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More Uncle Jack Among the English... by Jack Loughary
Even though it would be nice if there were no poverty, I think that there always will be. It is practically certain that in a free society there will be a least economic inequality. And one way of compensating for some of that is for those on the top to provide certain benefits for those at the bottom of the hill. Higher taxes are one-means, but we can go beyond legislation and government policies. A nice example is the acquisition of a painting named Samson and Delilah that hangs in the National Gallery in London. I mean if you haven't seen it this is a painting! During my stay in London it was hanging in a room very close to the north entrance, easy for anyone to find. It was the only art in the room. People come from the UK and the rest of the world to stare, admire, sketch, just wonder about it.
Samson and Delilah is an art classic of the sort we used to study during grade school art periods. You remember, the 2 inch square reproductions with a paragraph of fine print on the reverse side that you could hardly read, let alone understand. Pete Reuben, the creator of this magnificent painting, has about a thousand things going on at once that I could see....and I didn't even know what to look for! What got my attention first is this great big guy, his hair long and his tremendously full muscles forming his strong masculine body, sort of sitting on the floor at the feet of this gorgeous woman with his head and torso resting on her lap. Delila is gazing down on Sampson with a look of concern. She has soft red hair, and is dressed in a bright red gown. The upper part of her body is exposed for all the world to see. What it sees, among other things, is a pair of full, red nippled breasts that exemplify love, woman, femininity and desire. You just know that if old Samson could get his strength back, the two of them would have it on gloriously right then and there. If you should want to look at it that way, the painting tells a story about passion that few people would miss. It also has great literary, artistic and historical significance beyond my meager knowledge of it. But what is most important to me is that it is there for people to enjoy. It is free and no more than a few yards from the front door. Why? Because when this painting came up for sale at auction the trustees of the National Gallery bought it for $5 million and then hung for anyone who wanted to come by and have a look. Never mind 15 per cent unemployment at the time, starving children in Africa and pressing need for medical research. A few people, with discretion over considerable financial resources used the funds to make available a single painting because they thought that in the long run it would be in the best culture interests of the people of England and others who would be fortunate enough to view it.
Another example that illustrates the seeming absurdity and presumptuousness of one man and his money facing the reasoned process of government is the story of Lord Elgin and his Marbles. These are not the kind you shoot on the school yard, but rather the type that the Greeks used for telling stories. What has come to be known as the Elgin Marbles, as you may know, is a series of marble sculptures from the Parthenon in Athens. Of course, the Greeks didn't call them the Elgins. That all came later in about 1800. Lord Elgin was pretty well fixed financially, even for those days, and somehow got himself appointed to a position of importance in the English scheme of things. He heard that the Turks, who were in charge of Athens at the time, were neglecting the Parthenon statues. There was a particularly fine set which was about 3 feet tall and ran for 500 feet around the top of the Parthenon. They were a frieze that tells in detail the story of a Greek precession in honor of one of their goddesses. In addition to just being magnificent to look at they reveal a great deal about the period during which they were done, 447-432 B.C. A long time ago, what ever you might say.
