Saudi Arabia: It's Intoxicating

"Nightlife can mean anything. We can provide you a very valuable experience that will hit your soul and your mind and send you home sober"--Prince Sultan bin Salman bin Abdul Aziz, head of the Saudi Supreme Commission of Tourism

Unlike some of our Gulf Arab neighbors who boast Western-style nightclubs serving alcohol, Saudi Arabia is not known as a popular tourist attraction. We aim to change that. Pronto. From henceforth, our kingdom intends to publicize its unique brand of entertainment and thereby become a magnet for world tourism.

While we do not supply liquor to visitors, we do offer something far more enticing: camels. Saudi Arabia has 23 million people and six million camels. You could be at zoos in London, Vienna, or Berlin peering at dromedaries through a chain-link fence or you can actually sit atop one here.

Many of you have the mistaken impression that females may not drive vehicles here in Saudi Arabia. Nothing could be further from the truth. First off, a camel's not a vehicle. It's a vehicular animal, which means you ladies are free to drive a camel at specific times in selected towns.

In addition, we have also relaxed restrictions on female bike-riding in two cities. Feel like riding a bicycle, gals? If so, simply drop us a line at the Supreme Commission for Tourism and we'll email you the names of the two cities where you can ride a female-model bike.

Our country's known for a daytime temperature which often hovers near that of an Easy-Bake Oven. What we're not known for is swimming. But we adore swimming. Can't get enough of it. We boast pools for male tourists and pools for female tourists. Often these pools are within a kilometer or two of each other so your entire family can enjoy swimming separately at the same time in the same city. And there is one city in which the two pools are a mere 500 meters apart. Just write us at--that's right--the Supreme Commission for Tourism indicating "pools half a kilometer apart" and we'll divulge the location.

Did we mention we love young people? Well, we should hope so: Saudi Arabia has one of the highest percentages of young people under 30 in the entire world. Many of whom are restless young men. And what do restless young men love to do? Ride camels! Come join them! Their only question for you is: One hump or two?

If you are a child intending to visit, you're more than welcome to wear shorts (up until the age of ten). Ladies will be most comfortable in loose-fitting garments. Shirts that reach the elbow and fully cover your haunches are highly recommended. Pants should come to the ankle--no cropped trousers. Vacation is a time to unwind: no tight clothing. Particularly in the pool.

I scream! You scream! We all scream for ice cream! Yes, we have some of the best in the region, perhaps second only to Yemen's. And while you gals are forbidden from licking ice cream cones in public, there's no law that says ladies can't privately lick an ice cream cone. Make sure to try our pistachio.

Sun and ice cream: what else is missing in the kingdom where it's always summer? Surf? Not on your life. We have miles of glorious beaches where anyone is welcome to stare at our ocean's sparkling allure. Just bear in mind that you're not free to be stared at. The coast guard patrol is prone to ogle ladies in swimsuits, ladies licking ice cream cones, and ladies in swimsuits licking ice cream cones. Hint: save your swimming for our public pools.

For you men, when you tire of driving a camel, rental cars are plentiful. Just take lots of extra petrol and water if you head out into the desert. And don't rent black cars: they get hotter than the Dickens! Remember, the white stripes on the pavement are intended only as "recommendations." In Jeddah, a four-lane road can easily become a six-lane thoroughfare and stoplights also mean significantly less than they do in other nations. While this is an alarming prospect for some, our restless young men absolutely crave it.

Few things can compare to a hot-air balloon ride over Riyadh. After all, Saudi Arabia is the home of hot air. You'll land in the vicinity of a Bedouin village, where you'll partake in a local feast of roast goat and cous cous, before being whisked back to your hotel in an air-conditioned Land Rover. At night, traditional activities for male visitors include shuffleboard, hopscotch, television (Al-Jazeera for those of you fluent in Arabic), and smoking, while for women there's the old-fashioned art of conversation or strolling in groups of two or more.

Things to bring: sunscreen (for your forehead and the area around your eyes), a keen sense of adventure, and an open mind. Things to look forward to when you return home: alcohol, drugs, pork, crosses or other religious symbols, and thongs.

While you're vacationing in Saudi Arabia, it's possible that the Matawuh (religious police) may chase you and click your heels with their wooden sticks if they find you in violation of any of the above. Best not to press your luck.

