INTRODUCTION
In the course of my travels, I have lived in some weird and wonderful places. From dirt floor shacks in the third world, to ultra luxury resorts on exotic tropical islands. I would like to tell you now about a few of the most interesting.
GI HOUSING
When I was in the Air Force, stationed at Travis AFB, CA, we lived in a WW II vintage housing project in the town of Vallejo. This housing project was about 80% GIs and what one didn’t think of, another would. A couple of examples of this come immediately to mind. We had a Labrador dog as well as a cat. The dog was a smart fellow, but like most dogs, didn’t particularly like cats (Our own cat being the exception, since she had raised him from a two week old baby.) So, we got out a tape recorder, and recorded the bawlings of a female cat in heat. On a summer evening we would set the recorder on the front porch, and turn the volume up full. Meanwhile, just inside the door, we would goad the dog into an anti cat frenzy. Then, after all the Toms within a one mile radius had gathered around to get a piece of the action, we would throw open the door, sick the dog on the cats, and watch the fun. Imagine the poor Tom, who just when he thought that he would get a little, running headlong into a cat hating dog, intent on mayhem.We successfully kept our apartment block 100% servicemen by the simple strategy of staking the dog out front whenever there was a vacancy. For some reason he didn’t like civilians, and when one of them came around, he would growl and show his teeth. Of course he loved GIs, and when one of them showed up he could somehow sense it, and would be instant buddies.
The dog was pretty smart, but the cat was smarter, and one trick, of which she never tired, and the dog never caught on to, went something like this. Our place was a very small apartment with polished concrete floors, something like terrazzo. Anyway, come evening, it would be time for the dog’s dinner, so a pan of dog food was set on the kitchen floor, and the dog would chow down. Enter the cat. She would sneak up and clamp her teeth down hard on the dog’s tail. This distracted and irritated the dog, and a merry chase around the apartment would ensue. The cat would then duck under a piece of furniture with legs about three inches high, with the dog in hot pursuit. Too late, the dog saw where the cat had gone, and put on the brakes. Which were totally ineffective on the polished floor, and resulted in the dog hitting the piece of furniture with a resounding crash. Picking himself up, the dog would shake his head, and wander off to lay down, completely forgetting his dinner. This, of course, the cat had anticipated, and she immediately headed for the kitchen and finished off the food.
One final anecdote to wind up this sordid tale. It seems that the bathrooms, which faced the street side, had floor to ceiling one way glass windows. That is, you could see out fairly well, but no one could see in. Well, the next door neighbor’s wife was quite a dish, and somehow the glass in their bathroom window got reversed. So, when the water started running in that apartment, the call went out and everyone gathered on the lawn in front. Somehow the husband, who was somewhat dense, never caught on, but the fun stopped abruptly when Pat told the poor lady that the boys could see what was going on. Or coming off, as it were.
LIFE IN POSTWAR GERMANY
INTRODUCTION
These anecdotes chronicle my family’s living experiences in Germany, not long after World War II, along with some other interesting anecdotes
They are set in a country, which was just recovering from losing a major war. The cities were in ruins, just beginning to be rebuilt. Unemployment was high, displaced persons numbered in the millions, and some people even had no place to sleep at night. Occupation troops were everywhere, and the country was governed jointly by civil authorities and occupation forces, with the lines of demarcation often not clear. And we were privileged to live in this zoo for two years.
I have actually published a book about my job there, but it is not yet available on the Web.
AN IDYLLIC GERMAN VILLAGE
Following is a tale that I penned some time ago about my family life in a southern German village, right after WWII.
When John’s wife and daughter finally decided to join him in Germany, he had just transferred to an office in southern Germany. And being a bit paranoid, and with good reason I might add, John decided make his home in a remote German village near a major airport. This place was really idyllic, and could only be reached via a maze of dirt roads. Some German professional people, although, were beginning to discover the place, and move in. Kind of like our suburbs.
Anyway, John got a daylight basement apartment in a very nice house, and the family settled in.
Hardly anybody in the village spoke English, so John developed a unique method of teaching his wife German. Essentially it consisted of handing her a German/English dictionary, and taking off on a five day trip. Daughter though, fared better in the German department. After playing with the German kids for a couple of weeks, she picked it up fairly well, and Mom probably learned more German from daughter than any other way.
John, Pat , and LaRene having a drink with our German landlords.
Although John had three cars at his disposal, the poor lady couldn’t even jump in one and go find another American, because she didn’t have a German driver’s license. Speaking of the license, getting one turned out to be a real problem. Since wife couldn’t read or speak German, she couldn’t pass the test. John finally resolved this issue by going to a town about 100 miles away, and bribing a driving inspector who owed him a favor.
So why didn’t she get an American military license like the other American wives, you ask. Well, the answer to this question is simple. Because John’s wife was traveling under a US State Department passport, rather than military orders, she was not under US military control. They could work around this to get US Commissary and Army PX privileges, but ran up against a brick wall when it came to a driver’s license. This status, though, came in handy from time to time when some overzealous Military Commander, with nothing better to do, decided to impose dress codes on American dependents. Since she was on a State Department passport, there was nothing the military could do when she told them in no uncertain terms to Bugger Off.
Life in the village did have its moments, however. One time was when John brought home a Federball. (Badminton) set, and installed it in the village square. None of the villagers had seen or heard of Badminton, but they caught on quickly, and Sunday Federball tournaments soon became an institution.
The Germans of course, had never heard of a barbeque grill either, and even though John’s family was hankering for a good barbequed steak, there was no grill to be had in all of Germany. American ingenuity, though, came to the rescue. John found an old 20 liter (5 gallon) paint can and cleaned it up somewhat. He then scrounged two old refrigerator shelves for the charcoal and grill racks. But John had overlooked an essential ingredient, charcoal. The Germans did have so called briquettes, which kind of looked like our charcoal briquettes, but which were so full of coal tar that they would poison you, let alone, ruin the food. So that wasn’t the answer. It looked like John had run into a dead end. But then an old German told him something. In some remote villages, way up in the mountains of Bavaria, well beyond the reach of the electric lines, it was rumored that the hausfrauen (housewives) used holtzkohl (charcoal) irons to iron clothes. So, on their next trip, John and his partner detoured up into the mountains to one of these villages. And would you believe, the locals did have charcoal irons. So, they headed to the village store and bought two large sacks of charcoal. This stuff really should have been called char wood, because that it is what it literally was. Charred sticks of wood, not pressed into any kind of shape.
Anyway, the next Sunday morning, John set up his grill contraption in the front yard and lit it off. This, and the smoke and smell when the steaks were put on brought the whole village out to his front yard in record time. Enduring comments like, “What will the crazy American do next”, and “Look, he’s burning up perfectly good meat” (steak, incidentally was expensive and almost impossible to come by on the German market). John good naturedly started passing out samples. The upshot was that all the steak disappeared and the Germans got a taste of good American cooking. Learning from experience, from then on John barbequed in the garten, or back yard, but even then, would occasionally have visitors.
As we mentioned earlier, the village could only be reached via a maze of dirt roads. There was an exception however. The Autobahn ran near the village, and less than a mile away there was an unused, and forbidden Autobahn exit, with a straight shot to the village. Leave it to German logic to decide not to allow use of a perfectly good exit, but that’s the way it was. John soon figured out that by using this exit, he could cut about 10 minutes from his commute. At about the same time, the cops figured out that someone was using the forbidden off ramp. As you can see by now, an eventual confrontation was inevitable. So, as John was wheeling off the off ramp one night, he ran smack into a carload of cops. The Highway Patrol in those days, which was what these guys were, drove big Mercedes touring cars, like a four door convertible. Usually with the top down. Just like Hitler’s staff cars in the movies, but painted dark green. Also, almost always there were four cops in a car. Full employment, I guess.