Well, Lord Elgin sailed down to Athens on official government status for the purpose of making casts of the frieze so that copies cold be displayed in London. When he got there the maintenance was even worse than he had heard. The Turks apparently had more important things to do than look after the marbles and so the ancient treasure was deteriorating rapidly. "The hell with this noise," or words to that effect said the Lord to his staff. "Let's pack up what's left of the frieze and ship it back to London." And that is what they did. They took down, crated and shipped 240 feet of the marbles to London. He did all of this not at government expense, but from his personal funds. Wanting to avoid government red tape and having the means to act with purpose and haste, he spent the equivalent of $150,000 (remember this was nineteenth century money) out of his own pocket. Elgin presented the whole lot to the British Museum when he returned to London and naturally asked to be reimbursed for his out of pocket expenses. He was a Lord, you know. Parliament was less than enthusiastic about his request and didn't want to pay him a schilling. After two years of hassling, the Lord settled for half of what his little act of altruism had set him back. Today the Elgin Marbles are priceless and can be viewed free in a British Museum gallery. The room is immense. It was a gift to the people from a fellow named Lord Duveen of Milbank. Apparently, he was also filthy rich. And if you or any of your friends are interested in postage stamp collections, there is a huge one worth millions of dollars in the London National Postal Museum. Much of it was paid for by an individual collector, one Reginald M. Phillips. Admission is free. It is nice, I think, that some who easily could, don't take their marbles and go home. Everyone knows that we live by lots and lots of rules. You may not like some and I may not like others, but we all understand that rules exist. Rules range from those we proclaim as laws of the land to subtle innuendos communicated with a raised brow or a particular tone of voice. Behavior which breaks or violates rules often has unpleasant consequences. With regard to our big rules, that is laws, these are made very explicit and we are expected to know them. You remember, ignorance of the law and so forth. There are other rules about which those in charge post constant reminders but which receive less respect. We experience these every day: Wet Paint, Men, Women, Shirts and Shoes Required, Credit Cards Not Accepted, Please Don't Cross The Tracks (they are difficult to straighten). There is a particular kind of situation involving rules that can be extremely frustrating. These involve written rules, take place within the context of government organizations and thus inevitably require interactions with civil servants, some of whom are neither. We all get ourselves into such situation at one time or another. In a can-you-top-this contest regarding rules, I would offer the following for openers. I planned to return to American eventually by continuing my around the world itinerary which included a stop over in India and so my task for this particular day was to begin the process of obtaining an Indian visa for my American passport. Basically, a visa consists of a rubber stamped message on a page of one's passport, initialed by some nameless official. Simple? Well nevertheless I proceeded with caution, this being one of those situations about which the rules were not totally clear, even though I had read up on them and the related procedures.
Day One: Go to the India House in the center of London where the person at the main reception desk directed me to The High Commission of India. The High Commission was located outside the main entrance to India House, around the corner to the back of the building. One entered the clearly marked door, goes down a flight of stairs, then back up and around a corner to a window labeled visas, without the expected queue. Very Good! Ah, but not so fast. The fellow behind the bars of the visa window explains that visa business is transacted only between the hours of 9:30 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.. Somewhat of a surprise because I had telephoned earlier inquiring about procedures (rules) and was told to come any time between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. It was then 2:00 p.m. Determined to be patient, aloof and remain an observer who could learn from this experience, I asked for a visa application form. He, the fellow behind the visa bars, informed me that he didn't deal in the form distribution component of the process. That was the function of the lady at the forms desk located some distance from the building entrance. That nice lady provided me with Form V and instructed me to return on Monday with the from completed plus £1, 5 pence and three photographs of myself. Never mind the size of the pictures, she added, the machine takes care of it. Day Two: Completing Form V in the privacy of my own flat was interesting. Form V was an official document, apparently composed on an older model typewriter and reproduced on an even older mimeograph machine. Form V had many typographical errors, omissions, and requests for information such as my grandparent's nationality. Item "14. OBJECTION (sic) OF JOURNEY" instructs that words such as "visit" and "business" are not sufficient. I completed Form V very carefully.