In sum, we eagerly anticipate your visit. Leave your dancing shoes behind, pack a good, government-approved book (the Koran), a deck of cards, several pairs of relaxed-fit khakis, and prepare to have an experience you'll never, ever forget.

The Lucky Few

A few of us don't know where Africa is. And a few don't know where Mauritius is. But very few of us know Mauritius is one of the most prosperous nations in Africa. My wife Beverly and I know because we own a great deal of it (Mauritius, not Africa).

Have you ever driven down a long country lane in Wiltshire, glimpsed the many chimney pots of a baronial manor just visible above ludicrously high hedgerows and wondered, "Who lives there?" Beverly and I do. The oriental carpet in our vestibule is larger than the local football pitch and a good bit older. As I told a far less successful colleague over breakfast in the City last month, "I'd count my blessings if I didn't have so many of them!

Anyway, we spend a fair amount of time on our yacht sailing between the Maldives, Mauritius, and the Seychelles. Beverly can never remember one from the other so I help her out by posting little signs about our floating paradise: "Seychelles; large, smooth rocks"; "Maldives: Seychelles without rocks"; "Mauritius: great Mai Tais at the Colony Club."

One decidedly unprosperous African country is Somalia. Oh, mercy me. No Mai Tais there. Think: civil unrest. Think: warlords. Think: when do you think this air conditioner might be fixed? Nonetheless, Somalia, due to its strategic location, has enjoyed its share of self-interested aid over the years from the Soviets and, now, the Yanks.

I have somewhat conflicted feelings about my native land, the United Kingdom, having obtained citizenship in Monaco the other year for tax purposes (my purpose, obviously, was not to pay any tax). I love merry old England, use its hospitals and universities when I can (a daughter currently at Merton College Oxford), but just can't abide paying tax.

All this came to mind yesterday when we noticed a most unfriendly craft approach our yacht 85 miles off the coast of the one that begins with "M" and serves great Mai Tais. Out in this part of the planet, nautical types tend to dress in a manner which Beverly describes as "brisk." One who dresses briskly wears white trousers, often a horizontally-striped shirt (in the style favored by French seafarers, though of a lighter material) and frequently a Greek fisherman's cap. I actually sport all three items and have always felt at home in the world's most fascinating ports (from Portofino to Antibes).

But rarely have I encountered a fellow sailor with a knife clenched between his teeth. We immediately noted that this man, who stood alone on the deck of a rather scruffy craft, was not dressed briskly. He wore a dirty bandanna, sleeveless sweatshirt, a pair of ripped jeans, and was barefoot. Nor did he acknowledge our (admittedly half-hearted) waves of greeting.

Beverly and I exchanged first impressions. She: "I'm sure he's crew. His employer must be below-deck." I: "Why the knife?" She: "Perhaps he's a cook." I: "Why the knife clenched between teeth?"

It's actually quite painful to clench something between your teeth for a long period of time. Up until very recently, I had no familiarity with this practice. I do remember a particularly tiresome day in Wiltshire when I absolutely could not get a knot out of my shoelaces and was compelled to pull forcefully with my incisors. But that took all of 25 seconds. As for true clenching, I had no previous experience.

Now I do. I currently have direct knowledge of many things I had never imagined. For this I am indebted to Jacob (he of the ripped jeans) and his mates (fourteen of whom eventually emerged from the hold).

Frequently yachts are emblazoned with witty, eye-catching names: "The Lucky Few," "$am's $hip," or, in our case, "Beverly's Bounty." Indeed, my wife won our yacht in a friendly wager (she averred England last won the World Cup in 1966; I was sure it was 1970 (alas, Brazil again!)). Jacob's boat had at one time read: "North Korea," until this was crossed out with what Beverly claims is blood.

I have no doubt North Korea is a beastly place. Its ruler is a cruel despot who has men put to death in front of their spouses while the population starves. And yet a part of me found myself wishing the crew of Jacob's vessel were North Korean and even that Jacob himself were Kim Jong-il (if only because his appearance would have improved immeasurably).

But no, Jacob and his colleagues are Somali. Somali pirates, to be precise. For me, pirates have always conjured up dashing visions of peg legs, eyepatches, and hooks in lieu of hands. In point of fact, upon further consideration (and I've had ample time to re-consider, clenching a urine-soaked rag between my teeth for the past seven hours), these are images of mutilation. There's nothing particularly romantic about a missing limb or lost eye. My new perspective may be the only good thing to come out of this ordeal (provided my London solicitor can come up with £5 million in 72 hours).

