Buckley's Blog

Daily Bread

A bountiful feast is harder to afford these days

I'm not sure about the garden this year. Last year, we attempted green beans but something's changed in the soil around our place and the fertile spot that, as a child, kept me well-stocked through the fall and winter now produces, at best, scraggly weeds.

Perhaps I could find another spot in the yard. With food prices going up, up, up, and quality heading in the other direction, there's a good motivation to grow our own. But age and necessity have provided another option, and its proven a real hit with our house: bread.

While our family was stationed in Germany a few years back, we had plenty of opportunity to enjoy the high quality and low price of food found at the regular supermarket. Massive heads of Boston lettuce for less than a buck. Scores of potato dishes or frozen vegetable mixtures that you'd have to go to a five-star restaurant to beat. A single aisle dedicated to yogurt -- none of it low-fat, and all of it better tasting than any pudding or ice cream. The only thing they couldn't seem to manage were simple orange juice and a decent steak.

But it was the bread that I remember the best. I don't even remember how many varieties there were at the tiny bakeries on street corners, never mind the ones inside the large supermarkets (even Walmart). All of it fantastic, and all of it cheap.

Three long pepperoni twisted rolls for less than $2. Baguettes with no preservatives that stayed fresh for days. Large crusty white rolls, which proved a godsend to a teething Sofie, for only 10 cents. And sunflower seed bread so dense with kernels that it was referred to as an "egel" (hedgehog).

Main ingredients: flour, salt, water, yeast. Not very hi-tech. But even the worst bread here costs twice as much as another First World country that at the time had almost $4 gas but managed $1 bread.

But I put up with it. That is until gas went above $3. Some switch must have tripped been tripped, and I broke out the until-then-unused German bread recipe book. First up was the sunflower hedgehog. That required sourdough. Real sourdough. Couldn't find it anywhere, so I finally found a recipe to make it.

I never knew it could take so long and so much effort to make something go bad. Once we added it to the bread batter, the question arose whether it had gone bad in the right way. What if it went bad badly? Would it make us sick?

Being the only man in a house full of women, the only answer I could come up with was, "Heat kills everything." Besides, I was hungry.

And it does. We ended up with an oblong brick, which while tasty, was heavy enough to be classified as a deadly weapon if raised in anger. It takes two rounds on our toaster set on high to get it warmed up enough to spread anything on it. And, as far as I can tell, it has bran or any other fiber beat --- use with caution.

Our attempts at white bread have been even more tasty, but far more benign and breathtakingly simple. With an active and hungry five-year-old around, this stuff goes quickly. It also makes a fun Sunday morning ritual --- baking day. Kneading is the best part. There's little better for a kid than to sink their hands into sweet-smelling goo.

So reflecting on the possibility of the garden, it may lie fallow this year, replaced by the bread stone. I'll happily trade away the damage done to my back and knees in a garden for a few minutes of pounding dough. The onset of old age may have been the reasons human went from hunter-gatherers to baking grains in the first place.

Now if we can just set up a barter this summer with a gardener with an excess of cucumbers, tomatoes or green beans...

This week's featured op-ed column in The Cape Cod Chronicle.

Photo 1 courtesy of teneriffa-baeckermeister.de

Photo 2 courtesy of Live to Cook

Photo 3 courtesy of natur.com

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Sussman Questions Need for a Year-Round Economy for Chatham

First, I should point out that my brother, Stephen Buckley, is running for Selectman in Chatham.  That said, I don't speak for him and he does not speak for me.  There are two other candidates, V. Michael Onnembo and Leonard Sussman.  Mike Onnembo ran for selectman here before, and was very supportive of my run for State Rep. in 2006.

Sussman, an architect, has lived in town for five years and is now chairman of the Planning Board. Over the past year, I've heard him make some statements that seem to show a certain distance from reality, or at least the reality I tried to represent when I was on the Board of Selectman.  Like his claim that the number of people in town has not increased in 30 years.  Or that there has been no increase in the number of professionals telecommuting.

Now I can differ with someone, for sure, and still respect them.  But it was his absolute certainty in his point of view, to the exclusion of anyone else's that I have come to find disturbing.  And more than a hint of condescension.

So it caught my attention when, at the Selectman Candidates Forum, Democrat Len Sussman questioned whether Chatham even wants a year-round economy, believing a poll should first be conducted.  As if this were some strange and foreign concept, and not something the Cape Cod Commission and other demographers have had on the front burner for the past decade.

Sussman went on to say that more affordable housing should be built to attract hi-tech workers making $75,000 to $80,000 (despite their not being eligible due to their higher incomes).

This really is quite sad, because this shows of indifference or ignorance that there actually might be people who have to work for a living in Chatham and struggle to do so in the face of similar costs of living as Boston but on 40% less pay.  Meaning, families here end up having to work harder to make more money just to keep out of poverty -- but once they do, they are ineligible for low-income housing that counts towards the state-mandated cap under Chapter 40B.

Chatham has a good track record of supporting housing for working families, giving special preference to those with a strong local connection.  Lately, however, the Board of Selectmen has allowed its eye to be taken off the ball, and has come to incorrectly believe that such preferences are illegal and unconstitutional.  Rather, they are less profitable for developers looking for government subsidies given for low income tenants only.

While increasing supply of units is helpful, it would be encouraging if the town would return to the idea that better jobs mean a better community.  Since I graduated from high school in 1984, I don't think a child attended Chatham Schools who hadn't wished that there was a better hope for a job than waiting tables or pushing a mower.  I would prefer to live in a place where people had jobs paid enough to afford buy a home (or even rent).  Instead, the new attitude of wealthy retired and semi-retired professionals who came to Chatham for an affluent lifestyle that I never knew or agreed to be a part of, could make that snobby reputation we so-richly did not deserve real.

Young college-educated professionals can't find a life here?  Let them eat cake.

Thus our middle class -- those at the heart of our community -- whither.

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Race in America, and Chatham

This week's featured op-ed column in The Cape Cod Chronicle

At the Easter Egg Hunt in Chase Park, I ran into Tim Wood and Rowan and asked if they'd seen Sofie.  Having just turned five, she's just a little younger than Rowan.  So Tim's alarm was understandable, figuring I had lost her somewhere in the crowd.

