Nardo Goes West, Part Four

After my first night on the train I woke up to North Dakota in all its broad splendor.  Sure, there were plenty of cereal crops across the horizon, but all lots of small ponds, perhaps left by the retreat of glaciers many thousands of years ago. They were all in use by various birds. I don't think I've ever seen so many ducklings. I'm just used to pigeons in New York City. They're never old or young. they're always middle-aged adults, just like the people in the sitcoms that take place there.

I looked over the instructions and the metal pieces sticking out of the furniture. I figured out how to put the bed back and turn it into seats, how to turn the seats into a bed, and how to lower the bunk. I used the last trick in case I needed something that could serve as a shelf. I decided to leave the bed down. That way I could sit up or lay down to work or read. I preferred to lie down. Why? Because I could feel the motions of the train sliding under me. When I looked to the side, I could see the world flying on by and it was easy to imagine I was flying too, like some kind of Amtrak superman.

Most of what I saw involved agriculture of one kind or another. It was interesting to be so close to the food supply, at least as grain, dairy, and meat are concerned. I didn't see much in the way of fruit or vegetable production until we reached Washington. Not only did I see the crops, I saw how the crops get to market. There were silos everywhere and occasionally I saw train cars getting filed with the bounty they stored inside.

Where last night's steak came from

This is where last night's dinner may have gotten its lunch from.
It could be anywhere from Fargo to Missoula 

For breakfast, I had a quesadilla with eggs and green tomatillo sauce. It was the only thing on the menu that looked like it had any kick to it. My suspicions were confirmed when the two gentleman I sat with ordered eggs and then ordered salsa to put on them after they saw my dish in all its glory.

This dish is called the Battle of Puebla, because the Mexican
quesadilla is displacing the occupying French Croissant

There is plenty of salsa to go around (I had an extra container of red salsa in addition to what was on my plate) so don't be afraid to ask! During breakfast I sat with two older gentlemen. One was from North Dakota, near Rugby, the other was from Juneau, Alaska. The man from North Dakota was a doctor for an Indian Reservation and talked about the health challenges facing the local tribes because of sugary foods, in addition to alcohol. He also told us the various legends and stories (and I assume jokes) behind how Devils Lake got its name. He also pointed out the different kinds of birds and mentioned the area was popular with hunters. The traveler from Juneau asked the man from North Dakota what he liked about living there. He laughed and said it was because there were no people.

After breakfast, I went to the observation car, to well, observe. The sky was clear above me and the land was fertile in all directions. With nothing else to distract me, or even tempt me, I saw and looked out at the country rolling on by.

The upper windows

North Dakota, not to be confused with South Dakota

Rugby, North Dakota. It's the geographical center of North America

We passed through several small cities and large towns such as Rugby and Minot. It was probably the farthest I've ever been from the ocean. I live right near Ruby Road in Brooklyn and I guess I can sum up my summer as going from Rugby Road to Rugby town. When I think about it, more people probably live on that street than live in Rugby, North Dakota. Okay, that's enough talking about Rugby or rugby.

We continued moving through North Dakota and into Montana. I saw Fort Union, which straddles the boundary between the two states.

Fort Union, preserving the uneasy peace between
Montana and North Dakota

We reached Wolf Point by lunchtime. Next to it was the Fort Peck Indian Reservation. I had lunch with an Australian couple from Brisbane. They were on a trip around the world. Like me, they were yearning to see the mountains, especially any with snow on them. They told me they don't get to see much of either in Australia. I had a tortilla dish with chorizo while the couple had the mussels. Despite our distance from the sea, they said the shellfish was good. According to our waitress, the mussels are the secret dish that nobody orders but those who do always enjoy. I didn't mind my meal. It seems the most interesting options for eating on the train involve Mexican cooking. Well, at least until they bring back the gnocchi. I had the caramel parfait for dessert.

I hung around my roomette car after lunch. Working, taking pictures, and reading as we went through the great expanse of Montana. People forget how big the state is (number four). Near Malta, the train had to go through a "duck and tuck" in order to let a freight train get by. We often had to manuever around them on the trip. Pretty soon, Carlo was coming around to take dinner reservations. He continued to promote it with the phrase "real meals with real people." I put in a reservation for dinner with him for a later time 6:45. I had trouble getting power for my laptop, and with no signal for my phone, I decided to go to the observation car and have a drink.