In the meantime, I fret for Beverly. The world of Somali pirates is not her world. Think: Cheltenham Ladies College. Think: "Tatler." Think: "Fix that bloody air conditioner by lunch or you're fired." It is not necessary to describe my wife's physical attributes; a partial list of men she's been with will suffice: Roger Daltrey, Peter Frampton, Sting, the late George Harrison, Elton John (kidding), and Eric Clapton.

With me bound and gagged in the boiler room, I worry for her well-being with the fifteen ruffians above. Beverly can be snappish with those she deems below her station, a category into which Somali pirates firmly fit. Oh, my God, I hear her screaming now. Footsteps draw closer: they're at the boiler-room door. Beverly is yelling, "Pervis, they don't want me." (Thank Christ for cultural differences.) What's that she's shouting? Oh, no. (Strike that remark about cultural differences.) She's shrieking, "Pervis, they want you!" Blimey.

New Tips for the Old World

Airlines have reduced the number of seats on offer so travel is as costly as ever. There are, nonetheless, two ways to save money on this year's trip to Europe. Mine are named Jonathan and Sarah. Neither will be accompanying their mother and me on our upcoming vacation. When I consider the fact that I am the only member of my family capable of adding two-digit numbers in his head, and factor in that Jonathan is currently a freshman at Vassar, a trip to the Old World for my offspring seems somewhat superfluous.

Be aware that it will take two methods of conveyance to arrive at your European airport: a plane and a bus. Europeans have not discovered Jetways. That $3,500 Business Class ticket from Denver to Amsterdam may stick in your craw while you race from the aircraft through the rain with hundreds of others to a sodden double-wide bus and find yourself strap-hanging next to bawling triplets for the two-kilometer ride to your terminal at Schiphol.

For this reason, there is no need to rise immediately upon landing as the "fasten seat belt" light is extinguished and join a throng of eager, woefully misguided passengers who clutch their carry-on bags in a cramped, airless aisle for 28 minutes waiting for the buses to arrive. (There won't be enough buses anyway: Europeans don't like to waste energy or money. They do not, however, mind wasting time.)

The journey in from the airport will be an eye-opener. No rattletraps, no dented fenders, no road hogs, warriors, or rage, no Hummers, no low-riders, no "pimp my ride." Just an orderly progression of modest black and silver vehicles moving in unison through mist and light rain (if you're anywhere north of Lyon in any month except August). No one will shout at you, ridicule you, or flip you the bird. No playful triangular signs will announce that there's a baby, golfer, or cardiac surgeon "on board." No one will wield a tire iron, crowbar, ice pick, pistol, sawed-off shotgun, or surface-to-air missle launcher because you're driving too slowly, root for the Red Sox, possess a more prestigious college decal, or appear gay. People sit in their cars and drive. It's almost--dare one say it?--civilized.

Your hotel room will be small. A "boutique hotel" means extra-small rooms and Damien Hirst spent a night there in 2003. The people in the lobby will be small. Those in the tiny "elevator" will be small. The hair dryer, television, chocolates on your pillow, and terry-cloth slippers will all be small.

The rates will be high. Higher than you ever could have imagined when you were raking leaves back in Lincoln, Mass., admiring your costly home, and thinking you might take in a bit of Europe this year. An orange juice at the bar in Switzerland costs $22. At that price, it pays to take up alcohol.

So drink. Europe is a merry place and no more merry than when you're borderline shitfaced. A place like Bruges is a veritable movie set. Grey stone, gothic windows, arched bridges, gabled, timbered, or gabled and timbered roofs. It's like "Avatar" by Hans Memling instead of James Cameron. Rather than a flower morphing into a bison who then gives birth to a torpedo, lights flicker behind mullioned windows, swans float down wine-dark canals, and the breathtaking sonorousness of pealing bells fills the air. There will, however, be mist and light rain.

See art. Not because it's uplifting, not because you understand or appreciate it, and certainly not because admission to the Galleria Borghese is more than 13 euros. See it because your digital photos of centuries-old masterworks will elicit envy and possibly even low-grade depression in the folks back in Lincoln.

Most great pictures were painted in Italy in the 15th century. Titian was born in 1485 and completed more than 600 works. If you're standing in front of a decent painting (one which draws a disproportionate crowd at the expense of other works in the museum) in Italy, it's probably by Titian. If you're standing in front of a decent painting in Spain, it's a Velazquez. If in France, it's a Titian or Velazquez stolen by Napoleon.