On my return trip to the High Commission I located a photo both in a tube stop and created three copies of a photo in color. Because the fellow behind the visa bars said that my passport would be kept in the High Commission's possession for several days, I found a copy shop and had a copy made of that document. (I may not know the rules, but I can make inferences!) Ah, ready at last and so back to India House, through the High Commission back door, down and up the steps and straight to the rear end of a queue facing the visa window. The same fellow from my former visit was behind the bars. In addition to his responsibilities for receiving visa applications, he is also the person mainly in charge of responding to telephone inquiries. As is often the case, as you also may have observed, these somehow take priority over the business to be done with people who present themselves in person. But the cool, patient observer of the human scene I remained. Finally, it was my turn. The man behind the visa bars took my Form V and gave it a general inspection. I inquired once again (motivated, I'm sure, by fear for the fate of my passport) if it necessary to have a visa for a six or seven day visit to India. I thought that he replied that it was necessary, but our approaches to spoken English were sufficiently different that I was not absolutely sure. After the cursory inspection of Form V, he placed the three photos more or less over the upper right hand corner of Form V and drove a large staple square though the middle of my face, making the photos nearly unrecognizable. A few seconds passed while his fingers wandered through my passport and I waited to pay my fee. Then, a dim light of awareness began to appear in the depths of his eyes. He looked at my Form V again and asked when I would visit India? Was it to be in May? I confirmed that was correct, deciding that to remind him that we discussed that fact on day one would not strengthen our growing relationship. "Then no visa required," he informs me, shoving the passport, Form V and the three pictures under the bar and back to me. "No visa required after March 15. You get a visitor's permit when you arrive in Delhi." Giggling is inappropriate for a grown man, but that is what I did as I swept the documents into my case and hurried down and up the stairs an out the back door of the High Commission of India. But, I felt good about all of this. Not only did I have a better understanding of the rules, but also a completed Form V and 3 photos. Actually, that was not correct. I understood the old rules, and was prepared to obey them should the High Commission ever reinstate them.  Frankfurt Bound
I enjoy Germany very much and decided to stop over in Frankfurt on my journey from London to Delhi. As it turned out, it was a very rainy weekend and a national Monday holiday. Thus I especially enjoyed a run or two, several long walks and hanging around the bar of the Frankfurt Intercontinental Hotel, pretending to be a secret agent gathering intelligence. I should have done just that, as circumstances developed, but how was I to know? On one of my walks I rounded a corner and found myself in front of the Frankfurt India House. A small bronze sign on the corner of the converted older grey stone home pointed to the rear of the building and read High Commission of India. I smiled, knowingly, glad that all of that was behind me.
The Frankfurt Lufthaven was several kilometers from the city center so I decided to splurge and take a cab the next day instead of the airport bus. It was a 20 minute trip and cost the equivalent of $20 in those days. I arrived at the Lufthansa departure gate about 9:25 a.m. having enjoyed being chauffeured in the big Mercedes-Benz machine. My flight was scheduled to leave at 11:00 a.m.. The lines were short in front of both Pan American stations designated for the long Delhi flight. I drew a cheerful red headed agent whose English was excellent. "Learned a lot of it in the U.S.," he informed me. With no one else in line we had a pleasant conversation as he leisurely sorted through my ticket envelop, tearing and stamping and getting me an aisle seat via his computer terminal. Finished with the check-in procedure, he smiled and began to hand back my ticket envelope when he paused, took it back and said that just for the record he should check my India visa. Following a moment or two of absolute silence, I stuttered something about not needing a visa after March 15, and knew this to be true because I had conferred with the India High Commission in London a couple months prior. He smiled and remained pleasant, but it was clear that our relationship had degenerated to something of a much formal nature. He was now an Enforcer of International Travel Regulations and I a violator of same. He did acknowledge that it was true that India announced that it was waiving visa requirements for Americans, but then in its infinite wisdom, the High Commission reversed itself. My self assured suggestion that I could work this out in Delhi was a waste of words. No Visie, No Tripie! How about some help from Air India, I begged. They must have an office at the airport. Nope. More words wasted. Only the High Commission of India could produce the magic stamp on my passport. Now it was 9:45 a.m. and the Pan Am flight to Delhi was on time. "Go for it!", urged Big Red, acknowledging at least in part some of our former friendship.