Having wine on the train

More Montana. The state's name is a lie.

The new state capitol of Montana

Switching into Mountain Time

Sitting Bull

By this point I had enough with amber waves. I wanted purple mountains majesty!

But there were penguins

Maybe not the but certainly an Overlook Hotel

I had dinner with a couple from outside Fargo, ND and a woman originally from Minot, but who now lived outside Seattle. I had the risotto because there was no gnocchi, again. We all had wine with dinner. Some of it was corked, others had a screw-on (or off) cap. The risotto was decent. I had the fruit and cheese plate for dessert. I got a sense of how small a world North Dakota is because my dinner companions realized they had mutual acquaintances. I must say I've learned more about life in the Flickertail State on this trip than ever before. 

By the end of dinner we started to see the mountains. The real mountains. Not the lumpy hills of central Montana, but the real peaks of Glacier National Park. I spent the rest of the evening looking at the mountains and the tall trees that grow around them. At least until we lost all daylight. I admit I felt nervous around the evergreens growing by the rails. I wondered if they knew what we had done to their shorter cousins back East during Christmas time. Were they ready to lay their branches on us? I realized then I'd had too much wine.

More mountains

Unfortunately, I had to sleep through large parts of the trip through the mountains. When I woke up, I was on the other side of Glacier National Park. There were still plenty of visual glories awaiting me in the Cascades. I also had a phone signal for the first time in a day. At this point in the trip, the most of the sleeping cars had emptied out, at least on my level. I guess a number of people got off at Whitefish or Spokane. On my way to the shower, Carl, the sleeping car attendant, said I looked like a young John Hodgeman. This was the highlight of the trip, until we reached the next mountain range.

I had breakfast with a father and son from Janesville, Wisconsin. I saw orchards filled with pear and apple trees, as well as homesteads scattered around the shade of the mountain. I thought it looked like the end of the Oregon Trail and tried to see if I could find a tombstone with "pepperoni and cheese" on it. I wasn't in Oregon but the geography is similar.

We stopped in Leavenworth, which is supposed to look like a Bavarian village. I couldn't see it from the tracks. I did see Bigfoot though. I can't wait for my check from the National Enquirer.

The lounge car was closed, which was lame. I wonder if it was because it was no longer part of the train. In Spokane, the Empire Builder splits in half, just like Rome and Constantinople. My part of the train goes onto Seattle. The other half heads on to Portland. We get to keep the dining car, while the folks heading to Portland have to deal with a pre-made breakfast box. I stayed in my roomette for the rest of the trip. The views were good, except when we went into the Cascade Tunnel, the longest train tunnel in North America. It's 7.89 miles of darkness all the way through.

Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest

We began to make our descent towards the coast. My ears actually popped because of the change in air pressure. We went along rives and streams. I saw some of the bluest moving waters I've ever seen. 

The water out here makes Poland Spring look like backwash from
a spittoon used by an Antebellum Senator

Now it was time for the trip to come to an end. The Empire Builder reached Puget sound and traveled south along the shoreline. There were forest fires going on, so visibility was reduced. Even in the city you could see it. Everything seemed hazy and people wore masks over their mouths.

Puget Sound, it's foggy because of the wildfires going on

Finally, we came to Seattle and I saw several landmarks as the train snaked its way into the King Street Station.

The people of Seattle loved Frasier so much they built
a miniature version of the logo

I wonder if I could sell this picture to Getty images?

We pulled in with a slight delay. I went into the station and enjoyed its splendor, a far cry from the Pittsburgh station. I didn't check my bags, so I was able to pick up my things and head right out into the Emerald City.

Hello Seattle!

Overall, I would rate the experience highly, especially for a city-slicker such as myself. I got to see a lot of the country I've never seen before, met different kinds of people, and learned to adjust a different kind of lifestyle. Riding the train let me appreciate the countryside and the way that we as Americans use it. I wish the train did have WiFi on board. Not that I would've spent the whole time just watching old episodes of the Simpsons. It would've been nice to listen to some music while the country went by. I also wish there had been communication ahead of time about the lack of a sundries pack. Nevertheless, it was fun and (here it the survey answer) I would recommend the trip to my family and/or friends. Now it's time to try out the southern route from LA to New Orleans, or maybe head through the middle of the country through Denver.