There's a reason the great, pastoral, tradition-rich nations of Eastern Europe are predominantly untouristed. It may have to do with the fact that the one bus or plane on the airport tarmac is out of petrol or that Bulgarian ski chalets are available for £7,500 freehold. It may revolve around a scarcity of "amenities" (hot water and electricity 24/7) in major cities, but is probably directly attributable to the four-hundred-yard queue behind the velvet rope at the Starbucks in Krakow.

People can smell desperation. Even tourists. That's why France is the most visited county on the planet. Even if what you're primarily smelling there is perspiration. The French are better because they think they're better. Their fabled medical institutes and elite political-economic universities are just that: fables. Brigitte Bardot is a face-lifted, fascist harridan who cares more about a dog than the well-being of the entire populace of Morocco.

But are we really supposed to wait for a glimpse of Jennifer Aniston's tush in a Vince Vaughn movie when there's Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg in "Breathless"? Are we really meant to drag the kids to Colonial Williamsburg and pay $47 per person so they can watch overheated, grouchy college students in wigs dip candles as a "lesson in living history"? For $47 (approximately five euros as of this writing), you can buy a baguette, a wedge of second-tier cheese, a pretty good half-bottle of plonk (or two cans of Orangina), spread out a blanket next to a brook in any town in France, light up a couple of candles yourself and no one will stare.

After the Fall

While recently clipping coupons, I was interrupted by a frantic phone call from someone purporting to be from our town's hospital. She claimed that my husband Fred had fallen from the roof of a building an hour earlier and she wanted to know my blood group. "May I ask why?" I responded, not wanting to know why Fred fell (he's a house painter and has suffered several mishaps since developing vertigo in 2006), but trying to fathom why I should divulge such private information to a stranger.

"Your spouse is hemorrhaging and we're low on supplies of his blood type." "And what blood type might that be?" I asked. "Do you not know your own blood group?" she replied brusquely. "Yes, of course," I explained, "but I haven't the foggiest idea who you are and if you could verify my husband's blood type, I'd be a good bit further down the road marked 'trust.'"

Her answer was snappy and not good publicity for the nursing staff at Fairfield General: "I am RN Cindy Edgar and your husband, Fred Morris, is bleeding to death." "All right," I said, laying down my coupons (Who wants to save 79 cents on Circus Peanuts anyway?), "No need to get huffy. I'm on my way."

That was one trying Tuesday. Turns out the person who ultimately gave blood to Fred (I hate needles) holds only an associate's degree from community college (and that in aerospace culinary arts). "Tell me a little bit more about this donor before I sign the forms," I prodded Nurse Edgar (no more attractive in person than on the phone). "The donor has Pk blood," she growled.

"Yes, but from what sort of family? Brothers or sisters? Anyone with a bachelor's?" (Fred and I each attained this degree, though he's put his to what I consider poor use.) More growling: "He's a bachelor with Pk blood."

Six hours later, I learned the outlandish rental cost of a hospital bed. "Christ Almighty," I said, "it'd be cheaper to rent a car." "Not a car with an elevated headrest," came the reply. Seems these days that everyone in the service industry (at least here in Fairfield) has watched far too much Letterman.

Three days later, settled in our living room, Fred asked for his book of Acrostics. "Haven't you done enough for one week?" I shot back. He looked at me blankly. "You've plunged from a roof, may have contracted an infectious disease from someone who aspires to prepare airline food, and have managed to entirely block the sole working television in this section of our home's downstairs." "Can't you watch the TV in the kitchen?" he asked. "Sure, Fred, but it's not a flat-screen. And I may need your Acrostics book to prop up the antenna."

You gals who married drunks or whose husbands have been unemployed for long stretches of time know there's nothing more exasperating than having El Viejo around the house. Particularly when he's flat on his back and can't figure out how to operate the remote control for his own mattress.

We got into it last Thursday. "Why are you mopping my forehead," Fred wanted to know. "I'm not," I told him, "I'm dusting." Again, the blank look. "I'm treating you like a very expensive piece of furniture, which is what you've become." He smiled weakly, "You're caring for me." "No, I'm wiping the dust off your skull."

Now he wants a turtle. "You know what, Fred, the doctors say you'll be up and about in eight months. Then who's going to care for the turtle?" That stumped him for a while. Then he blurted: "It's not like I'm asking you to give blood."