John was driving a big Opel Kapitain, which was no slouch in the performance category. (Actually, it was very similar to a 3.5 liter Jag of the same vintage.) He would probably have been able to outrun a cop car holding one cop, but as this cop car was filled with four beefy cops, it was no contest. Anyway, there they go down the road and through the village, John’s Opel in the lead and the Mercedes cop car in hot pursuit. Scattering dogs and chickens in their path. Eventually, John lost the cops, who headed back to the Autobahn, and John snuck into the village. Since there were only two big black Opels in town, and both belonged to John, the villagers had little trouble figuring out who was the culprit.
Eventually though, John and his family decided they had enough of German village life, so they pulled up stakes and moved to the big city, Frankfurt am Main.
Although John had three cars at his disposal, the poor lady couldn’t even jump in one and go find another American, because she didn’t have a German driver’s license. Speaking of the license, getting one turned out to be a real problem. Since wife couldn’t read or speak German, she couldn’t pass the test. John finally resolved this issue by going to a town about 100 miles away, and bribing a driving inspector who owed him a favor.
So why didn’t she get an American military license like the other American wives, you ask. Well, the answer to this question is simple. Because John’s wife was traveling under a US State Department passport, rather than military orders, she was not under US military control. They could work around this to get US Commissary and Army PX privileges, but ran up against a brick wall when it came to a driver’s license. This status, though, came in handy from time to time when some overzealous Military Commander, with nothing better to do, decided to impose dress codes on American dependents. Since she was on a State Department passport, there was nothing the military could do when she told them in no uncertain terms to Bugger Off.
Life in the village did have its moments, however. One time was when John brought home a Federball. (Badminton) set, and installed it in the village square. None of the villagers had seen or heard of Badminton, but they caught on quickly, and Sunday Federball tournaments soon became an institution.
The Germans of course, had never heard of a barbeque grill either, and even though John’s family was hankering for a good barbequed steak, there was no grill to be had in all of Germany. American ingenuity, though, came to the rescue. John found an old 20 liter (5 gallon) paint can and cleaned it up somewhat. He then scrounged two old refrigerator shelves for the charcoal and grill racks. But John had overlooked an essential ingredient, charcoal. The Germans did have so called briquettes, which kind of looked like our charcoal briquettes, but which were so full of coal tar that they would poison you, let alone, ruin the food. So that wasn’t the answer. It looked like John had run into a dead end. But then an old German told him something. In some remote villages, way up in the mountains of Bavaria, well beyond the reach of the electric lines, it was rumored that the hausfrauen (housewives) used holtzkohl (charcoal) irons to iron clothes. So, on their next trip, John and his partner detoured up into the mountains to one of these villages. And would you believe, the locals did have charcoal irons. So, they headed to the village store and bought two large sacks of charcoal. This stuff really should have been called char wood, because that it is what it literally was. Charred sticks of wood, not pressed into any kind of shape.
Anyway, the next Sunday morning, John set up his grill contraption in the front yard and lit it off. This, and the smoke and smell when the steaks were put on brought the whole village out to his front yard in record time. Enduring comments like, “What will the crazy American do next”, and “Look, he’s burning up perfectly good meat” (steak, incidentally was expensive and almost impossible to come by on the German market). John good naturedly started passing out samples. The upshot was that all the steak disappeared and the Germans got a taste of good American cooking. Learning from experience, from then on John barbequed in the garten, or back yard, but even then, would occasionally have visitors.
As we mentioned earlier, the village could only be reached via a maze of dirt roads. There was an exception however. The Autobahn ran near the village, and less than a mile away there was an unused, and forbidden Autobahn exit, with a straight shot to the village. Leave it to German logic to decide not to allow use of a perfectly good exit, but that’s the way it was. John soon figured out that by using this exit, he could cut about 10 minutes from his commute. At about the same time, the cops figured out that someone was using the forbidden off ramp. As you can see by now, an eventual confrontation was inevitable. So, as John was wheeling off the off ramp one night, he ran smack into a carload of cops. The Highway Patrol in those days, which was what these guys were, drove big Mercedes touring cars, like a four door convertible. Usually with the top down. Just like Hitler’s staff cars in the movies, but painted dark green. Also, almost always there were four cops in a car. Full employment, I guess.
John was driving a big Opel Kapitain, which was no slouch in the performance category. (Actually, it was very similar to a 3.5 liter Jag of the same vintage.) He would probably have been able to outrun a cop car holding one cop, but as this cop car was filled with four beefy cops, it was no contest. Anyway, there they go down the road and through the village, John’s Opel in the lead and the Mercedes cop car in hot pursuit. Scattering dogs and chickens in their path. Eventually, John lost the cops, who headed back to the Autobahn, and John snuck into the village. Since there were only two big black Opels in town, and both belonged to John, the villagers had little trouble figuring out who was the culprit.
Eventually though, John and his family decided they had enough of German village life, so they pulled up stakes and moved to the big city, Frankfurt am Main.
STREET SCENES AROUND FRANKFURT
GERMANY ON TWO DOLLARS A DAY
To show just how far a dollar would go in those days, guys traveling in rural areas, if not overly extravagant, could get by on $2.00 US per day. They could live on even less, if they wanted to stoop to bumming food and lodging from the US military. One of the favorite scams, in this regard, was to find a remote Army post, and tell the Officer of the Day, that they were Americans, their car had broken down just outside the gate, and they needed lodging until it could be repaired. At the other extreme, if our travellers really wanted to go first class, $10 per day each, which is about what they drew in per diem, would let them live like kings.
Speaking of living on the cheap, two of our guys one evening, after expending their ready funds drinking till 3 AM in a German bar, once pulled a scam like this, and were put up in an infantry squad room. At 6:00 AM the Platoon Sergeant came through, loud of voice and boorish of manner, attempting to roust everyone out. Hearing the commotion, our lead guy opened one eye, and in no uncertain terms suggested that the Sergeant perform an unnatural sex act. The Sergeant, having never been spoken to in such a manner since his own basic training, decided he had better not mess with these people, and slunk out of the room. Needless to say, our man was an instant hit with all the doggies (Infantrymen) in the place.
A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY
Once upon a time, returning in the late evening from a trip, a couple of us decided to pull into a US Army snack bar outside a major German city, and have a few, before going to bed. There was also a fiscal method to this madness, as if you checked in to the office after midnight, you collected per diem for another whole day, a sum much larger than the price of a couple of beers. I also need to explain, at this point, that since this was during the occupation of Germany, these snack bars, or any other American military installation, were strictly off limits to German civilians.
As I remember, we were wearing ratty German civilian clothing and looking pretty beat up, but were just sitting there minding our own business, conversing, mostly in German, and drinking our beer, when in comes this US Army MP Second Lieutenant. He is in dress uniform, (This was before Army guys had name tags on dress uniforms), and has "Fresh From the States" written all over him. He sizes up the situation, decides to throw the German bums out, and starts to hassle me.
At this point, I need to explain that I was somewhat of a hard case, and didn’t much appreciate being hassled by MPs. A fact which was not lost on the MPs who patrolled these places regularly, but was unknown to the young Lieutenant.
Anyway, I set my beer down, looked the Lieutenant directly in the eye, and in a strong German accent said. "Good Evening Lt. Blank." The Lieutenant's mouth dropped open, and he stammered something to the effect of "How did you know my name?” Replying with a mid American accent, I introduced myself and my partner to the Lieutenant as Americans, and showed some ID, I then told him that I knew everything about everyone, including the good Lieutenant, and further that my mother had warned me about people like him, but, considering the circumstances, I would be willing to buy him a beer. By this time the guy with me and the Lieutenant are both totally confused, but discretion being the better part of valor, the Lieutenant decided to go for the beer. The guy who was with me, of course, had no idea what was going on, but decided to play along.