And so I did. The location of India House in juxtaposition to the Intercontinental Hotel became clear in my mind as I ran through the terminal toward the taxi stand. A youngish looking driver who looked as if he would have been equally comfortable at the controls of a Messerschmidt fighter plane had just unloaded a passenger and I jumped into his back seat, giving directions and pissing off taxi drivers waiting in the queue. The driver caught my sense of urgency and in spite of some harsh sounding directions to the contrary from the taxi coordinator we were off. As we sped over the autobahn back to city center, I recalled the snail's pace action which characterized the High Commission in London and predicted that it would be even worse in Frankfurt. The English have a traditionally effective means of dealing with the Indians. Had conditions been different I would have been fascinated with observing the interaction of German efficiency and Indian bureaucracy. We made the High Commission just after 10:00 a.m. and I was able to communicate with the driver regarding waiting. I don't know how much of the situation he understood, but wait he did. I felt at home in the visa section, long queues ,stacks of forms and slow moving, non-smiling Indians on both sides of the barred service window. With a deep breath and look of desperation on my face I offered several "excuse me's" and barged in at the front of the line. My situation was pretty simple to explain and fortunately was understood. I think the clerk behind the bars thought he had me by the short hairs as he began the "Form V and 3 Photos Lecture". But when I produced these instantaneously from my travel bag he took them, my passport, several Deutsche marks and slowly moved back into the large room full of clerks. Disappointed, obviously. He returned in seven minutes to the widow by which I had remained very, very close and starred at me. Nothing happened. I asked if it is all okay? Apparently everything was, except the closed private door leading from the reception area bull pen. The sign on the door read High Commission. Before Punjab knew what had happened, I grabbed the passport and other papers out of his hand, walked quickly to the Door of the Gods, opened it, smiled wide at the dignified Indian Official inside behind a desk and said, "Please Sir." "You must wait outside," he said in a firm but kindly manner, "these people are ahead of you." "Very sorry," I apologized, " but my flight to Delhi leaves in 45 minutes and I have been misinformed about visa requirements. My paper work is complete. I just need your signature." "But your business is more pressing," he continued taking my passport and Form V and scratching his signature on the visa. Punjab received my most sincere look of appreciation as I raced out of the room, down the stairs and into the waiting cab where Hans sat behind the wheel. He used sign language to assure me that I understood that he was restarting the meter, noting the amount of the incoming fare. He quicky brought his Mercedes up to about 5000 feet and then vectored straight to the Airport, making a perfect landing in front of the departure entrance. Deja Vu! I over tipped him, some of it going spiritually to the H.C. crew. Pan Am's Big Red was working a long line of departing passengers for another flight, but apparently had kept an eye out for me. He handed me my ticket envelope, cheered me on to Concourse B, Gate 36. With ten minutes to spare, I arrived at the gate, walked calmly on board to seat 24C and asked the attendant if he would please hang my coat.
I didn't appreciate how beholden I should have felt towards Big Red, the H.C., Punjab and the rest of the gang back at Frankfurt India House until I arrived at the Delhi airport at 2:00 a.m. the next day. It required over two hours to struggle through the red tape and irrelevant bureaucracy of customs and passport control. That was with visa in hand! Without it one would be in long term purgatory. Worse than hell, since there at least you know. A couple of passengers felt so strong about it that they attempted to purchase tickets on the next flight back to London in order to avoid what looked to them like a poor travel choice in the first place. They couldn't, of course. There was a rule requiring a minimum waiting period.
There was a funny thing going on in London when I lived there. Maybe it happens in all large cities but it is was not unusual to come across self-talkers in London. A lot of people talk to themselves. Out loud. In public. Privately. And that's what makes it interesting. When I worked as a psychologist, I suggested that clients learn self-talk skills. The concept isn't all that difficult to comprehend. It is essentially what it denotes, i.e., talk to yourself. Sometime it is a conversation with you and your self, you taking both roles or voices as it were.
Other times you might substitute other people whom you would like to have a conversation but for some reason can't. Perhaps they are not available or won't cooperate or are simply a creation of one's imagination. Some would view self-talk as a little crazy, others think of it as a kind of therapeutic exercise. It can also be a useful coping skill. For example, imagine you are having dinner with a very important person and as you cut into the avocado covered with an exquisite, cream dressing the damn thing slips off your plate and lands squarely on your lap. A moment of panic and embarrassment. Self-talk to the rescue: "Funny that should happen. Bet everyone in the dining room saw that one. Look at how much they admire me and envy my cool as I scoop up the mess with my saucer and return it gracefully to its former position on the salad plate. I'll be the hero of a hundred stories tonight." You self-talked your self back to a normal state of mind. Or, as you fail to answer questions put to you in a job interview, you could say to yourself: "That's okay, Good Person, you learned a lot from the experience. Best thing that could have happened to you. Never mind that you didn't get the job, and that you have no other options at the moment. Starving is good for building character." That kind of self-talk can be an effective coping skill and is okay mainly because you do it silently, or at least "under your breath", as we say. However, I'm thinking about a different form of self-talk, one that is done out loud directed at no one in particular and within earshot of anyone near the talker to hear. I don't want to make too much of this but it does seem strange and I wonder about it's utility. This kind of self-talk seems mysteriously relevant to the self-talkers' being, not because I know what they are talking about, but because of the firmness and often conviction with which they say it. Here are examples from which you might make sense of this phenomenon in the UK. I had taken a train ride to Eastbourne, a seaside resort city about an hour and a half south of London.