"Fine," I said, thwacking the Yellow Pages on his chest, "get an estimate." "An estimate for a turtle?" "Yes, Fred, it's like buying anything else: a set of tires, a dishwasher. You call around." "But what do I ask for?" (I could already see the effects of his downwardly mobile blood transfusion.) "A turtle. You ask for a turtle." "But what size? What kind? How will I compare?" "You're gonna let your fingers do the walking, because they're the only part of you that can walk. You're gonna find the cheapest turtle in Fairfield and I'll pick it up on my way home from bridge."

I swear to God I was not cut out for this. If he rings that little bell one more time.... I told him, "Save up your requests: Jello, crackers, turtle. That's three things. I don't need to hear the bell on three separate occasions." "Right," he said, "but you crumbled crackers in my Jello." "Now you know why, Fred; be glad it wasn't a turtle." He complained he felt like Joan Crawford in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" "Bette Davis served her a rat," I informed him, "not a turtle."

Today Marge called me away from the bridge table telling me you-know-who was on the line. "The home healthcare aide's not here and I've spilled a bowl of soup in my lap," he gasped. "May I know what kind of soup?" I asked patiently. "What does it matter?" came his belligerent reply. "Indulge me," I said tightly. "Gazpacho," he answered. "Fred, that really doesn't help. Warm gazpacho or cold?" There was no response. "I'd like to know if you scalded yourself or if you're freezing to death." "Gazpacho is always served cold," he said tersely. And then came the moment that almost made the first nine days of my eight-month prison sentence worthwhile: I was able to tell my husband that, contrary to erroneous opinion, gazpacho can be served either hot or cold. I think even the airlines know that.

My Needs

A 50-year-old Israeli man has just been granted his eleventh divorce--BBC

I don't like RSVPing to bar mitzvahs. And I don't like bar miitzvahs. And I don't like my nephew Sammy. So you RSVP to Sammy's bar mitzvah. You get this goddamned, oversized series of gaudy envelopes off the mantle where it's been for the past 35 minutes and you RSVP no to Sammy. And don't send a gift.

I like a hot platter. I don't mean tepid and I don't mean warm. If there's lettuce, parsley, or other garnish on that plate, I want to see it wilt. I want to see those cherry tomatoes pop. I want that plate so hot it not only burns your hand and singes the hair on your wrist, I want you looking like Johnny Tremain by the time you get to the table. I want you scared, nervous, and deformed.

I, however, do not like to anxiefy. You know what makes me anxiefy besides oversized, gaudy bar mitzvah invites and tepid platters? Expensive, unworn boots. If I see a pair of boots that cost more than 240 shekels in your closet and I realize I have not seen you in those boots in public within the last four weeks, I will anxiefy.

If I anxiefy, you will not have a birthday this year. Your birthday will be cancelled. You will spend it waxing my back with a hard-to-open tin of Turtle Wax. So help me God, do not have me anxiefy six months to either side of your birthday or you will regret it.

Two sharpened pencils. At my desk. Every morning. Different pencils each day. Do not sharpen the same two pencils or even the same pencil two consecutive days or I will put you out in the gazebo copying the Torah by hand. On a grain of rice.

A cup of hot coffee. Not tepid, not warm, not room temperature. Scalding. Coffee so goddamned hot watching its surface brings to mind Pompeii. Place the coffee to the right of my pencils. Why? None of your business why. Your business is to make sure you're seen in public in those 242-shekel boots within the next four weeks, to sharpen my pencils, and to RSVP to that bar mitzvah. But don't use my pencils.

Don't touch my things. Don't touch my manicure scissors, my nail clippers, my Mason Pearson brush, my stapler, or my driving gloves. Don't touch my ashtray, my shuffleboard cue, or my Turtle Wax.

Don't move things. Including yourself. Don't stand in my light, cast a shadow, block my sightlines, obstruct, obfuscate, or hinder in any manner. Keep out of my way. If you're in my way I--don't interrupt--I anxiefy.

Treat me with respect. Honor me. Be true. Loyal. Faithful. Fidelity is all. Do not let your hand linger over that Tel Aviv greaseball of a parking attendant's when he gives you the car keys. I saw. I am not blind. Honor your vows or out comes the Turtle Wax and the grain of rice.