The explanation for all of this was that I knew most of the MP officers in the district and had never before seen this guy, who was obviously fresh from the States. Furthermore, my mother had an old college pal who had a son who was a Lieutenant in the MPs in this city, and had asked me to look him up. Accordingly, I had made a good guess on The Lt.'s name. The Lieutenant, on the other hand vaguely knew my name from MP tribal knowledge, but he had never made the connection. Even though his mother had told him to look me up, as well. My mother, incidentally, thought that I had some easy desk job, and had no idea that I was running amok all over Western Europe.
Anyhow, everybody had a good laugh, and the MP Lieutenant had a good war story for his buddies.
MEAT MARKETS
Another thing which was an interesting byproduct of the Occupation, were the Oberbayern bars. Which loosely translates as “The Best of Bavaria”. These were really “meat markets”, and they did a land office business facilitating meetings between German refugee women and America GIs. Thus offering a chance for a down and out refugee, or even some everyday German women, to meet a “rich” American GI, and get treated royally, at least by the standards of those days. One could even dream of conning the guy into marriage, which was a free ticket to the United States, the Land of the Big PX. Many of these women though, were really predators, preying on the social misfits who had few friends, were inexperienced with women, had never had a date in high school, etc., etc.
These bars were also frequented by a few Americans and other foreigners who were not on the make, and were generally good cheap entertainment. A loud Bavarian um-pah band, dressed in Lederhosen and green Jaeger hats was ensconced on a stage, belting out the old Bavarian drinking songs. Periodically during the evening, the band would form a conga line, and snake through the audience, blaring their instruments at full volume. The bandleader, at the head of this procession, would spot a likely male in the audience, and place his green hat on the guy’s head, making him an honorary leader. The poor guy who got tapped was then required to mount the stage and lead the band in a rousing song, after first buying them a round of drinks. Needless to say, as the evening wore on, the band got drunker and drunker, as well as louder and louder. The patrons would even get into the act as well. Dancing on the tables, and sometimes even swinging down from the balconies. One of my favorite memories, incidentally, was listening to a drunk Bavarian band in one of these joints, led by a drunk US Army Staff Sergeant, try to play the Stars and Stripes Forever.
Since the Doggies all had to be back in the barracks by midnight, these bars pretty much emptied out by about 10:30 PM, leaving only the girls, and some hard core foreigners. These girls would get pretty desperate around midnight, as many of them literally had no place to sleep. So, if you were experienced like we were, you would get out of the bar about 10:00 PM, and not come back till 1:00AM or so. Otherwise, you would probably end up finding one or more of these women a place to sleep for the night, before you could go back to serious drinking.
Pat, incidentally, would sometimes hang with me in one of these bars, which was right down the street from our home in Frankfurt, but generally she avoided them. Too depressing, I guess.
By the way, this music has now all but died out. Even in the venerable Hofbrauhaus in Munich, the last time I was there, the band was playing New York, New York. I really believe that at present, there is more of this old Bavarian music to be found in the German bars in the US, than in Germany.
STEWARDESS SCHOOL
Speaking of housing arrangements, some of my most unusual were when I was a Service Representative for the old Trans World Airlines (TWA), and American airlines.
TWA in those days was headquartered at Mid Continent International Airport at Kansas City, and our office was close by, in a suite of rooms, which served both as office and living accommodations. These rooms were in a motel, which incidentally was owned by two TWA pilots, and aside from our office, was completely occupied by the TWA stewardess school and associated housing. This was when TWA was pushing the Glamour Girl image for their stews, so one can imagine the good looking babes hanging around.
Particularly when I was serving my American Airlines client in Tulsa, these ladies would liberate a key, get into the place, and party up on the free booze. Oft times, when I would get back from Tulsa in the wee hours, I would have to kick a bevy of these beauties out of the quarters, in order to have a place to sleep.
Oh well, the sacrifices one makes for the company.
CAPE CANAVERAL
After a couple of years working on airplanes, I transferred to a missile program, in the AeroSpace Division, and almost immediately ended up at Cape Kennedy (Now Cape Canaveral) in Florida.
When I arrived they were just receiving the first missile for testing and checkout prior to its first launch.. After being there about three days, I concluded that this was going to be a long term effort, so I sent for Pat, LaRene, and Michelle to join me. (At that point, we didn’t have a dog or cat) We found a neat little house right on the beach in Cocoa Beach, I bought a three year old Mercury, which looked about ten, (sand and salt air, your know) and we settled in for the duration. There was a downside though. Across the street from the house was an undeveloped patch of palmetto scrub, a real jungle. At all hours of the day or night one could hear thrashing around and bloodcurdling screams emanating from that place, as someone tried to eat someone else. And oh yes, there were alligators waddling down the streets. All in all, not a real good place for kids to play outdoors. It also got real cold in the winter. The primitive heat pump in the house struggled mightily but could not keep up with the cold air blowing in through the jalousie windows. As for coats, we had not brought any, and one could not buy one because “It never gets cold in Florida”.
As for the Mercury, the heater had long since been disconnected and the fresh air vents were rusted open, so one got a 35 degree gale into the car while driving the twenty miles to the base. Without a coat, I might add. Eventually though, I convinced my employers that I needed a company car, which turned out to be a big improvement. It also had holes rusted in the floor, but at least, the heater worked.
CANEEL BAY PLANTATION
Beautiful Caneel Bay plantation. I usually lived in one of the beachside buildings you can see at the far end of the beach. The bar where I ran up the bills is the white spot at the left end of the upper left peninsula.
When I was building a water treatment for the Rockefellers at their Caneel Bay Plantation resort on St. John USVI, my guys were quartered in various accommodations all over the island, but my own living situation topped them all. But let me explain. This RockResort we were working for was one of the most exclusive and expensive in the Rockefeller chain, or anywhere else in the world, for that matter, and catered mostly to high end businessmen and politicians. Anyway, I convinced the Rockefellers early on that it would be simpler and more convenient for me to stay in guest quarters at their resort, and this was duly written into the contract. I think that it said something like, “RockResorts will provide Project Manager with all lodging, meals, and incidentals”. The Rockefellers really didn’t mind at all me staying at the resort, I think that they believed it provided some local color. There was usually one or more of the Rockefeller extended family hanging around the place as well. Happy, in particular was a frequent visitor.
So my day would go something like this. Up in the morning, with sometimes a quick swim in the ocean, which was right out the front door. Then up to the job site to get things started. Then a change of shirt, at least, and back to the resort, for breakfast with the other guests. Depending on the situation, I might then spend the day in Puerto Rico on business, or working with officials in St Thomas, or even on the job site.
Come five PM, I would pick up the mail, deliver it to my technical guys at their quarters, and have a couple of rums with them. Then I would usually stop in to discuss the day’s business with Alex, my Superintendent, on his boat, (He had been a French Foreign Legion officer, and lived on a sailboat in the harbor.) having a couple of more rums there. Last stop was to settle accounts with the Boss Hippie, at the commune. There I paid him for the people he had sent today, and worked out tomorrow’s labor requirements. While having a couple of more rums, of course. But my day wasn’t over yet. I would drive back to the room, shower, change clothes, then wander over to the Resort bar to mingle with the guests, and have a couple more. The incidentals clause in my contract, I took to mean unlimited bar privileges, which I also felt should include occasionally treating the entire bar for drinks on me. I met a lot of interesting people this way, but Thurgood Marshall, the Supreme Court Justice, and Billy Graham, the Evangelist, stand out particularly. Then it was in to the dining room for dinner, where coats and ties were required, and back to the bar for a nightcap before turning in. By the way, the bartenders never watered my drinks, and this along with all those all these free drinks, eventually caused an alarming drop in the bar’s profits. When the Rockefellers finally figured this out, they rather forcefully suggested that I stop hosting the entire bar, but free drinking arrangements for my close friends and myself remained intact.