I allayed his concern, explaining, "No, I dropped off her and Chandra here and then parked around the corner."  Glancing about at the gathered masses of kids and parents, I added, "It shouldn't be too hard to find Chandra in this crowd."  To which Tim had to agree.

 And yet, I still had a problem finding the woman I've been seeing for three years now - a black woman - in a small park in Chatham.  She has the ability to effortlessly dematerialize which may come from her growing up in Dorchester.   It was particularly uncanny in this day's sea of otherwise pale faces.

So as the candidacy of Barack Obama has risen, and then taken on directly issues of race in America, it has come at a time of increasing seriousness in my relationship with a professional, masters-educated journalist and health care writer, who is also black.  Both having a great interest in politics, but being of opposite parties, we've become each other's sounding boards for discussions on television news, talk radio and blogs.  Closer to home, however, race is an issue in talking about our future.

 The theme common to both the presidential campaigns and any future Chandra and I may have is that race is an unresolved issue in America.  Not just in East Crackerbarrell, Georgia, but here on Cape Cod.  That makes people uncomfortable.  It makes me uncomfortable.  But in a small place, it is pretty clear when someone is being treated differently.

 One early summer evening two years ago, while I was handing out balloons at a Cardinals game in Orleans, Chandra took Sofie to the playground at the opposite end of Eldredge Park.  As expected the place was crawling with kids, parents and grandparents.  Done with my campaigning, I came over to relieve Chandra from watching Sofie, who was playing with another little girl.  I was dressed well, as was Chandra (as always).  She went over to a large planter surrounding a tree nearby.

 As she did so, the father of the girl Sofie was playing with, looked up, looked over at Chandra, looked over at his wife and yelled to her to move their bag, which was eight feet away on the other side of the planter in plain site.  This, having been there already half and hour with God-knows how many other people around.  Perhaps the guy realized that he had left his personal possessions exposed - but it took the presence of someone dark-skinned nearby to them that flipped his mental switch.

 I'd never seen this before.  Not blatantly.  Perhaps that's the beauty of growing up in an almost 100% white town - you never get bald-faced bigotry demonstrated to you for the simple reason there are no potential victims.

I didn't make excuses for the guy.  But I did for the Cape.  He and his family, by their general behavior and nice apparel on a Saturday evening baseball game in Orleans said to me, tourist.  It wasn't much of a consolation to Chandra, to suggest these people had brought their prejudice with them over the bridge.  For all we knew, they had just bought a house here.  Or just had expensive - and bad - taste in clothes.

But before the smug that-doesn't-happen-here attitude kicks in, consider this:  more than a few times, we've been out at the beach or playground with Sofie - my blond-haired, blue-eyed Alpine princess --, and when it has been time to go, another parent will refer to Chandra as Sofie's mommy.  It is not the same parent every time.  But every time it happens, the person is white, and is from a large metropolitan area much more diverse than here.

 Contrast this with Chandra's reception here by locals.  She's followed around stores by otherwise inattentive clerks.  She's asked what inn she works at.  She solicited for cleaning Saturday changeovers.  In the fall people ask her when she's going back.  Friends of mine who would come from Jamaica for summer work said this was regular rapport with white people here.  So when Chandra is with Sofie, she's often asked if she is the new au pair.  Too often, her experience being black in Chatham has been to be seen first as a servant.

 For a person who grew up in the poor all-white town of Chatham, I see that as quite a step.  Backward.  If that is uncomfortable to read, it is worse to live with.  And like concrete, once set, a public perception is tough to change.

When she studied in London, Chandra saw a city where interracial couples were practically the rule.  To a lesser extent, it is becoming more common in the U.S.  So, as Barack Obama said, the situation is not static.  Attitudes are changing, slowly, on both sides.  It may take a whole generation of biracial children to break the silent stalemate between those who say "Let go of the past," and those who answer, "But it just happened five minutes ago - again!"

I hope for that.  At some point, being black in America will be no different than being Italian or Irish.  Or, like Sofie, part Mexican, part Austrian, part old-line Yankee.  Someday.  It has taken longer, though, and that's because they were the original easily-discernible underclass.  The nation, as a whole, has had two chances to get it right - first with the Constitution, and second after the Civil War - but ditched it for political expediency.

To be fascinated by American history is to be fascinated with the issue of race.  It is a stubborn thing, and an uncomfortable thing.  Though I want it to be assigned to history - and history alone - as I go forward with Chandra, the question of race come down to this:

If Sofie were to have a brother or sister, would  that son or daughter of mine, more likely to look like her mother or the junior Senator from Illinois, be treated the same by my country and my community?

I'd like to say yes. But the answer today is, uncomfortably, no.

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The Never Ending Story

This Week's Featured Op-Ed Column in The Cape Cod Chronicle 

Contrary to what some pundits might think, this is a fun time to be a Republican.  Or at least that's how I'm feeling.  Now I'm not talking about whatever is going on with President Bush or whichever suit is leading whichever minority faction in Congress or the State House.  And I'm really not talking about major issues facing the country like war or inflation or recession or stagflation or whatever.
 
I'm talking simply about the horse races.
 
There was a lot going on in both parties for quite some time.  We had dueling debates in various states around the country.  Democrats would meet on CNN's stage one night, and the next it would be the Republicans.  It was just a guess as to how many chairs there would be.
 
I'll admit that I am happy with my party's nominee, John McCain.  I supported him back in 2000, and after all that has happened since, I truly wish he had been the President on 9/11.  He was just better equipped to do the job at the time.
 
I'm not saying I don't disagree with him on substantive issues.  The issues of a shrinking middle class, stagnating wages for the working poor and generational poverty in America would not have been addressed by the immigration bill his sponsored.  But he says that he heard from the American people that they want the border secured first, and says, "I got the message."  That's what he says that he'll do first, and I trust him.
 
And now it is all wrapped up for the GOP.  We'll go into St. Paul on Labor Day weekend and it should be an interesting convention.
 