There is a long promenade there, running by a white washed display of Victorian ocean side hotels. On the sea side of the beach street is a well designed band stand with its back partially to the sea, encircled about two thirds around with twenty feet sheets of clear glass. The band, The Royal Regiment Something or Other, was performing it's 1:45 p.m. concert, mostly marches and tone suites. The audience, seated on a series of 10 or 12 bleachers with the English Channel as a back drop, was sparse. Thin. There was hardly anyone there. I listened for a while and then ambled slowly southward, enjoying the sounds of the brass band, gazing out to sea, and feeling the warm sunshine on my face. Into my line of visions came a short, slightly built man, passed 60, hunched over in his black pea coat and watch cap, and shoulder to the wind with his lips moving. As we passed by one another slowly on the promenade his voice became clear as he asserted, "Fucking waste of a good band and something should be done about that!" I tended to agree but he wasn't talking to me, but to himself.
Another day I was about 3 stops from my destination on the tube, when a fellow got on and took a seat close to mine. He was tall, thin, and plainly dressed. Wouldn't have given him a second look, except that he was talking to himself. Quietly, but with concern. "Right, no question about that. Must turn it all around before tomorrow night. Benny has got to help with this one. By God he has to! Benny is the only hope!" He repeated his conclusion several times and actually seemed calmer as he went on shifting the responsibility for what ever was concerning him to Ben. Then, there was the guy in my local pub one evening who I thought was trying to strike up a conversation with me. I sat down near him with my pint and the Times and in a couple minutes the fellow said something like, "Good thing, that, eh?" or so I thought. I waited a moment. There was silence, so I turned my attention back to the paper. "Good thing that," I heard again. Looking left, I smiled easily, put down my paper and responded with the question, "Good thing what?" The fellow looked straight through me, stood up, and with out a word walked across the room and into the gents. Five minutes passes before he returned to his post at the next table. "Good thing, that." God, was he to go on and on, I wondered and turned my head to the mysterious optimist and he responded with a sincere smile. No glassy eyes. Sober. Just another self-talker, no doubt. Seeing no point in continuing, I slipped on my jacket, downed the last of the pint and stood to leave. As I edged around the small pub table, I looked down towards him again and heard, "Better a good thing, that, now that I'm on my way." Then there was the night in the highly rated Chinese restaurant on Leister Square. This tall string bean of a waiter was standing over an empty corner table set for two, pad and pencil in hand, white napkin draped over his arm, very carefully explaining the specialties of the evening. When he finished his presentation, he paused a moment, wrote something on his pad, smiled gently, and quietly retreated from the guestless table.
I'm relatively easy to satisfy as far as accommodations go. Give me your average $110 a night room in any old Hilton, and I'm happy as a clam. Anything over $130 and it is ecstacy. I've even been known to be pleased in a $50 Holiday Inn room, as long as it is at least six and no more than 24 months old. Cleanliness and quietness have become my two basic criteria for judging hotels. Anything else is extra. Thick carpets, turned down toilet paper, cute little plastic bottles of shampoo, shower caps, messages taped across the toilet seat proclaiming that the pooper has been sanitized, and soap in small plastic gift boxes are all nice and add to the pleasure of one's stay, but certainly do not qualify as basic criteria for selecting a place of lodging. Air conditioned garages and a selection of in-house restaurants are also nice. But their absence is not a serious disappointment. If cleanliness and quietness are the basis of selecting accommodations, and fluffy towels and sewing kits are the surprise, there are still some underlying assumptions that need to be met. These are so basic that we take them for granted, or at least I do. Safety and privacy are two of these. The first is pretty straight forward. A sort of go or no go consideration. Get robbed in a hotel once and safety moves from an assumption to a criterion right up there with clean and quiet; ahead of both, in fact. Privacy is more subtle. You have a key to your room but so does half the hotel staff and who knows how many former guests. But what if there is no key to your room? Not a lost key, but no key, no key hole nor any kind of lock. After taking leave of London and arriving at the mid point of the journey to Hong Kong, I decided that it would be interesting to include a side trip to Kashmir.
