Time Out where all the internet cafes were and a listing of hotels, one of which was the Windermere near Victoria. It was listed at 65 per single. I watched tele for a bit and fell asleep.



Thursday Sept 12th

The next morning I got up and called the hotel. They had a room. I went down the street and made some calls. Took the tube to Sloan Square and then a cab to the hotel (it was 10 am). They let me have a nice double for 65. It had a nice shower and a big bed. I set off for the Internet Cafe near Victoria. I logged on and got my eMail and sent a note to the QTVR list saying I was traveling through Europe, and listed my itinerary. It was a beautiful day. I walked up the road to Buckingham Palace and took three panoramas. Walked up to Piccadilly Circus, found the Global Cafe. Logged on again. Talked to the manager about QTVR, he was interested in having some done when they finished redecorating. I gave him my card and said I'd be back in November. He said he would eMail me a proposal. Took the tube back to Victoria. Stopped for a pint. Took a shower at the hotel, put on my white shirt and went down to happy hour at the hotel bar (7:30pm). I had two Pernods for one then sat down to dinner (Turkey Provençal). Chatted with the french bartender and chef, then went up to sleep.


Friday, Sept 13

Next morning I went down to breakfast ( bacon and eggs, very tasty). Got my things in order. The hotel owner was kind enough to give me a lift to another hotel. It was closer to the station but the room was on the 4th floor. It had a tub. Walked over to the internet cafe, got eMail from Daniel Brugger in Switzerland and Tim Carrol in Paris, both responding to my posting on the QTVR list. Got a note from Matt. Sent notes to Matt and the eCafe. I looked in on the live cam at the eCafe but it was 5am there...
There was a tour bus leaving from across the street. It was one of those double decker jobs with an open top. I figured I could get some good shots and it would be nicer than taking the tube. I asked the driver how much, he said ten bob, but you could get on and off all day- the busses ran every 15 minutes. So I got on. It wasn't very interesting...we passed the American embassy and a large group of protesters were gathered there but the tour guide only mentioned the wing span of the eagle stuck to the side of the soviet-style building, "It's as wide as this bus..." We eventually got to Parliament and I got off. I hadn't bought a ticket so I got a nice free ride around town. The weather was glorious so I took lots of photos (I remember Parliament being black now it’s gold). Walked along the Thames to the Embankment and took the tube to Gough Road. Had a sushi lunch with beer and saki. Then just around the corner was Cyberia. As I was standing in line for a terminal, a guy asked why I had a spirit level on my camera. I explained it was for QuickTime VR panoramas. He says he manages Cyberia and edits an internet magazine and would like to know more ( but he was in a hurry). I gave him my card. Logged on, got a note from Xroads with Andy Bower's eMail address and a note from William Donelson (QTVRer from Earls Court) saying I should call.


I took the tube to the hotel ( stopped at a pub for a pint and a gimlet-the bartender had never heard of a gimlet).Very unfriendly fuckers at every pub so far. Bought some bubble bath. Went back and used it. Fell asleep early- no dinner.



Saturday, Sept 14

Got up for breakfast ( overcooked eggs and greasy bacon with a side of deep fried wonderbread) Took a shower, packed and paid up. Walked to the station and put my bags in a locker. Went to the internet cafe. Note from Matt. Took the tube to Earls Court, to make phone calls. Was able to contact Keith's girlfriend in Prague, she said he was going to be in the Ukraine until October 3rd. I gave her my e mail address and said I would be in Prague around the 1st. I walked to South Kensington, had lunch at the Gran Cafe near the V&A. Went to 'declare' but their system was down, went to phone place- no contact. Took the tube back to Victoria, bought a ticket on the overnight train/ferry to Amsterdam. Departs 7pm arrives 9am. 60 quid. Unfortunately leaves from Liverpool Street on the other side of town. I go kill a few hours at the internet cafe. Then get my bags and take the Circle Line.