Part Moron, Part Genius and Part Ogre: Reviewing Paris Review Interviews

As I mentioned in my last blogpost  I'm getting back into the publishing game, trying to find and agent and with their help, scale the heights of the...um...publishing world. To that end I'm immersing myself in the world of writing, authors, and publishing. I'm reading articles about getting published, instructions, lists of agents, how-to manuals, all of it. Hopefully something will rub off on me. Or I will at least be inspired. The key is to make it what I do when I'm bored or when I need something to kill time. No more idle following the news, gossip, music, or movies. No, instead, I'm going to listen to an interview on Bookworm with Michael Silverblatt or watch a documentary about Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or the whole Lost Generation!

However, I save that for when I'm submitting and searching for presses and agencies. When I can't play something in the background, or watch it in the foreground, I have to turn to the text in order to continue my immersion in the affairs of the writ. It makes sense, words for a would-be up-and-coming wordsmith. A favorite of mine are the interviews at the Paris Review. They span the decades from the 1950s to the present day and contain several gems from poets, playwrights, and novelists. Reading through them, you realize how the same problems with editors, audiences, booksellers, publishers, and writer's block keep recurring through literary history and never fail to spare the famous, infamous, unknown, and rightfully ignored. 

In the 1950s, a goatee like this automatically landed you on the Blacklist

I particularly enjoy John Steinbeck's complaint about the "reader" as imagined by his publisher:

"He is so stupid you can't trust him with an idea. 
He is so clever he will catch you in the least error.
He will not buy short books.
He will not buy long books.
He is part moron, part genius and part ogre. 
There is some doubt as to whether he can read."

Terry Southern's interview was interesting, if for no other reason, I think I look like him with my bangs and beard. He also predicted rise of cable and movies on demand. At one point, the interviewer asks “will success spoil Terry Southern?” judging from his Wikipedia page, I’d say yes, yes it did.

Over time, the interviews slowly evolve and the interviewees change the way they write them. In Harold Bloom's piece, the interview strangely incorporates his wife and him wandering through rooms and watching television. In the end it becomes a screenplay of the time the two of them spent together. In his interview, he revealed that he liked the Band (“there hasn’t been any good American rock since, alas, The Band disbanded”), as well as his view of foreign policy ("Our foreign policy basically amounts to making the world safe for Gnosticism").

Reading the more recent pieces in the Paris Review, it seems they are becoming self-aware. Not that the subject and the interviewer suddenly know they are in the midst of a friendly interrogation. That's always been the case since the interviews started. It's more the case that the Paris Review is now dealing with writers like Matthew Weiner and Wallace Shawn who grew up reading the interviews. Wallace even believed he would end up being interviewed by the publication eventually.


Perhaps one day I'll get to make a comment about commenting on the interviews while being interviewed by the Paris Review. Meta Squared. 

Unknown Words With Ben Nardolilli

Hello everyone. I've got a new medium to share with you. SOUND. Matthew Anderson was kind enough to interview for his podcast Unknown Words.  Sit down, pour yourself a stiff one, and listen to me here.

Talking to An Octopus

I wrote a piece my body for Quail Bell. It's kinda phenomenological. It's another non-fiction piece. Another memoirish piece. Go ahead and read it. No need to interpret. Just observe.

Is It Nothing to You, All Who Click Through?

The lovely, understanding, endlessly creative and sympathetic Quail Bell magazine has published a piece I wrote. Finally, some more prose credits to my name. Even better, it's not fiction! So if you can't stand poetry and want writing to be about "reality," here's something for you, you Bourgeois Philistine (Philatelists are cool though).

Gay Press, Gay Power: A Book Review

Order it here

Gay Press, Gay Power: The Growth of LGBT Community Newspapers in America
Paperback: 468 pages
Gay Press, Gay Power: The Growth of LGBT Community Newspapers in America Paperback: 468 pages Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (November 24, 2012) 
Edited by Tracy Baim 

It makes sense that the history of America’s Gay newspapers is in many ways a microcosm of the history of the community itself in the twentieth century. In an era before blogs, social media, and academic journals friendly to LGBTQ issues, newspapers run by Gays and Lesbians served as one of the first safe spaces to publicly present and discuss Queer issues. Of course there were bars, clubs, and private parties, but newspapers offered a way to take the discourse of the community public and provide a means for recording what was going on for future reference. Gay Press, Gay Power: The Growth of LGBT Community Newspapers in America is a clear beneficiary of this archive. This collection of writings, edited and co-authored by Tracy Baim, tells the story of the Gay Press but inevitably reflects the advances achieved and setbacks felt by the LGBTQ community in America as well. However, it is more than just a presentation of headlines that mirror this experience. It deals with the specific history behind a variety of publications, controversies within their staffs, and the nuts and bolts of making the Gay press work. 