This will commence just a few days after the Democrat's convention in Denver.  And that's what I'm really talking about here:  the almost even divide in the party of Jefferson, Jackson, FDR and JFK between the Obamaniacs and the Hillarians.  The news channels are loving this, too, because the tortuous prolongation of the contest gives them an easy fallback story on any slow news day.  It just keeps going on and on and on...
 
Its as if the Red Sox clinched the pennant early in season, and now even our bat boy is glued to a broadcast of a Mets-Cubs slugfest.  Sure, we're watching, partly because we feel like we've heard much of this before.
 
Again, I'm not talking substance.  I'm talking about the Clintons.
 
It is with great delight that I hear Democrats complaining about the Clinton campaign.  I tell them, "This is what we went through for eight years.  Being talked to like we were misguided fools, hysterical over nothing, and finally having to debate the meaning of the word 'is'."
 
What the real problem with the Clintons, clearly in evidence this primary season, is that they are so good at spin that it seems that's all there is.  It is more about playing the game than actually doing anything -- anything more than remaining in power.  And there seems to be a near-pathological aversion to admitting mistakes.  It is an innate lawyerlyness that, by demonstrating skill at arguing any side of an issue to their advantage, shows the motivation is not about issues, or the public good, or even ideology, but rather personal ambition (singular) of Bill and Hillary Clinton.
 
Thus, the Democratic party seems to have broken down between those who say, "Well, that's how the game is played, and if the Clintons play it better than anyone else, then they should have it?", and those who say, "But that's not why I vote from someone."
 
At least, that's the way it strikes me, from the outside of it all.  As Republican, I hope Hillary Clinton is the nominee.  Poll after poll show she's a weaker candidate against John McCain.  Her supporters should not delude themselves.  After the past few months, not one Obama supporter I've spoken to is willing to vote for Hillary Clinton in November.  They're now as sick of a Clinton dynasty as they were of the Bush dynasty.
 
And while Obama Democrats do say nice things about John McCain, they don't actually need to show up on Election Day for him.  More than likely, many will be so disenchanted that they will go back to doing what they have done previously, and stay home.  While this would help my candidate, it would be un-American to rejoice at victory won by the disillusionment of so many.
 
What this primary season has managed to accomplish, then, has been to up-end the normal processes and see the establishment, the orthodox, react -- often badly -- to a challenge.  The GOP got it done first, but the show goes on across the street.
 
In this interregnum, Republicans can commiserate with at least half the Democrats in the country about their adversaries, Clintons.  We feel your pain -- and we try not to smile.

Photo credits:  1) McCain Campaign, 2) Obama Campaign, 3) Clinton Campaign, 4) Diana Walker

Read Andy's other columns at this blog or at The Cape Cod Chronicle.

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Zuiderdam Cruise: Return to Port and Reality

This cruise was the first vacation I've ever taken as an adult.  Not that I've never gone anywhere for non-business reasons.  But the idea behind my travelling previously typically involved some kind of project.  Or to visit friends living in a particular area (more likely, both). Not the traditional "go to someplace and just relax and/or recreate."

I haven't done that since I was 18 and went to Sugarloaf in Vermont with a friends' family for skiiing.  After one day, the temperatures went above freezing, the next day it rained, and I came home 2 days early.  At the dawn of adulthood, that taught me that pleasure-only trips can quickly go south if the simplest things don't cooperate.

I've done book signing tours in the Northwest, and research trips to London (adding visits to friends in Paris and Denmark) and Southeast Asia.  I've lived in Germany, and spent plenty of time at Sofie's grandparent's in Austria.  According to Chandra, none of these really count as going away for a vacation.  I agree.

This was different.  And if I could do it again, I would.  Not every time -- it is a fantasy life, to a great extent.  But it had some distinct advantages.  Like that I could go scuba diving one day (albeit risking my life unnecessarily) and travel to the next spot that same afternoon.  I couldn't have done that on a plane -- without my skull exploding.  Or, finding a place that was not to my liking (San Juan), I could retreat to the pleasure palace that was the ship with the knowledge we'd be on our way.

But, really, the best thing was having everything handy.  We could unpack for the whole week and have it all set before us. What I didn't like that, although meals and shows were free, they never missed an opportunity to nickel and dime us.  Free wi-fi should be standard.  There was no self-serve laundry -- it was either a hefty charge for whatever we could fit into a large sandwich bag or wash them in the sink.  Or, in my case, buy more socks.

But as we got our stuff together and disembarked, these were minor, minor concerns.  We left vastly more relaxed than when we arrived.  And, I have to give shipboard life credit -- I gained maybe half a pound.  The food was served in senior sizes (much like in European restaurants), which is not such a bad thing when the food is fairly rich and ful of flavor.  You get to try more things, after all.  Now add to that the trek half a mile to the dining room and back, and suddenly you're exercising even when heading to the get your fill at the thrice-daily trough.  And that late night snack of ice cream, cookies or pizza on the Lido deck

Unlike arriving via Jake Express, we now took the bus to the airport.  The cost was like 10 bucks each, which we had booked the day before.  For the short time and distance, we could have caught one of the many cabs and gotten there perhaps earlier, and a few dollars cheaper.

When we got there, the bus driver said, "Welcome back to reality."  I imagine dropping people off from a cruise is probably the most pleasant part of his workday.  People are so mellow.  In this case, they weren't even in a rush.  Couldn't be in a rush.  Inside the Ft. Lauderdale terminal, lines of people crowded every available space.

Turns out snow had shut down flights to and from Chicago and most of the eatern seaboard the day before.  While waiting in line, Chandra met a friend from work who had been at the airport going on her second day.  Standby was fading reality for her, so she and her teeange daughter were about to rent a car to drive back to Boston.  All the trains had been booked already.

JetBlue was overwhelmed like every other airline, and thanks to technology passengers were able to check with the airlines and other airports to totally undercut whatever desk personnel were claiming.  "The plane that you just said will be here in 3o minutes hasn't even left the ground in New York yet" and that sort of stuff.  Having had their image tarnished just a few weeks prior by keeping a plane on the tarmac for hours and hours simply gave the impression that JetBlue people were trying really, really, reallyreallyreally hard to be nice.

Okay, fine, I just got back from a week of doing nothing important, and if we're waiting another hour here, that's okay... this was our attitude.