On the job, I did have one very interesting visitor. This was Mal Stamper, the president of Boeing, and his charming wife Mara. And although his visit did not quite go as planned, it worked out OK in the end. But let me tell you about it.
On the appointed day, I picked up Mal and wife at the airport, and taxied them to the boat landing at Red Hook. I had chartered a boat there for the trip to St. John, because I didn’t want to subject the Stampers to the native ferry. But when we got to the dock, we found the Capitan of my charter overhauling his engine. He had obviously got the dates mixed up. He said though, that he could get things back together in an hour or so, so our party repaired to the nearest bar for a couple of rums. Welcome to the Virgin Islands. (This incidentally was before Stamper quit drinking.) Anyway, the boat got fixed eventually, and we made it over to St. John without further difficulty. At this point I introduced the Stampers to our transportation, which was my beat up old jeep. A typical island car. It had holes rusted in the floor, springs sticking out of the seats, and the top in tatters. I had considered borrowing more suitable transportation for these exalted visitors, but none was readily available, so we made do. This turned to be a good move, because Mara fell in love with that jeep. The dashing young French Foreign Legion officer also proved to be a big hit with her, and the two of them spent her entire visit roaming around the island in the jeep. For accommodations, I had arranged for the Stampers to have the exclusive use, during their stay, of the Rockefeller complex, which was a private cluster of buildings, not unlike, but on a smaller scale than, the Kennedy complex at Hyannisport. This kindness was greatly appreciated by both of them.
Stamper himself turned out to be OK, and he took a real interest in our activities. As usual, there were a few Rockefellers hanging around, and he enjoyed their company, as well as meeting some the illustrious guests in the bar. Over the years, incidentally, when I would see Stamper, even after he retired, he, having forgotten the name but not the face, would greet me with, “Hello Mr. Caneel Bay,” and then go on and on about how he had enjoyed his trip.
Shortly after the Stamper visit, I retired the old Jeep in favor of a Mini Moke. It was a kind of Austin Mini, with no body, only seats bolted to the floor pan. It was produced in Australia, and was not allowed in the US, since it would not meet government safety requirements. Be that as it may, it rivaled the Citroen 2-CV as the vehicle of choice in the backwaters of the world. Inexpensive, reliable, and simple.
This is my trusty "Moke". The only pic I cold find was this one which shows it parked on a jungle trail
Pat also got down there once. And between Caneel Bay and a luxury RockResort in Puerto Rico, she had a good time. Incidentally, from that time on, when asked about camping, she says that she likes it fine, except she needs a little something between her and the ground. Like two or three floors of a luxury resort. During her visit, we had one experience in the bar at Caneel Bay, which is worth recounting, so here goes.
Occasionally, it seems, and usually on Thursday nights, a steel band from the nearby village would play in the bar. For those of you not familiar with steel bands, all the instruments are cut off oil drums, pounded on with abandon by what look like xylophone mallets. Anyway, after an evening of good entertainment, the band played a final number, and everybody stood up. When Pat asked why this was happening, I had to explain to her that the band was in fact playing The Star Spangled Banner. Which was appropriate, since the Virgin Islands was and is a US territory.
LIFE IN THE PRIORY
If you have read my memoirs, you will remember that one of my best friends during the Seventies was Father John Fearon, a Dominican priest, teaching at Seattle University.
Well, in the course of time Father John got transferred, and became the Parish priest in the small town of Benicia, on San Francisco Bay north of Oakland.
And just a little bit later, I found myself spending a lot of time in the Bay Area while solving a problem at the Kaiser materials labs in Pleasanton CA, just down the road from Benicia.
Anyway, after a few (or maybe more than a few) drinks one night, Father John and I agreed that since his priory had good food, good booze, intellectual stimulation, and was essentially free, it made eminent good sense for me to stay there, rather than a hotel.
So, “Father John” from Seattle moved into the Bishop’s room at the priory for the duration. Problem was, since I would disappear right after work, and not show again till the next morning, I couldn’t convince my traveling companions that I was not shacking up with some woman. But hey, maybe they were just jealous.
Of course, none of the other priests at Benicia were fooled for a minute by all these shenanigans, but went along with them, because I was a good friend of Father John’s.
But all good things must come to an end, and our friendship unfortunately ended when Father John, a few years later, drank himself to an untimely death.
JAPAN
When doing business in Japan, I usually lived in the Hotel Okura in Tokyo or a three star hotel by the fish market in Nagoya, depending upon where I was working.
The Okura was the best hotel in Japan, and maybe the world, at that time, and as I was practically living in the place, the staff treated me very well. The hotel in Nagoya, was not nearly as nice, but they kept a very large three room suite available for me, and treated me like royalty, in the bargain.
And just to let you know how well I was known in those days, let me tell you a small story.
I was traveling from Tokyo to Nagoya, and on the way from the hotel to the station, I inadvertently left my briefcase in the taxi. I was not too concerned, because I knew the Japanese cab drivers had a reputation for honesty, and I could run the briefcase down when I had time.
But imagine my surprise, when upon checking into the hotel in Nagoya, the desk clerk handed me the lost briefcase.
In checking it out later, I found that the taxi driver had noticed the briefcase, and taken it back to the hotel doorman. The doorman checked with the front desk, who thought that I might be traveling to Nagoya. So they called the Nagoya hotel, and sure ‘nuff, I was due to check in that afternoon.
So the hotel bellman took the case to Tokyo station, and put it on the bullet train as, I guess, an express package. Upon the train’s arrival in Nagoya, a bellman from the hotel retrieved the case, and left it at the front desk awaiting my arrival.
Talk about service!! And since the trains ran every twelve minutes to Nagoya, which was only two hours away, the case beat me there handily.
And speaking of Tokyo Station, it was a big ol’ place, and sometimes there was quite a distance to walk to catch your train . Anyway I had this old Sampsonite suitcase, the kind which had four wheels and which a person pulled with a leash. So to have a little fun, I fashioned a dog’s head and tail out of cardboard, then affixed the head to the front of the case and the tail to the back. When I pulled that contraption thru the station, it really stopped traffic.
The porters in Tokyo Station were also an also interesting lot. About five feet tall, maybe weighing ninety pounds, and looking to be one hundred years old. Anyway, they could, with the aid of various straps and harnesses, pick up a load of six to eight suitcases, and effortlessly, or so it seemed, trot down the corridor to one’s train or taxi.
Incidentally, when I was first there, tipping the Tokyo Station porters was the only tipping done anywhere in Japan. And if someone not in the know, for example, would leave money on a restaurant table, the waitress would chase them down the street to return it.
And while we are on the subject of of Tokyo Station, let me relate this bizarre tale.
Usually when we traveled in Japan on business, the agency or company we were working with would assign us an official guide, or guides. These guides, who were invariably junior executives or management trainees, served two purposes. The first was to keep the foreigners from getting lost, and the second, and most important, was to report back to their handlers any intelligence they could pick up. These kids really took their jobs seriously, but weren’t always real knowledgeable about the nuts and bolts of traveling in Japan. Often it seemed, we the foreigners had to take charge, to keep everyone from getting irretrievably lost.