The book is divided into several parts that each deal with an aspect of Gay newspapers. Part One covers their history from the start of the twentieth century up to the present. It begins by covering the challenges of producing newspapers for homosexuals and homophiles in an era of obscenity and sodomy laws and an outright hostile mainstream press. The book demonstrates the need for these newspapers when the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times would refer to Gays and Lesbians as nothing but “perverts” in their pages, if they were mentioned at all. Part One details how the most common expression of homophobia among newspapers in those days was their silence and not overt condemnation.

Part Two is written by men and women who were involved with the Gay press as writers and editors. They discuss issues with funding, discrimination, and the bitter infighting within the publications. One of the strengths of Gay Press, is that it does not shy away from depicting the problems faced by Lesbians on Gay-dominated staffs, GLBTQ people of color in having their issues heard, or the struggle for transgender and transsexual Americans to be recognized by these newspapers. Part Three continues by focusing on individual publications in ten different cities, such as the Philadelphia Gay News and the Washington Blade. Meanwhile, Part Four deals with the business of the Gay press and Part Five focuses on issues raised by the rise of the internet and social media. 

Having all these parts written by different authors about different subject matters is both a strength and a weakness for the collection. It does mean that a wide breadth of materials and the media for different communities among the GLBTQ crowd are covered. The pieces not only deal with racial diversity but also regional diversity as well. A history of the Gay press might be excused for focusing primarily on San Francisco and New York City, but this volume goes beyond expectations and deals with Gay newspapers across the country. In particular, it focuses on Chicago (which makes sense since Tracy Baim co-founded the Windy City Times.) The history of Lesbian papers is well-represented by telling the story of such figures as Lisa Ben who founded Vice Versa, the first Lesbian newspaper in the country. 

This method of division allows for pieces which detail the running of these newspapers and their funding, an aspect often overlooked in consideration of any history on print journalism. Advertising in particular gets a deserving amount of attention in this book and not just because it keeps the Gay press afloat. The growth of companies willing to advertise to in these newspapers is representative of changes in public perception and acceptance of GLBTQ Americans over the course of the past fifty years. Of course, the issues of “pinkwashing” and a lack of advertising featuring Lesbians and Gay people of color are brought up as well. 

However, having so many writers turns the book into a hodgepodge of reviews, essays, memoirs, and predictions about the future of the Gay press. Each section feels more deserving of its own separate books because of these incongruences. There are several downsides to having so many different sections in the book with different authors thrown into the mix. The first is that many details and histories are repeated through the work. Another problem is that an extreme focus on the minutiae of a particular publication can be a drag to get through. Anyone looking for those specifics will be in luck but a reader seeking a general history will find it difficult to get through. A major issue for anybody looking to use the text as a source is a lack of clear citations for many of the passages. In addition, there is little focus on the bisexual press or the bisexual experience within the Gay press. Maybe there was not enough material at the time of compilation for it to warrant inclusion. 

Perhaps the work suffers from the same kind of problems the early Gay Press had, having to be everything for the community in the absence of other publications and other outlets. As Gay Press, Gay Power points out, early newspapers had to serve as a place for news, but also provide opinion pieces, conduct advocacy, produce bar and nightlife guides, showcase a social register, and post various literary offerings. As time went on these separate functions were taken over by other groups, leaving the Gay press with the main task of covering current events from an GLBTQ perspective. Maybe future books will come along and provide a similar function, for instance producing a volume of memoirs from Gay journalists separate from a more formal history of the newspapers they served.

An American Diplomat in Franco Spain: A Book Review

An American Diplomat in Franco Spain by Michael Aaron Rockland (paperback, 178 pages, Hansen) is a memoir from a former member of the Foreign Service who was stationed in Spain during the late 1960s, a period of time when the country was still under the dictatorship of Francisco Franco. The work is a quick read and filled with many amusing anecdotes along with comparisons between the American and Spanish ways of life. Several famous figures make an appearance within its pages as well as a first-hand account of a military disaster that threatened to become Spain's version of Chernobyl. However, Rockland's work has a tendency to digress into observations about the present as well as his life back in the States after serving in Spain. Both of these make the book seem padded for length. In addition, even though the term "Franco" and "Spain" are in the title, the memoir itself deals little with the everyday reality of life under the Caudillo. 