As for the flight itself, we had taken AirTrain EconoProp airlines down and the contrast with JetBlue could not have been more stark (as mentioned previously, we found it was cheaper to fly one way with each than roundtrip with either -- go figure).  JetBlue had flat screen tv's in the back of every seat, and we could change the channels.  They gave out snacks that I had actually heard of (Famous Amost cookies, Sun Chips, etc.) and these weren't the 25-cent-slip-in-your-vest-pocket versions -- they were I-better-save-the-rest-of-this-for-later size.  Good business model, guys.

And that's it.  We got back to Boston.  It was cold.  I drove home to Chatham.  And real life began again.  Here's the skinny on the trip:

Holland America Cruise Lines:  Good food, good service, too cheap on modern conveniences, watch out for nebulous competitions.

AirTran:  Take it if you have to.  Or just to teach the other guys lessons about keeping fares low.

JetBlue:  Take it if you can.  But maybe wear a t-shirt that says "I will become this flight's Official Unruly Passenger if we do not take off one hour after we leave the gate."

Grand Turk:  Go diving.  Go scuba diving.  Go helmet diving.  Do not waste your time at the beachside club.  Instead, find some reason to hold your head underwater for at least 20 minutes.

San Juan:  Check that the Marshall's is still open before you go.  Otherwise, skip it.  In fact, skip any cruise line that offers to take you there.  A waste of a day better spent elsewhere.

St. Thomas:  Skip it.  Save your money.  Tell the cruise lines that they better dock you in town or shuttle you for free there.

St. John:  Go.  Hit the earliest ferry from St. Thomas and try to stay as long as you can.

Half Moon Cay:  Make sure this is part of any cruise itinerary, and a bonus if it is your last stop.  If you can manage it, have your birthday there.  Or die there.  Or both.  You might even get a free towel.

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Half Moon Cay and R-e-s-p-e-c-t

Read the previous installment here.

Our last full day of the cruise.  You'll see from the photo to the right, that the ship was not  adjacent to any land, but moored offshore.  No pier at Half Moon Cay, Holland America's private island in the Bahamas.  The "Half Moon" is actually a corporate homage to explorer Henry Hudson's ship -- the real name of the place is Little San Salvador Island.  Click on the photo to watch a video of the beach.

We'd heard great things about this place, including it being named "best private island" by some travel magazine.  Not that I'd be able to tell any different from any other private island, since I've only ever been to one other -- Naushon off of Woods Hole (private preserve of the Masachusetts Forbes family).  Unless you want to count Monomoy Island, which national Wildlife Service and certain bird groups have, on occasion, treated as their own private preserve.

So we had to grab a shuttle to shore, which we did early.  For her birthday, Chandra wanted to ride a horse through surf on a tropical island.  After ditching me with my detective novel at a beach chair, she got her wish. 

My sister, Elisabeth Kelly, used to live in St. Croix, and before I left for this cruise expressed the hope we'd have good weather.  "Don't worry about it.  It used to rain there every day.  But it only rained for maybe 15 minutes, and then the sun would come out and everything would dry off and before you know it, you're hot and hoping it will rain again."

So right after I took up residence on my beach chair, it rained.  I took shelter under a nearby palm tree, which afforded me as much cover as a baseball cap.  So I dug into my backpack, dug out my cap, upon which it stopped raining and everything was fine.

A little after noon, Chandra returned from her ride.  It had been either swimming with the manta rays or riding the ponies.  She was happy with her choice... and even got a few invitations from her Jamaican instructors to stay on the island and take up residence with them when they returned at the end of the cruising season to Jamaica.  "Didn't take 'em up on it?" I asked.

"No," she replied.  "But there's still time..."

There's a pretty good setup at Half Moon Cay for eating.  It is set up as a buffet with all sorts of burgers, barbecue and other beach food.  Everyone eats their fill, then chokes down more dessert, and then waddle back to their beach chairs.  As this was the last full day of the cruise, the feeling is not unlike the last good summer day.  There's a palpable feeling of it being over, and so everything seems extra glorious.  Unlike San Juan, HAL nailed the schedule perfectly in this regard.  You really go out on a bang here.

Apparently, someone else had the same idea.  When we got back to our chairs, we learned that a gentleman had passed away a little earlier on the day while sitting on the beach.  Heart attack, apparently.  Not a bad way to die, and not a bad place to do it, everyone we ran into agreed.  I'm guessing he wasn't travelling alone, so maybe that view wasn't universally held.  But even that assumption could be incorrect.

I never found out who the deceased was.  But we guessed that when one of the shuttles running back to the ship, apparently empty, passed by, that the dearly departed was heading back with us.  "Wait, he's coming with us?" Chandra wondered.

"Well, there's no airstrip."  I had earlier remarked that it appeared everything we ate had been broughton shore with us.  The place was only provisioned enough for the 30-odd employees who look after the horses and other facilities seasonally.  Even the horses leave when everyone else does.  "And I'm guessing there's no huge cooler he can hang out in until someone else arrives.  I'm guessing that Holland American brought him here, and everything else they brought to the beach today, they gotta take him back, too."

"Where would they keep him?"

"They could have a morgue.  I mean, how look at the typical Holland America customer."  This had been a ongoing joke.  When we booked the cruise, Chandra had pointed out that Holland America Line are not mistaken for "the fun ships."  No, this is the more conservative line.  Lots of grandparents.  Average age was over 50, she had said, and white.  "Oh, so it will be like Chatham."  And it was.  So having a morgue on board made a lot of sense when many of your passengers are already living on borrowed time.  Meanwhile, Chandra enjoyed skewing the demographic.

So before we headed back, we took one more swim.  When I looked down through the crystal-clear water, I saw... things swiming around me.  Not having my glasses on, I really couldn't tell what they were.  Chandra saw them, too, and after she got my glasses, we could see they were fish.  Except for s few black stripes, they appeared to be almost transparent.  Must have been a reflection, because after all these years on the water, I'm fairly sure that fish don't have clear blood.