On the tube: A street musician is just stepping off the train telling everyone, "I'll be playing at so and so pub next Wednesday...", in a thick Irish brogue. A pinstriped suited old man stepping on says,"get off you IRA bastard!". The longhair with the guitar responds,"You've got as much intelligence as the boot end of my arse you narrow-minded ponce..."

Sometime later

OK, so I'm on the fucking ferry. Sitting in the middle of this fucking disco, talking to my new friend, Roderick, from Utrcht (excuse me). We are talking about this German girl sitting with her friends. I go over and introduce myself, offer to buy them drinks, they ignore me. Later, Roderick, after talking with one of the other German girls tells me that they thought I was 40...So I go to the fucking casino on the fucking ferry and blow 5 pounds on roulette...So its a fucking 7 hour ride through disco hell. I'm just drunk enough to be in sync with the boat...I should have taken the chunnel, like fucking Tom Cruise.



Sunday, September 16th

OK, I feel better. I slept for a while, then we were herded off the boat, given validations. My friend Roderick took the train to Rotterdam and I took the express to Amsterdam. When I arrived I tossed a coin three times: heads go directly to Zwolle, tails stay in Amsterdam. Heads three times, so I bought a ticket to Zwolle.


At this point I'm in some serious hurt. I drag myself off the train in Zwolle and to a taxi. I tell him to take me to a reasonable hotel. It is 150 whatever a night. OK. It has a jacuzzi bath. OK. It won't be ready for an hour. OK. It's a ten minute walk to town. I leave my bags. Take a map with me. The town has a moat. I see Annemieke's old address on the map so I walk by. Nice place. So I'm downtown now- it's Sunday morning- like a fucking neutron bomb went off. A few people ride around on bikes. Thousands of bikes parked everywhere- none locked. I look like an extra from Pulp Fiction in my black two button jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans - I get funny looks. I go back to the hotel, draw a bubble bath (nice big tub), peel off my clothes, and dive in. I still hurt. Crawl into bed and sleep until six. Shave, put my hair in order and go out. I walk to the center of town, legs sore but unencumbered by anything but my journal. I'm taking stock of my aches and pains- mostly my left shoulder, thighs and both knees. I puruse various restaurants, no one is particularly friendly but they all speak english. So I settle on a place called 'Weekends'. I have tomato soup and chicken Sate (the waitress explained that it is a traditional Dutch preparation- chicken skewers with peanut sauce- I asked if that was anything like the Thai dish, she gave me a confused look.



Monday, Sept 17th

Get up early, have breakfast: grapenuts, coffee, oj, canned fruit salad, cold cuts and bread. The coffee was good. Gave my laundry to the hotelier. Organized my camera bag and set out. I stopped at some store; it was either a realtor or travel agency, everyone was sitting at a computer. I said, " This is a little off the wall, but do you know of anyplace in town that has internet access, perhaps a university?" They said, " Yes, there is a university but its quite far to walk..." Another said, " Don't you have a car?", "No I don't have a car", "Taxi, you could take a taxi" I thanked them and left. I walked to the main plaza, set up and took a panorama. Then I walked around town, took another pano of a castle and fountain. Then I walked back to the square and bought some postcards and a Herald. On the way back to the hotel I passed a bar that had a small Mel's style pool table. I ordered a beer and asked to play. Three college kids were playing, one, an asian, was quite good. I played (and won) several games. We talked, they were very friendly. One was wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Finally I lost and went back to the hotel. I told them I would be back later.


At the hotel I changed clothes and left my equipment. I set out again for town, stopping on the way at Annemieke's old house. There was a piece of paper taped next to the buzzer: M= 1 buzz W= 2 buzz C= 3 buzz F= 4 buzz Jehovas= 10 buzz. I rang once and got no answer so I rang twice. A young man answered. I told him I was looking for Annemieke. He invited me into the foyer and showed me her address pinned to the wall. He gave me a piece of paper to write on. I wrote down her number, then walked back to the bar. The same guys were still there. I bought them all beers and played another game. I tried calling A's number but got a weird out-of order tone. I asked my new friends what that meant. "Oh, yes, we have a new prefix in Zwolle, you must dial 4 first" So I did. A man answered, undaunted I asked for Annemieke. After a pause she was on the line.