It was there, in the city of Srinagar that I had the most un-private accommodation that you can imagine. I knew that I should have known better soon after I arrived. The cutely written travel book that had served to mislead me through Italy, Greece and Spain suggested that if you go to Srinagar, by all means stay in a house boat instead of the local 5 star hotel. I had doubts about spending nights on the water, but then shore couldn't be too far away. So, I asked the travel agent at the Maurya Palace Sheraton in Delhi to book me into a first class house boat. He had been there himself, he reassured me (another omen ignored). After several misadventures involving Indian air, landing at what passes as an airport in Srinagar and a death defying bus ride to the city center, I was paddled across Dal Lake in a shirka (substitute leaky canoe) to the Sheikh Palace house boat. It was a member of the Sheikh Group of house boats (three in all) and I could have put into the alternative vessels New Ara Bella or Young Sheikh Palace. A local rental agent was my temporary care taker.
Fortunate I was, proclaimed a letter in he main room of the Sheikh Palace. It documented the pleasant visit of one C.A. Ronning in 1957, then the High Commissioner for Canada. According to the letter, C. A, liked the Sheik's mother, the meals and a fishing expedition, in that order. There was also a flashy eight by ten glossy shot of two guys with field rifles and about 55 dead birds, which didn't seem to fit with the house boat, but apparently made C.A. happy. The house boat was a long narrow structure, starting with a front porch that served as a dock for the shirkas. The porch led to a large living room, on through a dining room, then down a passage way on the right side of the boat with two bedroom suites off to the left and right. The passage terminates at the entrance to the master bedroom suite. The two public rooms were furnished in a style that made me home sick for Cost Plus Imports.
They were so heavy with tacky oriental rugs, brass shell casings made into vases, elaborate dark handled presentation knife sets, and carved walnut tables and chairs as to threaten sinking the boast. Such a fear was unwarranted, as I soon discovered. The lake served many functions, one being a waste receptacle for a large community of house boats, thus giving the water a thick consistency that floated the boats and most anything else, some of which one could see. Being the only guest, I selected the master suite and looked forward to a quiet and private rest, by then having repressed any hopes regarding cleanliness.Within several minutes the local agent in charge of the Sheikh fleet introduced me to Abdul Shake who "takes care of things." Mr. Shake was pleasant, and noted that he would arrange local trips for me. Maybe, I said, suggesting that we leave such decisions until the next day. He smiled, and then settled down on the (my) tiny front porch. Next to arrive was Gulam, a friendly fellow in his early thirties. He, apparently, actually conducted the tours. The matter was not to be postponed. Price? "No problem, sir." Aha. That familiar international tourist phrase! After tap dancing around the front porch and smiling a lot, Gulam disappeared into the sitting room, soon to return via a narrow walk way along the outside of the boat. I could see that the walk went all the way to the rear of the craft, but not where it actually ended. Then appeared Aziz, a dark and handsome fellow of about 23, whom I predicted did most of the work on board. The time by them was 5:30 p.m. and I assumed (hoped) that the cast of characters was complete. Not so. The minor players now began their entrances. Two shirka paddlers, a couple of scruffy young men dressed in dirty green pajamas whose responsibility apparently was to assist Aziz, plus a half dozen men ages 20 through 30 whose function remains to this day a mystery to me appeared withing the next 20 minutes. All seemed to have free access to the houseboat. No knocking, no "excuse me, sir"; they just appeared, usually using my house boat as a pedestrian way to the neighboring boats. By 7:00 p.m. several of the minor cast began extending invitations to their friends to come aboard. Finally, the never ending parade of local water hucksters began.