There were a few blasts of a horn down by the docks.  I don't know how many times they sound the signal for everyone to come back to the shuttles back to the ship, but they keep doing it.  And most everybody took their sweet time packing up.  Unlike St. Thomas, San Juan or Grand Turk, the ship will not -- probably is prohibited from -- leave anyone behind.  As our left the dock, I caught this video of departure down the narrow manmade channel, and past the beach.

So back onboard at last, we changed and hit our last dinner of the trip.  Having only had several days to prepare, I suddenly remembered to mention to our waited it was Chandra's birthday.  As we strolled into the Vista Dining Room, quite a few people were wishing her well for tonight's final night of Zuiderdam Superstars.  "What do you think you'll win?" one asked.

"God only knows," she replied.  "But after all this, I hope it's worth it."

 After our dinner plates were taken away, a crowd of the dining room staff gathered round and sung an Indonesia birthday song AND happy birthday to Chandra.  Quite a few of our fellow diners joined in as well.  Then, sufficiently stuffed, we headed off to the show.

We had previously had a discussion as to what that final song should be.  Pickin's was gettin thin on the song list, and we were trying to guage the crowd.  She had been told to pick an up-tempo song by the show's staff, and so that limited it a bit.  At last, she picked "Respect" by Aretha Franklin.  Kinda fit her mood by that point -- with the big mystery about what she'd be getting after picking up the slack for the entertainment crew.

So, as I recall, Julie Andrews stopped being Julie Andrews and did Dancing Queen by Abba.  The girl from Canada did another great, great job with... well, whatever she sang.  But when Chandra came out, this final night, she told me her throat immediately closed up so she ended up singing the song a little higher than Aretha Franklin (pProbably shoulda had another Amaretto Sour).  Then Stephanie, the young lady from Texas came out.

I don't know where she got this dress, but she was travelling with her mother, father and sister.  This is not the sort of dress one wears to a formal evening.  Maybe a very high-end disco.  But, more than likely, it was bought during the cruise specifically for this show.  She did a fine job (although the Canadian girl consistently did a better job singing and Chandra consistently looked more comfortable on stage).  So, as you can see from this video, she took home the prize of... something we were not informed of at that time by the judges.

After it was all over, I caught Chandra coming out of the Queen's Lounge while she was just happy it was over, it was clear she unhappy with her throat constricting to give her voice a more pixy-like tenor.  "So," I asked, "what did you get?"

She held it up.  A towel.

Meanwhile, Stephanie went by with her family.  She was carrying a white IMac.  "Why does she have a laptop?" I asked Chandra.

Chandra said that Stephanie had the song and had been rehearsing.  I hadn't signed up for internet access since the ship charge for it was $5/minute -- with an extra connection charge, even if you were using wireless.  To download a song, then, would have cost... a lot.  Like the dress.

Then Cruise Director Trevor Millar, who was one of the judges, and his assistant, who served as emcee, walked out of the Queen's Lounge.  They thanked Chandra for all her nights, singing, and then she introduced me.  I said I was really happ to finally talk to him since no one at the front desk had gotten back to me regarding my credentials as a travel writer for Cape Cod Today. 

I could not -- could not if I had been director Norman Jewison himself -- gotten a more authentic portrayal of shock from these two young gentlemen.  They stopped.  Their eyes went wide.  They looked at each other.  They looked back at me.  But before they could say anything, I asked, "Do you give the winner a laptop?"

"What?  A laptop?  Who?  No!  No, no, no...  who said that?"

 From what I learned, she got two towels.  Good thing she bought the dress.  Maybe it was better Chandra didn't win.  There might have been two more dead men on board that night.

We ended up at the casino that night.  It is nothing special, and slots pays off in Bahamian quarters.  When the next and final stop is Florida, you really don't need a pocket full of foreign change in your pocket. We each decided to splurge.  I think I broke a five at the cashier.  When that was gone, I found a quarter on the floor and that became twelve bucks within a few seconds.  We had to get going, so it took us a while to get rid of it all.  Maybe not what the a casino is meant for -- still, Holland America came out ahead.

But we had a towel.

Next installment:  Back to port and reality

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Day at Sea #2: Santa Baby

Read the previous installment here.

Today is an easy day.  A day at sea.  Our first day at sea was different.  We had just left port the day before.  We spent the day exploring the ship.  Tasting different foods.  Asking the crew things they couldn't answer.  Going places we shouldn't.  Touching things we were told not to.  It was like an homage to my three year-old, Sofie.

But now we knew things were winding down. Tomorrow we'd be at Half Moon Cay, in the Bahamas, and the next was back to Ft. Lauderdale and home.  This day at sea would be fully appreciated.

 This morning I found two deck chairs on a sunny side of the ship, just 10 feet below our windows.  And with my disposable pulp detective novel in my lap, and Chandra in the next chair, we sat and indulged in reading.  All day.  And intermittently napped.

After lunch, I brought down a tray of dessert and iced tea to continue the indulgence.  It was about this time an announcement was made by Trevor Millar, our Cruise Director, over the P.A.  Because of popular demand, the girl from Canada would be brought back into the competition AND this meant ONE MORE NIGHT OF ZUIDERDAM SUPERSTARS!!!

I nearly had to use a shovel to get Chandra's jaw off the floor. "No!  No, no, no!  They can't do this to me!  I wanted this to be the last night -- no, c'mon!  Tomorrow's my birthday!  I don't to have to perform for everyone on my birthday!"

At least, that's how I remember her rather calm, cool, collected reaction.

So we sta down again with that tired old list of songs and tried find something that she knew and would enjoy singing.  I still wasn't being much help.

"Sweet Dreams?"

"Sweet dreams are made of these..." Chandra sang to herself, "... no."

"Sugar Walls?"

 "No."

"Strut?"

 "No."

"I didn't mean Bob Seger.  I meant the Sheena Easton one."

"Hmmm, I know you meant."

"Santa Baby?"  I was joking.

"Hmmmmm...."

Oh, okay, maybe I wasn't joking.

"Yes.  Yes, I can do that.  Okay, yes.  And I'll be all dressed up because it is a formal evening for dinner tonight."

Problem was, we were set for set for the late dinner, and the show started before our dinner was to end.  We went down to the Vista Dining Room and explained we needed an earlier seating.  Not that the staff had any problem with this -- they all knew Chandra well by now, and hoped to catch the very end of the show after the final seating for dinner.