My balls. Care for my balls. Make sure the mesh protector in my bathing trunks is adequate to house me. Do not let my scrotum be exposed to Ben, his wife, and their neighbor for a full half-hour as it was last summer at the pool while we discussed the Holocaust.

My dietary requirements are few but they are, as the word implies, required. I eat cereal with my hands; have never liked a spoon. Corn Flakes, Shredded Wheat, Alpen: all with my hands. Up to the knuckles. Particularly Alpen. Also hot cereals: Maypo, Wheateena, and Cream of Wheat. To be eaten with my hands. No spoons. Make sure the Cream of Wheat is hot. Sizzling.

I will not swim in a pool alone or in a pool occupied by more than three others. For this reason I was reluctant to join Ben, his wife, their neighbor and you in the pool last summer. I only joined to hide my scrotum.

No drive-thru windows. Never, ever, ever ask me to accompany you through a drive-thru window, be it at a bank or fast-food franchise. I drive through nothing. Including a Sequoia in northern California.

If you couldn't hold a pencil under one of your breasts the day I married you (and you couldn't), then I expect you not to be able to hold a pencil under one of your breasts after a dozen years of matrimony. Don't use one of my current or previously-sharpened pencils.

No FAO Schwarz. I hate that place. Those kids jumping on that foot-activated, floor-sized, Day-Glo keyboard making idiotic music and smiling while unwittingly advertising a product no one in his right mind would ever buy makes me despair. Keep me away from FAO Schwarz. Don't let me within eight blocks of it. Whatever it takes: physical restraints, GPS, hypnosis. Keep me away or else. Now get me my pills.

Calendar Wars

My wife and I are writers and though I have enjoyed what some might term more professional success (my work has appeared in a number of prestigious publications with sophisticated readership including, in autumn 2006, a letter to the editor of the New York Review of Books), Suzy is a talented woman in her own right. We share an office in our converted Canadian farmhouse near the borders of Maine and Vermont and enjoy a varied sex life given our age (late thirties). For some time, my wife and I have been receiving alumni calendars from our respective alma maters and this led to some friction when I noticed that Suzy was consigning my calendar to the laundry room wall (partially hidden behind an ungainly wardrobe) while placing hers prominently above our desks.

Suzy is a graduate of Bowdoin and I attended Middlebury. At first glance, these institutions strike one as rather similar. Each is a liberal arts college in northern New England with approximately 2,000 undergraduates who tend to hail from the Boston area. Each was founded near the turn of the 19th century, has a student/faculty ratio of roughly 9:1 and boasts an endowment of approximately $700 million.

In point of fact, the two colleges are radically different. I have spread before me the current Middlebury alumni calendar, opened to February. A group of Middlebury Panthers (members of our nationally-ranked ski team) are enjoying mugs of alcohol-free yule grog around a roaring fire (I think I recognize the hearth of the Emma Willard House, a National Historic Landmark which serves as the admissions office). Further perusal indicates that Chinese New Year falls on Valentine's Day this year and that the intriguing celebration of Mawlid al Nabi occurs on February 26th.

The featured February image for Bowdoin is a hockey rink (empty). That the Bowdoin College mascot is a polar bear may explain, in part, the absence of any athletes from the photo. Though Suzy is defensive on this score, I think most fair-minded folk will concur that such a creature is faintly ridiculous. I do know that when we met for the first time on Nantucket, Suzy was ecstatic about my sleek, Panther-like physique and I wondered if her frail, puny Bowdoin boyfriend was representative of that college as a whole.

Of course, attractive individuals attend Bowdoin (Suzy is one such), but I can't help but note the absence of humans in the Bowdoin calendar. I guess what makes Middlebury so special, beyond being rated #4 in the current U.S. News and World Report list of liberal arts colleges (Bowdoin is 6th), beyond Old Stone Row (consisting of the three oldest buildings on campus: Old Chapel, Painter Hall, and Starr Hall, which are displayed on the May and July pages of this year's calendar), beyond the fact that such diverse luminaries as Frost and Marquand taught at the College's renowned Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, is the people.

My brother, who matriculated at Bates and ultimately graduated from Colby, asks, "Aren't the affluent, smiling blond people at Middlebury the same as those at Bowdoin?" No, Timothy, they're not. It's the very quality of Middlebury laughter, vivacity, and joie de vivre that sets the College apart.