And sometimes we deliberately lost our handlers, but let me explain. There were no mainline train tracks through Tokyo, so if one were traveling by rail from South to north via Tokyo, (or north to south) One had to detrain at Tokyo Station, then take surface streets (or transit) to Ueno (the north) station, there to entrain again for the north. Our handlers would have a limo or limos standing by for this surface run, but we would give them the slip in Tokyo Station, then grab the elevated, which was three times as fast as a limo, make our way to Ueno, hide out till thirty seconds before train time, then jump aboard. Our handlers meanwhile were running around Tokyo Station, about to commit Hari Kari because they had lost their charges, and we would have a peaceful ride to our destination in the North. No matter how many times we pulled this, they never did catch on. They always thought they had lost us.
Tokyo bars were another interesting institution. They were tiny, crowded, and there must have been 100,000 of them in town. And everyone, pretty much patronized his “own” bar.
There were several good reasons for this, which I will get around to in a moment.
First, the regulars were known and made welcome in their bar of choice by the Publican, or Mamma San, as she was known in Japan. Second, pricing was an interesting exercise. With the exception of some tourist bars, which charged an arm and a leg, how much one got charged was based on an undecipherable formula, carried in Mamma San’s head, which considered, among other things, how much you drank, how long you stayed, (space was expensive, and therefore limited, so had to be efficiently utilized) how you treated the bar girls, how well Mamma San liked you, and perhaps the phase of the moon. Then there was the business of payment. Most everyone ran a tab, which was paid twice a year on bonus day.
But let me explain. Japanese workers generally got paid by direct deposit to their bank, this giving the wife, who effectively ran the household, control of the purse strings. There was an out though. About fifteen percent of a guys pay was called a bonus, and was paid directly to him, in cash, twice a year. This money was used for drinking, carousing, and supporting a mistress, if the guy was lucky enough to have one.
Anyway my bar, appropriately named the “Come In” in English, was in downtown Tokyo not far from the Okura. And it was a “Salaryman’s” hangout. Salaryman being the Japanese name for lower or mid grade professional businessmen.
This bar was run by Toshiko, an attractive lady of forty something, with the help of her ancient mother and younger sister. Along with a semi floating population of around six barmaids, or “hostesses”, thus qualifying it as a “hostess” bar. A Japanese hostess bar, incidentally, is like nothing else in the world, and is impossible to describe, so I won’t even try.
Since the patrons, as mentioned before, were generally working stiffs, and I was the only foreigner who ever went near the place, I was kind of the tame American, and a real celebrity. Accordingly, I got some real discount rates, sometimes even paying nothing at all for an evening of drinking and entertainment. Needless to say, I knew a good thing when I saw it, and never let another American near the place.
And now for a tale, which involves both the Okura and the Come In.
About six PM one evening, I was hosting a meeting with several associates in my room, which, incidentally, was on the main floor. I had an errand to run at the front desk, so excused myself for a few minutes. On the way back from the desk, I ran into an attractive woman, obviously of European origin, and she struck up a conversation. She said she was Swiss, this was her first time in the mysterious Orient, and she was intrigued by the proposition of being picked up by a German speaking American. I told her sorry, but it was not to be, as I was on my way to a meeting.
On returning to the room, I related this story to my colleagues, one of whom was a European, spoke German, and fancied himself to be quite a ladies man. Anyway, he immediately made a beeline for the lobby, but was back again in five minutes with an unlikely story that the lady had disappeared.
I suggested that he had run her off, and that he probably couldn’t pick up a girl if his life depended on it. He took instant offense to this, as I was sure that he would. So, at this point I threw several 10,000 yen notes on the table, (about two hundred dollars worth, as I recall) asked him to match it, after which, I suggested, we both head for town, and the first one back with a girl claims the pot.
Of course, he didn’t take me up on this, which would have been a sure win for me, since I would have headed for the Come In, and rented a girl for an hour or so.
Japanese bars were not the only institution with “flexible pricing structures, the Japanese native inns, or Ryokan, are often guilty of this practice as well. This makes it advisable to get a firm quote for the cost of the stay, before committing oneself. But let me explain.
It seems that an American associate and I plus our Japanese handler were visiting a plant on the Japanese West Coast. Comes the weekend, my associate, who was a notorious tightwad, opted for a $60 per night flea bag, while myself and our handler, looking for something a little more upscale, went for a nice Ryokan, which had been reserved through his company, Kawasaki.
We had a delightful weekend, enjoying old fashioned Japanese hospitality, but on Sunday morning the handler knocked on my door with bad news. “We have a problem”, he says. “ I don’t have enough money to pay the $600 per person per day room charge.” After telling him that this looked like his problem, not mine, I asked him what had happened. Well, it seems that nobody had tied down the price of the rooms in advance, so we were at the mercy of the Inn. Turns out that Kawasaki thought the handler had gotten a quote, and he thought that I had. I had assumed, wrongly, I might add, that Japanese efficiency had handled the situation, and hadn’t worried about it.
Attempts to negotiate a reduction on the spot, went nowhere. We were advised, among other things, that the pretty girls who had been flitting through the rooms all evening, and who, incidentally, we had not ordered, were all Vice Presidents, and thus, very expensive.
So we are in kind of a spot. The Japanese guy isn’t going to pay, first because he hasn’t got enough money on him, and second, because he will get fired if he turns in this expense.
I am in a similar situation, because my associate is going to declare about $120 for the weekend vs. my $2000 or so. And that is not going to fly, even with my known propensity for high living.
So I take the only reasonable course, pay the bill out of my pocket, and later dress down the Kawasaki travel people.
I had totally forgotten the incident, when months later I got a call from Kawasaki finance, asking how I wanted my refund, cash or check. Japanese Yen or US dollars. Seems that Kawasaki Travel had negotiated a reduction with the Roykan for almost the total amount.
And speaking of Roykan, allow me to spin yet another yarn.
It seems that I somehow got roped into showing a visiting VIP the ”real” Japan, which of course included the Roykan experience. So I picked a place in a quaint resort village about 50 miles up in the mountains. And although I had never been to the town, I had heard that everything was first class.
Anyway, all was going well till we decided to visit the bar next door, ‘cause the VIP wanted a drink. We had no sooner got in the door, than an attractive Japanese hostess, dressed as a Giesha, disentangled herself from her customer, came rushing over, threw her arms around me, and exclaimed, “John San” where have you been.
The VIP managed to keep a straight face during this exchange, but did manage to comment that maybe I did know Japan just a little too well.
The explanation for all this was that the woman was a bar girl acquaintance of mine from Nagoya, who had decided on a change of scenery, but I wisely decided not to share this information with the VIP.
When Pat came to Japan for a visit, I decided that she needed the Roykan experience as well. My Resident Manager said he knew just the place, a couple of hundred miles away, and with western toilets, no less, which I thought might be essential. (A Japanese toilet, incidentally , is more or less, a hole in the floor.)
So early Friday morning he and his wife pick Pat and me up at our hotel. When I ask him where we are going, though, he says he is not sure, hands me a map and a hotel brochure, both in Japanese, and appoints me navigator.
Well, I have navigated planes, boats, and automobiles all over the world, in some really tight spots, but this kind of took the cake.
And besides, this was all before cell phones, GPS, portable nav systems, and the like.
Anyway, after innumerable wrong turns, and several conversations with cops and bystanders, we finally found the town, but nobody knew anything about the hotel. But after another half hour of aimless wandering, and comparing buildings we passed with the picture on the brochure, we finally found a match. And guess what. It was the right hotel!!
And this was the guy who, when looking for an address in Tokyo, would hop on a subway which he hoped was going in the right direction, jump off the thing at random, then ask the first pretty girl he met on the street how to get where he wanted to go. Then he would repeat the whole drill again, as many times as necessary to eventually get where he was going.
This guy was big. About 250 pounds and over six feet tall. And there was a little guy who worked for him, who was barely 110 pounds wringing wet and maybe five feet two, if he stretched. But strong as a bull.