Because it was formal night, everyone was dressed to the nines at the show.  I really can't recall what Julie Andrews sang, but she was wearing the very large shiny-stoned piece around her neck, and several people around me started poking me, asking "Are those real diamonds?"

"If they are, she won't be getting off the boat with them."  Some shopkeeper in Charlotte Amalie must have been made very happy yesterday. 

The other two young ladies did a good job, too.  The girl from Canada really has some pipes, and I'd say you'll definitely hear more from her... if I could remember her name.

So then Chandra came out.  A confused Trevor Millar introduced her, saying this was a little touch of Christmas in the Caribbean.  To get a taste of Chandra's vamping, click on the photo of Trevor and fellow judge, Becky Allen, or here.

As you can hear, the crowd ate it up, and I'm pretty sure Chandra got the most votes that night.  There were a few other contestants, but when it was over, we were left with four finalists to go on for ONE MORE NIGHT.

Yay.

When we finally got back to the room, exhausted, the latest towel creation awaited us.  I looked at it, and reflected on how Holland America was able to get their passengers to provide entertainment, night after night, for free.

 "How appropriate," Chandra sighed.  "A monkey."

"I wonder if he does tricks, too, if you give him peanuts."

"You think you're very funny, but you're not."

"Hey, I didn't ask them to make a monkey tonight."

 "Hmmmmm."

I looked at the animal again.  It was a real work of art.  "But do you notice how he's hanging by his thumbs.  Like in limbo.  Not knowing what's going to happen, or even if it is worth it?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Did they tell you yet what the prize is?"

"No... no..." she said.  "They keep avoiding the subject.  But after all this, it better be damn good."

Next installment:  Half Moon Cay and R-e-s-p-e-c-t

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American Virgins: Amber and the Iguana

Read the previous installment here. 

We should have gotten up earlier.

Our idea had been to head into Charlotte Amalie, which is commercial center of St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands.  Then catch the water shuttle to St. John and spend the day there.

Now, as you can see from the photo to the left, the dock is pretty well laid-out.  But it is far, far from town.  So when the mass of our fellow passengers hit the shore, they overwhelmed the many shuttle buses there. 

 That the Noordam, sister ship to Zuiderdam, was docked right next door, simply added to the number of visitors.  But it was pretty cool to head down that pier, flanked by these monsters, Noordam's bow pointing landward, and Zuiderdam facing out to sea.

At the taxi stands, it was practically chaos, with no set line, and no set fee.  We finally found a space for the two of us for $10 each.  One way.  And they wouldn't leave until they filled every seat.  If there was one seat empty, and a group of four showed up -- nope, we just sat there.

As we approached Charlotte Amalie, we noticed a few cruise ships docked right in town.  Maybe I'm wrong, but I got the impression that whoever got their ship in first got the best parking space.  Okay, that's fair.  But if you're going to drop your people so far from everything you've told them about on the island, you should organize the transportation.

Stepping off the bus along the waterfront, we found where the water shuttle to St. John took off.  The trip over takes 45 minutes, but wasn't leaving for over another hour.  But the return schedule either meant we could only be there for two and a half hours or, taking a later shuttle, get back at 3:45, with only fifteen minutes before Zuiderdam departed.  Since the gangplank went up about that same time, that seemed a little too close.  If we had gotten up half an hour before, we could have caught the earlier boat and had a longer time on St. John.

So we poked around town a little bit, seeing there were plenty of jewelry stores.  Chandra figured that since we'd have some time on our hands after we came back from St. John, she'd look around for some amber pieces.

Charlotte Amalie is very, very touristy.  Between the speeding taxis, it was amazing when I came across, in the middle of it all, a true local -- an iguana crossing the street.  As I was shooting this video of him, some other tourist, deep in conversation, nearly stepped on him.  "Nothing special," I said to the guy.  "Kind of like a scaley rat."  His female companion did not appear to be helped by my observation.

The shuttle, the Capital Venture, arrived on time and when we got a chance to board I strongly suggested that we get down below and leave the exposed topside to the very loud, very profane frat boys so they could work on their skin cancer (Jeez, guys, I know you're on vacation, but there were little kids around).  The cost was only $11 one way. 

Since I got my master mariner's license a few years ago, I've made ahabit of checking out the documentation of any vessel I go on.  It lists capacity, age, and so forth.  In this case, the shuttle carried the name like "Cape Adventure", and originally was from Cod Cod!  I'm guessing it did charter fishing, but maybe someone else has better info.

Chandra asked how they could have gotten it all the way down here.  I got a dreamy look in my eyes, thinking of being on board for that voyage, down the East Coast, past the Bahamas, Cuba, Haiti and Puerto Rico.  I'd be up for it.  Probably wouldn't have the turn down service or towel animals like Zuiderdam, though.

Once over on St. John, we grabbed a bite to eat in Cruz Bay and tried to figure out our plans for our short time there.  The whole feeling of the place was much more relaxed and less commercial than St. Thomas -- that helped our mood. 

After looking over the map, we decided on Hawksnest Bay, on the north side of the island, and part of the National Park here -- so it was free.  We found a shuttle to take us (no waiting for it to fill up) and it only took about 10 minutes.  When we arrived at the parking area for the beach, our driver assured us that all we had to do for a return trip was to stand out by the road and a shuttle would eventually pick us up.

I don't believe it is cop-out for me, as a writer, to say "click on the photo to the left and watch the video".  I can't do the place justice with words.  The water was crystal clear.  The sky was blue, blue.  The sand was warm.  It was a little windy.  If I could, I would have stayed all day.

We were probably there a little over an hour before it was time to pack it up.  A shuttle did indeed swing by after less than ten minutes.   But it dropped us off a little further from the Cruz Bay pier than we had wanted.  Hoofing the next few blocks, we jumped on board and took in a little sun on the upper deck (the sun's rays not so harsh now), and departed St. John (click here or on the photo to watch the video). 

Although time well-spent, it was clear to both of us that Holland America should have allowed more time on Grand Turk and here, and skipped over San Juan.  They could have also facilitated an easier transit to St. John, as Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas has no bargain shopping, and only advantage is as a place to go elsewhere.