It goes without saying that Middlebury's setting is also nonpareil. I was therefore understandably taken aback to hear Suzy recently venture that "Bowdoin is far prettier in the winter." Since that particular season lasts ten-and-a-half months on each campus, I took her comment to mean that Bowdoin is perpetually more beautiful than Middlebury. Thus ensued the most protracted spat of our marriage.

As we entered our fifth week of mutually-enforced silent treatment, my wife and I agreed to objectively evaluate each month from both calendars and to display in our office the most striking image of the two. Unsurprisingly, Suzy found eleven months of this year's Bowdoin calendar superior to Middlebury's (she ceded me August, which features a Bowdoin food service worker wearing a hearing aid).

Timothy says Suzy and I should just be grateful we graduated debt-free from costly colleges, that we had the privilege of attending small classes in gorgeous surroundings, and that our degrees helped us land jobs directly after commencement. Suzy says we should just be grateful Timothy visits once every four years. I'm inclined to agree.

I know all this sounds silly to some, but the 90% of you who attended institutions like ours and still live within 125 miles of your campus know how important such matters are. Even the remaining 10% who are foreign or come from California (and are, therefore, essentially foreign) realize it's the small things in life that count. Wasn't it Mies van der Rohe who said: "God is in the details"? Perhaps he was even behind a lectern at Bread Loaf when he uttered the words.

The following images all grace Middlebury alumni calendars from the past three years: stone walls, maple syrup, sleigh bells, fields of wildflowers, and white picket fences. All of these resonate. But a deserted hockey rink north of Portland? Please.

6,000,000 Served

"Dear visitor, welcome to Dachau, welcome to McDonald's. Our restaurant's got 120 seats, about 40 outdoor seats for our young guests an Indoor and Outdoor Playland. How to find us? Really simple. Just follow the picture! We're happy for your visit! Your McDonald's Restaurant, Dachau."--text of flyers slipped under windshield wipers of cars parked outside the camp

From: McDonald's Corporate Headquarters
To: Managers of all McDonald's franchises in Eastern/Central Europe

Let it be known that we in no way condone the recent regrettable actions of the Dachau, Germany outlet. Such lapses run contrary to the very tenets of the McDonald's philosophy. McDonald's is about healthy, happy eating. Our mission is to please, satisfy, and educate the public.

Effective immediately, a number of McDonald's policies will be revamped, overhauled, or simply abandoned. Several slogans are being phased out NOW. The phrase, "You'll love our fillings" (in reference to our tasty pies) is to be removed from all literature and signage from any franchise within 150 kilometers of a former concentration or death camp (i.e., the entire nation of Poland, much of Germany, and substantial swathes of the Czech Republic and Slovakia). "Big Mac Attack" is no longer part of the McDonald's vocabulary and, in an effort to avoid rekindling disturbing memories, the title Big Mac itself is forbidden in zones where a high concentration of former guards or kapos currently resides. Given the medical experimentation prevalent through much of Eastern and Central Europe in the 1940s, the phrase "Supersize Me" is hereby banned from the premises of all outlets. Furthermore, the words "You Deserve a Break Today" are unwelcome.

The Dachau incident has led our public relations team to re-think the cast of characters who currently welcome customers to McDonaldland. From henceforth, the character Grimace is to be removed from all promotional displays and materials as it is inappropriate at this juncture to have our "public face" be purple as a bruise and to possibly trigger thoughts of contortion or an unpleasant rictus.

The Hamburglar, with his overtones of theft and illegal seizure, is to be eliminated as are the French Fry Gobblins, lately renamed the Fry Guys. While we pride ourselves on the savory oil in which our fries are lightly dipped, for many the verb "to fry" still carries somewhat menacing overtones.

Mayor McCheese will no longer wear a pair of pince-nez spectacles as some feel he bears too striking a resemblance to Colonel Klink on "Hogan's Heroes," a show now widely seen in syndication. Captain Crook and, particularly, the Griddler are now no longer part of our family. Furthermore, the Happy Meal Gang will be referred to as the Happy Meal Group.

Our popular playgrounds will remain intact but as of now, ball "pits" will be known as "gathering places of festive, multi-colored plastic spheres." Birthday parties will continue apace, but the miniature toy hammers and anvils previously dispensed in Bavaria have been deemed gratuitous.