Anyhow, these two guy’s favorite pastime was to find a busy shopping center and chalk out a makeshift Sumo Wrestling ring on the sidewalk. A circle about twelve feet around. Then they would pose as Sumo wrestlers, glaring, circling, stamping feet, throwing salt, and so forth, just like the real thing. The act culminated though, with the little guy grabbing the big guy, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and stomping out of the ring. No wonder that the natives thought the Americans were nuts.
Finally, In one particularly wild escapade, this same guy lost his trousers, permanently, in a house of ill repute. I was inclined to be tolerant, but when word of this mishap filtered up to my bosses, I had to replace him.
Incidentally, this guy now lives about five miles from me, near Palm Desert CA. But for some reason, he never calls me.
A COMMON LANGUAGE?
Later, when running my consulting business, I spent most of one winter living in a cold damp room over a pub, in Manchester England. If you think that Seattle is cold and dreary in the winter, Manchester is ten times worse. Wind rain and snow, all the time. Although I knew most of the British words, and thought that I was getting pretty good at speaking Brit, my American accent would get me in trouble from time to time. Like when I set down one night in my “local” pub. Wanting a half pint of Bodington, the local brew, I asked the Publican in my best English English for “A half of Bod please”. Imagine my surprise when I got a can of Budweiser. What’s with this, I asked him, I ordered Bodington. Oh, he explained, I thought that you said, “I’ll have a Bud”. Who was it that said that England and America are two countries separated by a common language?? I finally got so that I would just tell people that I talked funny because I was an American.
ALASKA
When I was working on the Alaska Pipeline, and other related construction in Alaska, I maintained a suite on the top floor of the Captain Cook Hotel in Anchorage. This was the best hotel in town, and was owned by Wally Hickel, a previous Alaska governor, and sometime Secretary of the Interior. I also had the use of a suite in the Travelers Inn, also owned by Wally, in the fair city of Fairbanks, when I had business in that town.
My normal attire, in those days was a stained and dirty oil field roustabout’s winter parka, or a ratty Canadian Indian sweater, a pair of equally stained and dirty jeans, and a beat up pair of Wellingtons. (These Canadian Indian sweaters were make from unprocessed wool, straight from the sheep, and although warm and waterproof, and good to 30 below zero, normally smelled like a wet dog, and even worse when they got wet. The sweater, that is, not the dog)
I was giving the hotel enough revenue, though, that I was welcomed in any of the public rooms, regardless of my attire. Sometimes though, this get up worked to my advantage, but let me explain. Those of you who travel, or have traveled on business, know how boring an evening in a big city hotel can get. But we figured a way to break the monotony, and get free drinks in the bargain. Again, as you know, there is always some kind of convention going on in these hotels, and these conventions generally have a hospitality room, where the booze flows freely, and is free. So with my buddy, dressed in a similar get up, we would roam the public spaces till we chanced upon someone with a nametag, and then shadow such person till we found the hospitality room. Then we would make a grand entrance, and announce that we were the entertainment. The entertainment, I told the dudes, was that I preached, and my sidekick sang. This usually kept us from being thrown out long enough to explain that we were really prospectors, just in from the Bush, and looking for a little action. So everybody came out ahead. The dudes got to hear some hair raising, and totally fictitious stories about life in the Bush, while my pal and I got more free drinks than we could handle.
Even though the hotel was expensive, that wasn’t enough for them, and they consistently double or triple billed me. You see, I was handling the Alaska contracts for a subsidiary of a large Fortune 500 company, while working through a local Alaskan outfit to sell services to the Pipeline. I also ran my own construction firm, which was a wholly owned subsidiary of another subsidiary of the Fortune 500 company, And to top it off, I was consulting for Bechtel, the people who were actually building the pipeline, so I was carried on that firm’s register as a contract employee. If you couldn’t follow the above, don’t worry, I had trouble keeping it straight myself.
I had expense accounts with, and was drawing expense money from all four of these companies, though hopefully not for the same items. This came about because I could not negotiate what I thought was fair compensation for my Alaska services from my parent company, so instead I settled for an unlimited expense account, while I banked my entire paycheck. I then billed a portion of my expenses to each of the four companies so nobody would get nailed too bad. (Or figure out how much I was really spending.) The bookkeepers at the Captain Cook figured this out early on, and would routinely bill multiple companies for the same meals, bar bills, and so forth, and even sometimes the suite. I caught onto this scam fairly early, but ever succeeded in getting it totally eradicated.
Some of my fondest memories of Fairbanks were the wake up calls one would get in the middle of the Alaska winter. As I remember, they went something like this. “Good morning, it’s 6:00 AM, the temperature outside is 60 below zero (Fahrenheit) and the wind chill factor is 120 below. Have a nice day.” Of course it was pitch black outside, with the wind howling furiously. Enough to make one climb back into bed. In the summer, though, it never got dark, and the temperature could reach almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
NELSON LAGOON
From what you have heard so far, you must think that I always, while running a construction job, lived in luxury digs, but that is definitely not the case. To prove this point, let me tell you a little about Nelson Lagoon, on the Alaska Peninsula in Alaska. Where I built a power plant.
Our quarters were an abandoned native shack with dirt floors, which we covered with foam rubber packing, which we had removed from our equipment, before we spread our sleeping bags. Myself, though, being the boss, found an old sway backed divan, which I appropriated as my bed. The first three or four nights were kinda cold, as the sleeping bags had become soaked when offloaded from the airplane into a snow bank, but we coped.
We had brought along our own cook, an old boy named Snodgrass, and most of our necessary provisions. We then, however, supplemented these provisions with salt salmon provided by the natives. This salmon, which had been laid alongside a native shack to cure, and had then been peed upon by the ubiquitous native dogs, had an interesting flavor, to say the least.
This mention of dogs brings to mind a real good anecdote about the village dogs. As I mentioned before, the weather in the Aleutians is really horrible. It can go from a flat calm, with pea soup fog, to a full gale, in less than thirty minutes. The weather is so bad, in fact, that you can only maybe fly a plane one day out of two or three. Anyway we are finally done with the job and are packing up, when I see Snodgrass feeding the surplus food to the dogs. Hey Snodgrass, I say, “What if the airplane can’t get in tomorrow, what are we going to eat.” Snodgrass then fixed me with a steely gaze and replied, “Well John, in that case, I guess that we’ll just have to eat the fucking dogs.” Fortunately, the airplane came.
Incidentally, a legend sprung up around the company that John had built this power plant with nothing but a duffel bag full of twenty dollar bills, and an airplane load of whiskey. This was not quite correct, the airplane was only half full of whiskey. The rest of the load was our equipment.
You can read more about my adventures at Nelson Lagoon in my blog, "Workin' 'Round the World", which is linked to my "John's World Travels" web site.
NEWPORT BEACH
Somehow I got tagged by my company to straighten out a mess that Hughes Aircraft had gotten themselves into in Southern California. Thinking that I might as well live comfortably, I moved into The Tennis Club, near Fashion Island, in Newport Beach. Expensive, but I figured that I was worth it. A young lady named Jeanie who I had recruited to help me was living in some dump hotel down the street, but since I was signing her expense reports, I told her that she might as well move into my place. (Separate rooms of course.) Which puts me in mind of the evening we were dining by candlelight in this romantic restaurant overlooking the ocean, and Jeanie wondered aloud if any of the other diners believed we were talking about airplanes. Jeanie also would often mention that she felt safe with me, since I reminded her of her dad. Anyway, we got the job done, and even managed to have some fun in the process.
I could go on and on about other interesting places, but you have the idea, and are probably bored stiff by now, so we'll put an end to these tales.