Arriving back in Charlotte Amalie, Chandra and I hit the jewelry stores.  No amber here.  No amber there.  Lots and lots and lots of diamonds.  One recommended a store just around the corner.  We looked for the store.  There was no store.  So, discouraged and tired, she headed one direction and I decided to head in another, perhaps also to get a few souvenirs.  Again, there were no bargains.  I'd seen a lot of the same kind of clothing in Indonesia and the Philippines -- quality was the same, but the prices were as much as I might pay in P-Town.

I finally found the store that supposedly had amber.  It specialized in sweatshirts, ships in a bottle and some very cheap-looking jewelry.  Showed what the other jewelers, with their focus on diamond-crazy cruise tourists, thought of amber.

Thinking about it, I decided to walk back to the ship.  I had time.  And I could see it.  I always think that if I can see something, it can't be so far away.  On the Cape, this seems reasonable.  Mountains confuse me.  The Plains states confuse me.  Large cruise ships on the other side of the harbor... well, they don't confuse me so much.  But I probably shouldn't have tried this in a tropical environment while wearing swimshorts.  After the first quarter mile, that little mesh interior starts acting like a cheese grater with every step.

So after half an hour of this, I finally arrived back at the ship and carefully made my way up the gangplank and back on board -- jungle rot on my mind.  Note:  you can never bring too many different kinds of ointments with you when travelling in the tropics.  Maybe that's why I had forgotten my socks.

After all that rushing around, Zuiderdam got a late start out of St. Thomas.   We headed out of the harbor at sunset, passing Charlotte Amalie (click here on the photo at the left to watch the video).

That night, I swung by the front desk and asked to speak with someone about my press credentials, hoping to get some greater background on the ship.  No one in the past few days had bothered to get back to me.  The very polished young man there went into the back office again, and returned again, saying his manager was busy (again).  Okay, but as I was leaving, I asked the young man where he was from.

"The Philippines."

"Really? Where?"

"Luzon."

"What part of Luzon?"

 "A small city, Baguio."

"Oh, yes.  Up in the mountains.  I flew in there, on my way to Vigan."

He looked a little stunned.  I added, "Nice place.  Not too warm."   When the U.S. had a miliatry presence in the Philippines, Baguio had been a headquarters and retreat from the stifling heat and drenching monsoons closer to Manila Bay.  My bus trip from Baguio, down the mountains to the coast had featured hairpin turns at 60 mph or more that left me wondering if we had kept all wheels on the road at all times.  The young man at the desk agreed, "I'd rather fly out of Baguio, too."

After another great dinner in the dining room (at which all the waitstaff asked Chandra what he was going to sing), we got on over to the Queen's Lounge for he competition.  By now we were starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel for songs.  Chandra decided to go with one she really liked, "I Love You, Baby."  She was the first to go on, and did another great job... but the crowd still needed some warming up.  When the final 3 were picked, she was one of the top vote-getters.  And Julie Andrews.  And one of two sisters from Texas.  But not a younger girl from Canada, who was very talented (but needed to work on her stage presence), who was cut.

One more night of this.  Okay, we just needed to find one more song.  What was the prize after all this work?

 Next installment:  Santa Baby

Photo of the iguana courtesy of Barbara Crews, the About.com Guide to Collectibles.

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San Juan Socks

Read the previous installment here.

We woke up back in the United States.  Asleep at sea -- then,  daylight, we were docked in the heart of San Juan, Puerto Rico.  After a liesurely breakfast, we headed out for the day and, having come last from Grand Turk, we had to pass through U.S. Customs and Immigration.

Once out of the terminal, the air of Old San Juan was humid and smoggy, and reminded me of summer in any American city.  Chandra and I managed to avoid the first phalanx of tour bus drivers as we ambled along the harborfront.  But one older gentleman convinced her with a price of only $10.  So we piled in, meeting several of our fellow Zuiderdam passengers -- who apparently had been waiting for the driver to completely fill his minbus before he'd leave.

For the money, it was worth it.  The driver kept up a good banter about life in Puerto Rico, the rising price of gas (although it was much cheaper than the mainland), and the public welfare system.  We headed out of Old San Juan and into San Juan, which was not old, or new, but simply there.

When in a new place, I consider it a gift to find a local to give you a glimpse of regular life there. So when we stopped at a beachside park near Condado Plaza Hotel & Casino, Chandra and I went to get a cup of coffee with the driver while the other Zuiderdammmers milled about the seaside scenery.   The coffee and the air were about the same thickness, with the former being far more bracing.  I took about five sugars in my four-ounce cup.

 I should now acknowledge that I failed to mention in my last installment that the previous evening was Chandra's second night of the Zuiderdam Superstars competition.  Instead of being in the Northern Lights Disco, they held it in the Queen's Lounge, which has a real stage and seating and everything.  Julie Andrews (not her real name, but close enough) sang I Could Have Danced All Night (again), and nailed it (again).  Chandra chose Mustang Sally, which every loved. The field was winnowed down to a manageable number.  We still weren't told what the rpize of this three-night competition was, but the crew and crowd were so enthusiastic, it didn't really matter.  So when we had gotten back on board the minibus, our fellow travelers had come to realize who Chandra was, with many asking what she was going to sing tomorrow night.  And whether Julie Andrews would sing Julie Andrews again.

Back on the road again, the driver took us next to the Parliament building.  Not unlike many other state houses, it has its share of distinctive regional art.  In this case, of course, Puerto Rico is not a state (yet). We obviously weren't the only people who had a visit here in in mind, as the place was crawling with tourists and over-lipsticked local tv reporters. 

 Departing, our bus wound its way through the narrow streets of the center of Old San Juan, to a small center plaza surrounded by various department stores.  At this point, we had a choice to continue along on the tour to the El Morro Fort at the entrance to the Port fo San Juan, or get off and check out things downtown for ourselves.  Seeing a Marshall's out the back, we took our cue and got off.  I needed some socks. 