We regret these changes (and any attendant loss of revenue), but the shadow of history mandates increased sensitivity. In keeping with this need, we are scaling back our advertising, especially in the Auschwitz area, or Oswiecim as it is called in Poland. Our billboard has been removed from the entrance to the death camp at Birkenau (also known as Auschwitz II). And our planned drive-thru window at the exit of the former I.G. Farben factory camp (Auschwitz III) has been suspended. Lastly, the combination holding and extermination camp, Auschwitz I, will no longer be a distribution point for coupons for our enticing Combo Meals.

We realize these alterations in corporate policy will take getting used to, but truly believe we can emerge a more respected and cherished brand because of them. If someone mentions the Dachau incident, just remember all that was a long time ago and tell yourself: "Two whole beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese on a sesame seed bun." But don't say "Big Mac."

Let's Catch Up

Nancy, it was fantastic to run into you at Wiggins Pond this morning so many years after high school. I'm glad you know about the "hidden cove." Not too many do (let's keep it that way!). I can still picture my grumpy old dad leaving a cross note on the windshield of a car not parked in one of the two official parking spaces. You'd think a tenured professor (at M.I.T., of all places) would be more tolerant.

Well, you certainly couldn't have bought in a sweeter town on the Cape. I guess you were part of that craze four years ago when prices were escalating absurdly and finally reached preposterous heights. We sold Dad's old shack the very weekend the realtor said the phones suddenly stopped ringing (phew!).

Seeing you with your red and white Bairstow's bag bulging with blueberry muffins brought back so many memories. Dad and I used to be first in line every Saturday. Though when Mr. Bairstow sold his bakery about four-and-a-half years ago he apparently took his muffin recipe with him. Obviously, you and yours don't find today's batches as mealy and bland as we do. I envy you that.

You're so lucky have a spot in Ferson's Pastures. It must be heaven with those views! Living so close to the marsh is a dream (at least until mid-July when those green flies descend like something out of the Bible) and your neck of the woods was one of the first places we looked after selling Dad's. But it proved surprisingly difficult to make the transition from a two-hundred-forty-six-year-old saltbox to something modern. The houses out your way tend to be a bit more uniform and newish (though you'll be thankful for that if you're one of the very few who brave the cold to trek out here at Thanksgiving).

We also wanted to be a bit closer to town (as you may know, the new library's phenomenal and we feel privileged to be able to walk to Tuesday Night Movies without fighting for a space in the crowded lot (we have enough of that in Manhattan (even though our prewar building has parking))). I remember visiting you freshman year at college in upstate New York and marvelling at the corn fields visible from your window. I'd toyed with attending a rural school but was too urban (not something I'm proud of) and ultimately felt compelled to choose a campus nearer the city: Princeton's.

Speaking of crowds, I must tell you about Friday night square dancing on the pier. It's an absolute blast! If you see an incredibly good-looking, 6'4" guy in Italian jeans and an old Navajo turquoise belt up on stage moving with the grace of a Division I quarterback, you've met my husband. Rob "calls" every third week (he next appears at the first dance in August) and would love to have you intoduce yourself during one of the longer intervals.

Our kids Tasha (12) and Theo (14) attend a terrific art camp Monday mornings in the basement of the old Portuguese church. Your little girl (Randi? Or Brandy?) looked to be about 10 (or a short 12), so if you'd like, I'd be happy to place her name on the waitlist. Spaces don't tend to open up until the last week of the summer but we can always keep our fingers crossed.

There's also a sort of informal "club" of kids that clusters around the cannon on the town green Thursday afternoons. That's where you'll find Theo. Look for a blur of bright blond curls flying through the air on a state-of-the-art skateboard (purchased from a midtown "emporium" for a stratospheric sum I'm too embarrassed to divulge) surrounded by a gaggle of adoring girls. Though her friends beseech her to join them, Tasha is a bit put off by this scene (since it's evolved into a clique of the best-looking, coolest summer kids) and only goes occasionally.

If I'm in the vicinity of Ferson's Pastures, I'll give a holler, but as green-fly season will soon be upon us, our best bet for a cup of java (I gind my own beans; Rob brings them up from the city weekends) and a chance to catch up is for you to pop in to Chapel Lane. Park by the brook that babbles by the base of our property (we try not to use the hydrangea-lined drive: erosion!), traipse over the weathered bridge lovingly restored by Rob last summer, pass under an arbor of the most gorgeous wild roses in New England (or perhaps the United States), lift an old, brass, dolphin's-snout, nineteenth-century knocker, rap firmly but not too forcefully, and presto: you'll be face to face with me.