The author of one sickly sweet gravel book noted that, "The only flaw to a houseboat in Kashmir is that if you sit on deck, the vendors of assorted merchandise, fruits, and flowers on their small boats can become a bit of a nuisance." She ought to be whipped in the public square for that misinformation. What you actually had was a whimpering, passive-dependent extremely tenacious bunch of hucksters of tremendously over-priced beads, braids, and other products of local child labor. Some of the rug dealers make a price distinction between rugs made by child laborers under and over 6 years of age. When night finally fell, I moved to the sanctity of my bed room, only to discover that the walk along the side of the boat was a busy nocturnal public path. To where, was a mystery not solved until the next morning. From the roof of the Sheikh Palace, I could see a second community of house boats behind the row of rentals in which the Sheikh was moored. These served as kitchens for the rental boats and quarters for the crowd that had welcomed itself aboard my barge, and its multifarious support group. My guests were all male, but I learned that each man had at least one wife, several children, probably a parent of two and other miscellaneous relatives and friends docked behind me. When the sun set these boat followers were free to use the only route to freedom and back which turned out to be the side passage of my vessel. It was a sort of "All night, all night Maryanne," situation. One of Aziz's responsibilities was serving meals. For this he donned a once upon a time waiter's white coat. He would serve the rice and curry, and then stand smiling bare foot, quietly watching me eat. I've never eaten so fast in my life. Eleven minutes from main course through dessert and coffee was my usual time while on board. I felt it wrong to keep him waiting. This went on for the five days I was on board. Privacy was impossible. Gulam dropped in irregularly, but frequently, feeling free to interrupt whatever writing or reading I was doing, and always asking how Sir liked Kashmir. One fellow appeared each morning with a large broom and beat the curtains, thus filling the boat with dust. Odd and insensitive I must have seemed to them, but I did solve the floating huckster problem. The second evening in residence aboard the Sheikh, I waited for a peddler to paddle up to my porch. I wanted one whose English was good.
Nick the Jeweler soon arrived and he fit the bill nicely. Nick had dropped in the first night. Now, he and his paddle-man climbed aboard without waiting for an invitation. I began by proclaiming a total lack of interest in making any purchases or even looking at his merchandise. I tried to convince Nick that I was a total loss, a complete waste of his time. Nick smiled and opened one of several fitted boxes and began laying out his beads and bracelets. "No obligation, Sir, just take a little of your time to look, Sir." "Fine, Nick", I said. "But let me explain that my time is not free. I must charge you for it." Nick smiled, looked a bit puzzled, and opened another door of his trunk and reached for more envelopes full of beads, continuing his verbal presentation without losing a beat. Aziz, who early on sensed my displeasure with the hucksters, had been observing the interaction an inquired, "How much your time costs, Sir? "Two hundred fifty rupees for 15 minutes," I answered. Nick the Jeweler paused, and I asked if he understood? I wasn't interested in buying, but I would sell him some of my time for looking at his wares if that was what he wanted. Nick looked up from his kneeling position in front of the low table and said, "But looking is free." "For me, but not for you," I said as pleasantly as I could. "But we merchants expect tourists to look and buy Kashmir goods." "I know, but not all want to look or buy. I am one who does not want to do either. I want to spend my time in other ways. Do you understand?" He didn't really. But he did get the basic message. We had an interesting conversation about free enterprise and the poor quality of Kashmir merchandise and its abundant availability in the U.S. Clearly, he was unaware of the large volume of Indian craft merchandise dumped in the U.S. Soon, Nick the Jeweler packed up his wares and he and his paddler climbed into his shirka and drifted on to a more willing prospect. Whatever the side effects, the strategy worked. Undoubtedly the lake merchants have a jungle telegraph and except for the odd boy selling post cards and Kodak film, Nick the Jeweler was the last vender to call upon the Sheikh Palace while I was in residence. It is the only time I can recall when there has been total agreement among other people regarding the value of my time.
Brits and
Americans Not so in England where it is not so complex. The Brits have been at it a lot longer than Americans, and so it is understandable that they developed a much more reasonable, functional and pleasant drinking system. The is generally acknowledged by American visitors, once they accept the fact that it is difficult to buy a drink in England before noon, between 3:00 and 5:50 pm. or after 10:30 or 11:00 at night. At least, as I say, that was the true as late at the 1980s. It has apparently loosened up a bit in more recent times. The appeal of the English system is so great that some Americans return to the U.S. seriously wanting to open an English pub in their home towns. Such attempts at cultural transplants are never successful. The U.S. society rejects the foreign organ. One reason is the failure to understand a cornerstone of the English pub system; i.e., the institution of social class. The difference between England and America is not that one country has social classes and the other does not. Both do. The difference is that the English recognize their class system and live according to its customs, while the Americans pretend their's doesn't exist.