There is no good explanation why I only packed one pair of socks (except for dress socks) for the whole weeklong trip.  Sure, I could wash them every day and hope they'd dry in the air conditioning overnight ( I had.  They hadn't.)  And I was wearing sandals for the most part onboard.  The real answer was, I had left my other pairs neatly rolled on my bed at home, and now needed to find size 14 socks.

But apparently the men of Puerto Rico also have big feet.  Or at least those who buy white gym socks.  No problem, and they were something like 6 for 10 bucks.  But it is not a stretch to say that this was the high point of the trip.  There were some tourist traps around the square, too, and Chandra checked out some of the jewelry.  A fan of amber, she saw some pieces that really excited her, until she saw the prices.  No bargains here.

It was time to start sightseeing on our own, and headed towards the closer of the two ancient forts in the old city.  Along the way, a young man took a few pieces of palm leaf to weave a grasshopper for Chandra.   He did quite a good job, and it conveniently fit into her straw cowboy hat.  And her tip amounted to her most satisfied purchase in town.

Up at Castillo de San Cristobal, we paid the $3.00 entrance fee to the National Park Service and had a look around (click on the photo or here to watch a video of a panorama).  High above the rest of the city, we had a commanding view of the coast and ocean to the north, as well as the port to the south, including our own Zuiderdam.  But the air quality and heat were really starting to get to us after that climb, and we descended into the bowels of the old fort, which had also served as a prison.  Archaelogical work has revealed prisoner's artwork on the walls of the oldest cells.  But the cool, damp cell was a welcome respite this day -- and the view was better than the inside cabins on Zuiderdam.

Heading back down into town, we stopped at a local eatery that seemed to have just missed the lunch crowd.  Following my normal rule, I ordered something I never heard of, which turned out to be akin to a BLT.  Chandra ordered fried plantains and some soup.  The plantains were a big mistake.  Or maybe they like them that way there -- tasting like nothing.

Sad to say, we were pretty much done with the place by the middle of the afternoon, so we headed back to the ship.  It gave us some time to relax, get some better food and try to look over the songbook for the next competition with Zuiderdam Superstars.  No matter how many times we did, the selection didn't improve.

Emerging from the ship after dinner, we took encouragement from the daily letter from the cruise director, Trevor Millar, and checked out San Juan's nightlife.  The ship wasn't leaving until 11 PM or somaking it a long day in San Juan.

Turned out to be too long.  I'm not sure what place in Old San Juan was supposed to have the nightlife, but we never found it. Instead, we walked and walked and walked... and saw a few bars, and stopped into one that had a few Spring Breakers... and walked and walked... and finally gave up.  Waiting on our bed was our room steward's latest towel creation:  a purebred terricloth puppy.

Maybe Old San Juan is interesting to people who come from Sunbelt cities where the distances between malls are marked by vast stretches of parking spaces.  There is a kind of European and Latin feeling to the place, but the run-down nature of the place is distinctly American.

It reminded me a bit of Macao, actually.  But like Macao, the place can be seen in a day or two.  I'm guessing it is actually a more interesting place to live for a while than to visit.

I can understand that logistics require Holland America to put Zuiderdam into port somewhere between Grand Turk and the next stop at St. Thomas.   But San Juan just doesn't cut it.  Not for a whole day.  Upon reflection, I would have rather had another day at sea, even if it meant going around in circles.

Next installment:  Amber and the Iguana

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The Seed Corn

This Week's Featured Op-Ed Column in The Cape Cod Chronicle 

With Sofie off to Euroland this week visiting her Austrian grandparents, I've had some time to pull my head up from work and think about her future.
 
Born almost five years ago on a U.S. Army base Germany to an Austrian mother, Sofie started off with some advantages.  She can go to college for practically free at universities in Europe.  She's already learned to ski in the Alps, on the mountain that "Where Eagles Dare" was filmed.  And when it comes time for a job, she'll have two continents to from which to choose.
 
When I became a single father, Sofie was only 11 months old.  My choice to return home immediately was a simple one.  There was a large extended family, with a number of places we could stay temporarily.  Summer was coming, and what better place for a child to get fresh air, sunshine and exercise? But I was aware this was short-term planning.
 
But remaining in Chatham has been disheartening.  Chatham is not so much my home, as it is Sofie's home.  I compare it to the Chatham I grew up in, and for all the powdered milk and hand-me downs I knew, I find today's affluent Chatham lacking.  It all boils down to whether Chatham actually cares about its future.
 
If child - any child of any background - grows up here, do we care if after paying for that education that they move away?  Or are we to continue down the path of a "cruise ship economy", with workers and residents both here for a short period of time, and only the scenery stays the same?
 
Our much ballyhooed, much worked-on, unanimously-passed and often-cited Comprehensive Plan is now also much-ignored.  No one seems to be willing to talk about the economic development, despite a crying need.  As housing prices and the overall cost of living in Chatham continues to skyrocket, wages for the average wage-earner have stagnated.  We make meager progress at providing more affordable housing, but fail to address the other side of the equation:  How can we attract better paying jobs and businesses?
 
The initial decision of the Board of Selectmen to pay the Chamber of Commerce to handle economic development was disturbing public policy.  It strains credulity to believe that the Chamber would look to bring new business to town that would compete with its members for space, customers and employees -- regardless of the benefit of the community as a whole.
 
It is likewise absurd that our elected representatives would cede economic planning to an unelected, private entity, and fund them to boot, with no oversight.  We might as well get rid of the Planning Board, ConsCom and ZBA and hand their power over to local realtors and builders.  These may all be good people, but we need to look forward not back.  And this is not the way to run democratic, open government.
 
This is the twenty-first century Massachusetts.  Chatham has low crime and low dropout rates, terrific environmental resources, the most over-educated fishing fleet in the world, a large pool of retired business executives.  So the best we can come up with are six-to-nine month $8 an hour dishwasher and chambermaid jobs in an economy whose existence is based entirely upon whether the sun is out?  Talk about a house built on sand.
 
The Cape already has five locally-controlled economic development commissions.  But not Chatham.  Local parents - Selectmen included - should reflect on what kind of options they want to provide for their children.  We have a good idea of what Chatham's future will look like, and even what it will cost.  But what will it pay?

Read Andy's other columns at this blog or at The Cape Cod Chronicle.

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