John, Edmonds WA, May 2008
This grocery, in a bombed out building, was on our corner
The iceman dellivered every other day
GERMANY ON TWO DOLLARS A DAY
To show just how far a dollar would go in those days, guys traveling in rural areas, if not overly extravagant, could get by on $2.00 US per day. They could live on even less, if they wanted to stoop to bumming food and lodging from the US military. One of the favorite scams, in this regard, was to find a remote Army post, and tell the Officer of the Day, that they were Americans, their car had broken down just outside the gate, and they needed lodging until it could be repaired. At the other extreme, if our travellers really wanted to go first class, $10 per day each, which is about what they drew in per diem, would let them live like kings.
John "On the Road"
Speaking of living on the cheap, two of our guys one evening, after expending their ready funds drinking till 3 AM in a German bar, once pulled a scam like this, and were put up in an infantry squad room. At 6:00 AM the Platoon Sergeant came through, loud of voice and boorish of manner, attempting to roust everyone out. Hearing the commotion, our lead guy opened one eye, and in no uncertain terms suggested that the Sergeant perform an unnatural sex act. The Sergeant, having never been spoken to in such a manner since his own basic training, decided he had better not mess with these people, and slunk out of the room. Needless to say, our man was an instant hit with all the doggies (Infantrymen) in the place.
A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY
Once upon a time, returning in the late evening from a trip, a couple of us decided to pull into a US Army snack bar outside a major German city, and have a few, before going to bed. There was also a fiscal method to this madness, as if you checked in to the office after midnight, you collected per diem for another whole day, a sum much larger than the price of a couple of beers. I also need to explain, at this point, that since this was during the occupation of Germany, these snack bars, or any other American military installation, were strictly off limits to German civilians.
As I remember, we were wearing ratty German civilian clothing and looking pretty beat up, but were just sitting there minding our own business, conversing, mostly in German, and drinking our beer, when in comes this US Army MP Second Lieutenant. He is in dress uniform, (This was before Army guys had name tags on dress uniforms), and has "Fresh From the States" written all over him. He sizes up the situation, decides to throw the German bums out, and starts to hassle me.
At this point, I need to explain that I was somewhat of a hard case, and didn’t much appreciate being hassled by MPs. A fact which was not lost on the MPs who patrolled these places regularly, but was unknown to the young Lieutenant.
Anyway, I set my beer down, looked the Lieutenant directly in the eye, and in a strong German accent said. "Good Evening Lt. Blank." The Lieutenant's mouth dropped open, and he stammered something to the effect of "How did you know my name?” Replying with a mid American accent, I introduced myself and my partner to the Lieutenant as Americans, and showed some ID, I then told him that I knew everything about everyone, including the good Lieutenant, and further that my mother had warned me about people like him, but, considering the circumstances, I would be willing to buy him a beer. By this time the guy with me and the Lieutenant are both totally confused, but discretion being the better part of valor, the Lieutenant decided to go for the beer. The guy who was with me, of course, had no idea what was going on, but decided to play along.
The explanation for all of this was that I knew most of the MP officers in the district and had never before seen this guy, who was obviously fresh from the States. Furthermore, my mother had an old college pal who had a son who was a Lieutenant in the MPs in this city, and had asked me to look him up. Accordingly, I had made a good guess on The Lt.'s name. The Lieutenant, on the other hand vaguely knew my name from MP tribal knowledge, but he had never made the connection. Even though his mother had told him to look me up, as well. My mother, incidentally, thought that I had some easy desk job, and had no idea that I was running amok all over Western Europe.
Anyhow, everybody had a good laugh, and the MP Lieutenant had a good war story for his buddies.
MEAT MARKETS
Another thing which was an interesting byproduct of the Occupation, were the Oberbayern bars. Which loosely translates as “The Best of Bavaria”. These were really “meat markets”, and they did a land office business facilitating meetings between German refugee women and America GIs. Thus offering a chance for a down and out refugee, or even some everyday German women, to meet a “rich” American GI, and get treated royally, at least by the standards of those days. One could even dream of conning the guy into marriage, which was a free ticket to the United States, the Land of the Big PX. Many of these women though, were really predators, preying on the social misfits who had few friends, were inexperienced with women, had never had a date in high school, etc., etc.
These bars were also frequented by a few Americans and other foreigners who were not on the make, and were generally good cheap entertainment. A loud Bavarian um-pah band, dressed in Lederhosen and green Jaeger hats was ensconced on a stage, belting out the old Bavarian drinking songs. Periodically during the evening, the band would form a conga line, and snake through the audience, blaring their instruments at full volume. The bandleader, at the head of this procession, would spot a likely male in the audience, and place his green hat on the guy’s head, making him an honorary leader. The poor guy who got tapped was then required to mount the stage and lead the band in a rousing song, after first buying them a round of drinks. Needless to say, as the evening wore on, the band got drunker and drunker, as well as louder and louder. The patrons would even get into the act as well. Dancing on the tables, and sometimes even swinging down from the balconies. One of my favorite memories, incidentally, was listening to a drunk Bavarian band in one of these joints, led by a drunk US Army Staff Sergeant, try to play the Stars and Stripes Forever.
Since the Doggies all had to be back in the barracks by midnight, these bars pretty much emptied out by about 10:30 PM, leaving only the girls, and some hard core foreigners. These girls would get pretty desperate around midnight, as many of them literally had no place to sleep. So, if you were experienced like we were, you would get out of the bar about 10:00 PM, and not come back till 1:00AM or so. Otherwise, you would probably end up finding one or more of these women a place to sleep for the night, before you could go back to serious drinking.
Pat, incidentally, would sometimes hang with me in one of these bars, which was right down the street from our home in Frankfurt, but generally she avoided them. Too depressing, I guess.
By the way, this music has now all but died out. Even in the venerable Hofbrauhaus in Munich, the last time I was there, the band was playing New York, New York. I really believe that at present, there is more of this old Bavarian music to be found in the German bars in the US, than in Germany.
STEWARDESS SCHOOL
Speaking of housing arrangements, some of my most unusual were when I was a Service Representative for the old Trans World Airlines (TWA), and American airlines.
TWA in those days was headquartered at Mid Continent International Airport at Kansas City, and our office was close by, in a suite of rooms, which served both as office and living accommodations. These rooms were in a motel, which incidentally was owned by two TWA pilots, and aside from our office, was completely occupied by the TWA stewardess school and associated housing. This was when TWA was pushing the Glamour Girl image for their stews, so one can imagine the good looking babes hanging around.
Particularly when I was serving my American Airlines client in Tulsa, these ladies would liberate a key, get into the place, and party up on the free booze. Oft times, when I would get back from Tulsa in the wee hours, I would have to kick a bevy of these beauties out of the quarters, in order to have a place to sleep.
Oh well, the sacrifices one makes for the company.
CAPE CANAVERAL
After a couple of years working on airplanes, I transferred to a missile program, in the AeroSpace Division, and almost immediately ended up at Cape Kennedy (Now Cape Canaveral) in Florida.
When I arrived they were just receiving the first missile for testing and checkout prior to its first launch.. After being there about three days, I concluded that this was going to be a long term effort, so I sent for Pat, LaRene, and Michelle to join me. (At that point, we didn’t have a dog or cat) We found a neat little house right on the beach in Cocoa Beach, I bought a three year old Mercury, which looked about ten, (sand and salt air, your know) and we settled in for the duration. There was a downside though. Across the street from the house was an undeveloped patch of palmetto scrub, a real jungle. At all hours of the day or night one could hear thrashing around and bloodcurdling screams emanating from that place, as someone tried to eat someone else. And oh yes, there were alligators waddling down the streets. All in all, not a real good place for kids to play outdoors. It also got real cold in the winter. The primitive heat pump in the house struggled mightily but could not keep up with the cold air blowing in through the jalousie windows. As for coats, we had not brought any, and one could not buy one because “It never gets cold in Florida”.