"Hello, Annemieke, this is Mark, Mark Norris, from Amerika,"
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I know it's been awhile, a year or so, we met in Chiapas..."
"Yes, of course...This is unexpected. How are you..."
"I'm fine, I was wondering if I could take you to dinner."
"Dinner...?But..."
"I'm in Zwolle...I'm staying at the hotel Fidder."
"You are in Zwolle!" I could hear her talking in Dutch to someone.
Then,"What brings you to Holland?"
"I'm just passing through on my way to Prague, I'm doing photography for the internet..."
"Oh, yes so you are doing the same..."
"Yes, and you, are you still in radio?"
"Yes, yes, a different company but still radio..." There was a pause.
" So I invite you to dinner, here; I will cook for you..."
"OK, that would be nice"
"Yes, you can see my place...just give me an hour and a half. Yes? I need to clean up..."
"OK."
"And if you get lost call I will pick you up, I have a car now..."

So I bought another round for the gang, told them my good news. We played more pool but eventually we just sat around talking about films and conspiracy theories. They were looking forward to the impending release of "Independence Day". Coincidence?


After an hour or so I walked over to Annemieke's. She lived just across from the train station. She answered the door, I didn't recognize her at first. She had short hair. The apartment was dark, she led me down a dark hall to the kitchen. Her boyfriend was at the stove. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I sat down. They chopped food and we chatted. A bottle of wine was opened. They were making cheese fondue. We went outside to set the table but it was too cold. We drank another bottle of wine. Annemieke's friend, Margoram, who was with her in Chiapas, came over. I gave them a picture I took of them there. The boyfriend was in entertainment tv. We talked about politics. He is a Palestinian. Margoram doesn't like him. I drank another bottle of wine (white wine! I should have known better...) I even made myself a martini...Annemieke said she would drive me back to my hotel. Margoram left and Annemieke drove me back (she was very proud of her plastic car). I don't remember what I said to her but I think I said I was glad to see her again. She hastily wrote her address and number on a receipt laying on the dash. This artifact is all I have to show it all went well. I went up to my room, tossed my case on the bed and walked to town. I asked a taxi to take me to "girls"...He drove me down some back alleys and deposited me in front of a garage door that had a video camera. I knocked and was buzzed in. It was a tacky bar, one large blonde at the counter. She was the bartender. I asked for a beer. I talked with her for a while, she asked if I wanted to take a Jacuzzi. I asked 'how much?'. She said 100 of whatever they called money. I had to go to the bank. I walked around the darkened alleys, found the bank, found my way back, and ended up in the tub with this large Dutch woman surrounded by stuffed animals. I asked ' what's up with all the teddy bears?' She said they belong to the Russian girls; this was their room. It was a big room, filled with stuffed animals, with a big bed at one end and a big Jacuzzi at the other. I asked 'where are the Russians?'. She said 'they're around'...


Tuesday

The next morning I was woken at 9 by someone asking if I was coming down to breakfast (served until 10). I said , "No, I would like some coffee." I packed up and went down. A woman I hadn't seen before was behind the desk. She wore a black low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage. She gave me the bill ( the phone bill was more than the room). I asked her to call me a cab and add a pot of coffee to the bill. She said I could have the coffee free because I missed breakfast. The taxi took me to the station. I bought a ticket and sat at a cafe for more coffee and a ham sandwich. I felt like shit. Took the train. I actually got annoyed at all the chain smoking going on around me. Walked right out of the station in Amsterdam and got on a tram. The driver wanted to know how far I was going. I said I didn't know, I would get off when I saw something I liked. She sold me a 3 gilder ticket, saying,"It is good for the center." I rode a few blocks and got off. She seemed disappointed. I walked away from the busy streets until I found a hotel that seemed like it would be clean and quiet. The Nova Hotel; 150 guilders for a single with shower. It was a tacky, modern room compared to Zwolle and it faced a street with a tram track, it had porno on the TV. So I chilled for a bit, took a shower. I asked at the desk where the internet cafe was. They showed me on a map the general area they thought it was. I think they misunderstood me because they sent me to the red-light district (intercourse cafe? intersex cafe?). I walked around worriedly. A lot of seedy looking people lurking in dark alleyways. Some cute girls standing behind windows in their undies. They would tap the glass with their rings as I passed by. Finally, I had dinner at a sushi place (mental note: do not ever go to a sushi place in Europe-they all suck). Then went back to the hotel to watch bad porn and 'Get Shorty'.