At the heart of the memoir is the story of a young diplomat's struggle to put his personal politics and beliefs aside to serve his country abroad. When Rockland arrives in Spain, he is overjoyed to be in a land whose language and culture he admires, but he is dismayed having to work with a fascist regime his parents raised him to oppose. Making matters worse, Rockland often encounters ex-Nazis the government is sheltering at routine diplomatic functions. Rockland does try to resist as best he can without becoming a persona non grata.  In one scene for instance, the author manages to sneak out of having to shake Franco's hand when the dictator comes to an event and the other diplomats have to stand in a line to greet him. As his time at the embassy goes on, Rockland's idealism wears away and when he is transferred from Madrid to Saigon, he decides to leave the Foreign Service for good.   

But he makes the most of his time in Spain and treats the reader to a series of amusing anecdotes and encounters.  As an aspiring writer, Rockland visits the haunts of Ernest Hemingway and meets a female bullfighter who has a secret theory that explains why the famed author killed himself.  Meanwhile, he engages in a battle of wills and wits with his neighbor's dog, whose owners he suspects of being Nazis exiled from Romania.  He also learns to adapt to his position as a Jew in Spain, which means clarifying numerous misconceptions among the Spanish, such as Jews having horns. For his part, he learns not to take offense at such things as the costumes of the Semana Santa despite their resemblance to those worn by certain groups back home. In a particularly fascinating turn of events, Rockland's son auditions for and wins a role in the movie Dr. Zhivago, which was filmed in Spain. 

Through his position at the embassy, Rockland gets to meet some of the important people of the era. One of these is Martin Luther King Jr. The author acts as an unofficial interpreter and assistant to the civil rights leader while he stops in Spain for a brief visit as part of a tour of Europe. In their time together, Rockland gives King a lesson in geography and helps him get over a bout of diarrhea.  King makes Rockland realize his own prejudices, particularly against the South, and that Black Southerners are as much a part of the region and its culture as are its Whites. A little while later, the diplomat meets Ted Kennedy and largely performs the same role for him, except that he also gets to serve as the senator's social companion. This comes with the downside of having to pick up the Senator's bar tab, which serves as another reality check for Rockland because it was his idolization of JFK which lead him into the Foreign Service in the first place.  He is also involved with the diplomatic response to the Palomares incident when a B-52s collided with a Stratotanker over Spain during a refueling mission. The collision caused the bomber to inadvertently drop several hydrogen bombs which had to be retrieved without setting off mass panic. In the end, Rockland went for a swim off the coast with Ambassador Angier Biddle Duke to assuage concerns about radioactivity   

Despite these picaresque incidents and others, they are not enough to justify a book-length treatment for Rockland's years in Spain. All too often, the chapters are bulked up with gratuitous asides which take the reader out of Franco's Spain (or Francoist Spain, why "Franco Spain" was chosen for the title is a mystery) and into the present with only the flimsiest link to the author's experiences in late sixties Madrid. Sometimes the asides can be interesting, such as his observations on bullfighting and tipping, but they still digress, along with his idea to have special personal ads for garlic eaters. All too often, Rockland tackles topics such as Columbus, cosmopolitanism in America, the Protestant work ethic, and our changing terms for Black Americans, instead of discussing the nature of the dictatorship he had to work with.  

An American Diplomat in Franco Spain starts out strong but finishes weak. Perhaps Rockland could have made his memoir about the sixties in general instead of his time in Spain since he often references what he was doing during the decade before and after his tenure in Madrid. He mentions the Kennedys, hearing Bob Dylan for the first time, working in South Vietnam, and dealing with campus strife, all subjects which could be elaborated upon to form a more perfect memoir. It would certainly give Rockland an opportunity to dig through his personal archives to find more interesting pictures. The photographs supplied for the book mainly feature him in a variety of seated poses, either by himself at a desk, or next to older men proudly crossing their legs to show off bit of calf.  

My Life in Six Words

Over at SMITH's six word memoir project