Historically, the English public house was a place to conduct business, socialize, and partake of food and beverages made from grape and grain. American taverns and bars are basically drinking places where you may or may not find conversation, good cheer and food. In an English pub, one feels that you are the guest of the publican. The feeling is stronger in some pubs than others, and granted nothing is free; nevertheless a spirit of welcome and friendliness prevails in nearly all pubs and you know that after you have departed the publican and his family will stay on. Even If the pub does not contain the family living quarters (which many do) it still has a homey quality. Most American bars lack such cordiality. The English system is much more sensitive and accommodating to social class mores. In England nearly all pubs have two bars and larger pubs may have three. In the classic design, they are in separate rooms but served by a single long counter (bar) that runs through the separate rooms from the server's side. Each room is self contained (i.e., duplicate dispensing equipment, inventories and supplies) and each has its own entrance, sometime off a common hall and sometimes from the street. The first room, or public bar, is for working class patrons. No rugs, curtains, pictures or other needless frills, but always a dart board. That is absolutely essential, darts being a national past time of working class Brit males. The next room is the lounge bar where men may bring their wives, girls friends and even their mothers, or for that matter females are welcome without male companions. It is also the place where business and professional people might meet for lunch or dinner or stop after work for a half pint, glass of wine or a gill or two of spirits. After dinner, you could drop in for conversation and a drink with other neighborhood "regulars". The lounge bar looks very much like a family living room with the addition of the actual stand up drinking bar. There is a variety of comfortable chairs, small tables, lamps and always a fire place. The publican may also display photos of his family, mementos of his military service and other personal and family items. Or, as in many larger city pubs and larger country establishments, there are grand and elaborate displays of copper, brass, swords, medals, and other artifacts dear to the publican. In large pubs, the long counter may extend into a third room which is also a proper restaurant. There, the main purpose is more less formal dining, but a half pint or glass of sherry is never out of sight.. The publican, often with his wife and another server or two, remain behind the counter, moving through the bars tending equally well to all guests. It is not unusual to observe them make subtle changes in language and vary topics of conversation as they move back and forth among people from the several social classes present in the three rooms. If you have been to a few pubs, you will recognize the foregoing description as a caricature, but more often true than not. Traditionally, pubs open about noon and close around 2:30 p.m. They open again between 5:00 and 5:30 p.m. and close somewhere near 11:00 p.m., the precise time being a function of when they open for evening hours, the local closing time ordinance and the night of the week. Some pubs are quiet, some buzz with conversation and others roar with talk and laughter. Beer, wine and strange sour beverages are the rule, with gin and Scotch available in thimble-like portions measured by the gill. What happens at 10:30 or 11:00 p.m. when the publican rings the "drinking up" bell? Well, people drink up and go home. What else? The evening if over. Most pub going Brits have a local or neighborhood pub that they frequent on a more or less regular basis. I was fortunate for a time to have been granted the status as a "reg'lar" by a charming couple named Fred and Joy who operated the Windsor Castle Pub.
I had, I suppose without thinking about it, always entered the Windsor Castle through the lounge bar door. One cold and very rainy evening, I peered through the leaded glass window of the lounge bar door and discovered the room to be very crowded. In addition to an unusually large number of patrons, there were wet overcoats and umbrellas dripping and steaming all over the place. I could also see that The Windsor Castle's public bar, in contrast was half empty that evening, so I chose it as the more pleasant place to have a half pint. I had no sooner entered the door of the public bar and placed my foot on the rail, when Joy entered from the saloon bar side of the counter, gave me a perturbed look, leaned over the counter and announced in a quiet, but oh so firm voice, that I should be in the lounge bar, and would I please go there now. I felt as if I were a young school boy being reprimanded from mistakenly entering the girl's loo. There was no question in my mind about what I should do. I hurriedly grabbed my rain coat and cap, exited the public bar, walked the twenty feet in the rain to the lounge bar door and entered. There, behind the counter, stood Joy, smiling warmly and making a special effort to see that I had a spot along the crowded bar counter.
"Now that's better, isn't it Professor," she proclaimed, "and will it be the usual this evening?" That's class!
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