Wednesday

Next day, got up and went out with my camera. Went to the Mini-Office, a computer center with internet . Very slow connection. Checked my mail. I asked about the internet cafe and they looked it up in a guide book. I headed towards it, stopped at a used clothing store because it was cold. I wanted to buy a Gaberdine coat but they didn't take credit cards. So I headed for a bank. End up at Top's Internet Cafe. Log on, drink coffee, get eMail. I fix my journal a bit using Fetch on their Mac. Go back towards the hotel, stop at bank, have lunch, write postcards, back to clothing store, buy coat. I go back to the hotel and rest, watch CNN. Get up, take a shower, head for 'Top's'. Stop on the way at 'Shiva' for a delicious dinner (chicken tikka). (mental note: Indian restaurants in Europe are better than sushi places). Very satisfied, I walk through Rembrant Platz, passed-up all the strip joints and made it to 'Tops'. Ordered a beer and started updating my journal. Got as far as Zwolle. More beers at the bar, inhaling all the second hand hash smoke. If I weren't alone and traveling tomorrow I'd be tempted to get some. I'm pretty pleased with my stay in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, I'll check my bags at the station, buy a ticket for Paris, and spend the day photographing. I get a bit freaked out when I think about how much this is costing and how I should have more to show for it. But, I'm learning and I'm writing, and I should have some good photos. Had a few more beers and talked to the manager of 'Tops' about QTVR. He was interested but hadn't downloaded the plug-ins. On the way home I bought some Gaulois Blondes and had a Guiness.



Thursday

Having breakfast at the Nova, I figure I should stay another night. Get some good panos today and tomorrow. I need to rest my leg ( my right shin is fucked-up) Went to the post office, mailed 11 cards. Took a pano from a pretty bridge. Walked and walked, had a shwarma for lunch and ended up at Top's. Had a beer, only seven messages- all to the QTVR list. Bit low on cash so I didn't send any mail nor update my page. Played pinball. Walked towards the Rikjsmuseum, stopped at the Amnesty International bar/cafe/movie house. Some thoughts on Europe: I grew up in a very different England. London, I remember, was a dark, dismal place. The countryside was bucolic, small villages unmarred by superhighways and chain stores where the local pub was a friendly meeting place (yes, even as a little kid I was hanging out in bars). Now London is a big, americanized melting pot boiling over with hatred and mistrust.



The Dutch really pride themselves on speaking English but someone needs to point out that they aren't very good at it. Usually, they speak in a broken pig English (is that redundant?), which is fine, but they don't seem to always understand what is being said. They hear what they want to hear. I suppose, because they are taught English from an early age and they deal with so many tourists, they think it is too easy, but they miss the subtleties. Don't get me wrong, I can't even order a beer in Dutch, this is not some rant about English-uber-alles, I think people should preserve their culture through language. When I go to another country I don't mind if no one speaks my language. It is always possible to make oneself understood. It forces you to pay greater attention to people. I think of Marco Polo traveling the spice route through a myriad of established, exotic cultures; the respect and wonder he showed their customs. He didn't have a phrase book. He didn't eat at the local McDuce's pizzeria everywhere he went. So, to give credit where due, the Dutch speak English better than the Germans, the French, and the English. And they are a handsome race.



What's up with all these Russian whores everywhere? They had them in Cambodia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Zwolle...Isn't it enough that Amerika won the cold war, they also have to turn all russian women into sex slaves? How proud to be a Russian today: dad's a drunk, mom works at McDonalds, sis is a whore, little boris is a thug, gramma and gramps are in the street, and I'm in the Mafia...Well I haven't been to Russia yet, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm sure I'll have something to say about the French when I get there. I've been boycotting French wine for a while now because of their killing of a photographer on the Greenpeace boat that their spies blew up in New Zealand.


O.K., enough of that. I'm at a bar called Balls. I think that is because they have pool tables but I'm not sure. The music has turned sour here at Balls. So I'll move on. A bicyclist just rode by singing, "the secret life...of a-ra-bia.." I thought that was amusing. My choice of bars now, just within blocks of my hotel, has dwindled. The last one was packed, no place to sit, a mix of Americans and Dutch but too typical. I walked by the 'Kandinski', which has a nice ring to it, but aside from a few couples necking there was no one there. I chose the place I am now because of the cute bartendress. It is dark with beer stiens and antelope heads on the walls. Full of only self-absorbed Dutch people. Still, it's better than television. It is just after midnight. I will have all day tomorrow to finish my Amsterdam experience.


These fucking French cigarettes suck. Cobblestones are pretty but they wreak hell on my shins. Still, outside of Elsie's, New York, the eCafe, parts of Seattle, San Francisco and LA, Amerika blows compared to Holland. The Dutch do have that annoying throat-clearing conflux of syllables when they speak their own language. I'll have to recommend this bar, if I ever figure out what it's called. It gives a realistic impression of Dutch life. The average Dutchman wears either a windbreaker or a stylish KGB-style leather jacket, wide-collar shirt, and jeans. The women wear short skirts with black stockings, cable turtleneck sweaters. I'm wearing my new gaberdine overcoat, blue shirt, black sweatshirt, black jeans, scarf and Vans. My black-dyed hair is usually standing on end from sleeping on the train or too small a bed. I'll have one more smoke then go back to the hotel.


I was thinking before I left on this trip that I needed to live more to write more and to find a quiet place, free of distractions where I could commit it all to paper, but I haven't really done anything. It is good to write this journal because it is clearing the cobwebs out of my head - but I need to spend some serious time putting it together in a readable format. And I need to write a sensible story involving my dreams and ambitions. Perhaps in this journal I should concentrate less on my comings and goings and more on the atmosphere of places I am. Aside from my asides I have skipped a lot of the visual, tactile details of this trip. The piss smell of the London tube for example. I said this cafe was dark; bars in Holland are called 'brown cafes' because the centuries of tobacco smoke have turned the walls brown. I haven't met anyone who doesn't smoke. Sitting at Top's internet cafe I could taste the second hand hash smoke. So sweet smelling. Luckily, at the time I still had some Exports. I'd rather smoke hash than these shitty french cigarettes.

sometime later

There are similarities in Steve Erickson's stories, particularly his very autobiographical 'Amnesiascope', to my own untold stories and dreams. His obsession with a girl he calls Sally is so similar to my feelings towards Sophie. Each of his previous books have in some way focused on his relation to her. Of equal importance is his respect for the meaning of dreams - not necessarily that his or mine mean anything or are precognitive but he gives their mystery the deference deserved. His stories interweave dreams and a dreamlike reality and are propelled by the passions of very real characters. The best writers I can think of use similar techniques - essentially they are driven to find the truth of consciousness using self-perception and unconscious archetypes. Thomas Pynchon, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Phillip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, Ursurla K. LeGuin, Martin Amis, Steve Erickson, Jonathan Lethem...that's all that come to mind at the moment. This is an aside but Erickson mentions one of my favorite movies, "In a Lonely Place" in Amnesiascope. It stars Humphrey Bogart as an alcoholic screenwriter accused of murder. Very intense depiction of writer's block. Another great movie few people have ever heard of is "Cry of the Penguins" starring a youthful John Hurt.



I am sitting here in the Lizard Lounge in Le Marais a few blocks from my hotel, the Grand Hotel Mahler. I had a lovely dinner; poulet citron, and was pleased to find it full of and run by americans ( the lounge not my chicken). Now they are playing Portishead so I decided to stay and drink.