As for the Mercury, the heater had long since been disconnected and the fresh air vents were rusted open, so one got a 35 degree gale into the car while driving the twenty miles to the base. Without a coat, I might add. Eventually though, I convinced my employers that I needed a company car, which turned out to be a big improvement. It also had holes rusted in the floor, but at least, the heater worked.
CANEEL BAY PLANTATION
Beautiful Caneel Bay plantation. I usually lived in one of the beachside buildings you can see at the far end of the beach. The bar where I ran up the bills is the white spot at the left end of the upper left peninsula.When I was building a water treatment for the Rockefellers at their Caneel Bay Plantation resort on St. John USVI, my guys were quartered in various accommodations all over the island, but my own living situation topped them all. But let me explain. This RockResort we were working for was one of the most exclusive and expensive in the Rockefeller chain, or anywhere else in the world, for that matter, and catered mostly to high end businessmen and politicians. Anyway, I convinced the Rockefellers early on that it would be simpler and more convenient for me to stay in guest quarters at their resort, and this was duly written into the contract. I think that it said something like, “RockResorts will provide Project Manager with all lodging, meals, and incidentals”. The Rockefellers really didn’t mind at all me staying at the resort, I think that they believed it provided some local color. There was usually one or more of the Rockefeller extended family hanging around the place as well. Happy, in particular was a frequent visitor.
So my day would go something like this. Up in the morning, with sometimes a quick swim in the ocean, which was right out the front door. Then up to the job site to get things started. Then a change of shirt, at least, and back to the resort, for breakfast with the other guests. Depending on the situation, I might then spend the day in Puerto Rico on business, or working with officials in St Thomas, or even on the job site.
Come five PM, I would pick up the mail, deliver it to my technical guys at their quarters, and have a couple of rums with them. Then I would usually stop in to discuss the day’s business with Alex, my Superintendent, on his boat, (He had been a French Foreign Legion officer, and lived on a sailboat in the harbor.) having a couple of more rums there. Last stop was to settle accounts with the Boss Hippie, at the commune. There I paid him for the people he had sent today, and worked out tomorrow’s labor requirements. While having a couple of more rums, of course. But my day wasn’t over yet. I would drive back to the room, shower, change clothes, then wander over to the Resort bar to mingle with the guests, and have a couple more. The incidentals clause in my contract, I took to mean unlimited bar privileges, which I also felt should include occasionally treating the entire bar for drinks on me. I met a lot of interesting people this way, but Thurgood Marshall, the Supreme Court Justice, and Billy Graham, the Evangelist, stand out particularly. Then it was in to the dining room for dinner, where coats and ties were required, and back to the bar for a nightcap before turning in. By the way, the bartenders never watered my drinks, and this along with all those all these free drinks, eventually caused an alarming drop in the bar’s profits. When the Rockefellers finally figured this out, they rather forcefully suggested that I stop hosting the entire bar, but free drinking arrangements for my close friends and myself remained intact.
On the job, I did have one very interesting visitor. This was Mal Stamper, the president of Boeing, and his charming wife Mara. And although his visit did not quite go as planned, it worked out OK in the end. But let me tell you about it.
On the appointed day, I picked up Mal and wife at the airport, and taxied them to the boat landing at Red Hook. I had chartered a boat there for the trip to St. John, because I didn’t want to subject the Stampers to the native ferry. But when we got to the dock, we found the Capitan of my charter overhauling his engine. He had obviously got the dates mixed up. He said though, that he could get things back together in an hour or so, so our party repaired to the nearest bar for a couple of rums. Welcome to the Virgin Islands. (This incidentally was before Stamper quit drinking.) Anyway, the boat got fixed eventually, and we made it over to St. John without further difficulty. At this point I introduced the Stampers to our transportation, which was my beat up old jeep. A typical island car. It had holes rusted in the floor, springs sticking out of the seats, and the top in tatters. I had considered borrowing more suitable transportation for these exalted visitors, but none was readily available, so we made do. This turned to be a good move, because Mara fell in love with that jeep. The dashing young French Foreign Legion officer also proved to be a big hit with her, and the two of them spent her entire visit roaming around the island in the jeep. For accommodations, I had arranged for the Stampers to have the exclusive use, during their stay, of the Rockefeller complex, which was a private cluster of buildings, not unlike, but on a smaller scale than, the Kennedy complex at Hyannisport. This kindness was greatly appreciated by both of them.
Stamper himself turned out to be OK, and he took a real interest in our activities. As usual, there were a few Rockefellers hanging around, and he enjoyed their company, as well as meeting some the illustrious guests in the bar. Over the years, incidentally, when I would see Stamper, even after he retired, he, having forgotten the name but not the face, would greet me with, “Hello Mr. Caneel Bay,” and then go on and on about how he had enjoyed his trip.
Shortly after the Stamper visit, I retired the old Jeep in favor of a Mini Moke. It was a kind of Austin Mini, with no body, only seats bolted to the floor pan. It was produced in Australia, and was not allowed in the US, since it would not meet government safety requirements. Be that as it may, it rivaled the Citroen 2-CV as the vehicle of choice in the backwaters of the world. Inexpensive, reliable, and simple.
This is my trusty "Moke". The only pic I cold find was this one which shows it parked on a jungle trailPat also got down there once. And between Caneel Bay and a luxury RockResort in Puerto Rico, she had a good time. Incidentally, from that time on, when asked about camping, she says that she likes it fine, except she needs a little something between her and the ground. Like two or three floors of a luxury resort. During her visit, we had one experience in the bar at Caneel Bay, which is worth recounting, so here goes.
Occasionally, it seems, and usually on Thursday nights, a steel band from the nearby village would play in the bar. For those of you not familiar with steel bands, all the instruments are cut off oil drums, pounded on with abandon by what look like xylophone mallets. Anyway, after an evening of good entertainment, the band played a final number, and everybody stood up. When Pat asked why this was happening, I had to explain to her that the band was in fact playing The Star Spangled Banner. Which was appropriate, since the Virgin Islands was and is a US territory.
LIFE IN THE PRIORY
If you have read my memoirs, you will remember that one of my best friends during the Seventies was Father John Fearon, a Dominican priest, teaching at Seattle University.
Well, in the course of time Father John got transferred, and became the Parish priest in the small town of Benicia, on San Francisco Bay north of Oakland.
And just a little bit later, I found myself spending a lot of time in the Bay Area while solving a problem at the Kaiser materials labs in Pleasanton CA, just down the road from Benicia.
Anyway, after a few (or maybe more than a few) drinks one night, Father John and I agreed that since his priory had good food, good booze, intellectual stimulation, and was essentially free, it made eminent good sense for me to stay there, rather than a hotel.
So, “Father John” from Seattle moved into the Bishop’s room at the priory for the duration. Problem was, since I would disappear right after work, and not show again till the next morning, I couldn’t convince my traveling companions that I was not shacking up with some woman. But hey, maybe they were just jealous.
Of course, none of the other priests at Benicia were fooled for a minute by all these shenanigans, but went along with them, because I was a good friend of Father John’s.
But all good things must come to an end, and our friendship unfortunately ended when Father John, a few years later, drank himself to an untimely death.
JAPAN
When doing business in Japan, I usually lived in the Hotel Okura in Tokyo or a three star hotel by the fish market in Nagoya, depending upon where I was working.
The Okura was the best hotel in Japan, and maybe the world, at that time, and as I was practically living in the place, the staff treated me very well. The hotel in Nagoya, was not nearly as nice, but they kept a very large three room suite available for me, and treated me like royalty, in the bargain.
And just to let you know how well I was known in those days, let me tell you a small story.
I was traveling from Tokyo to Nagoya, and on the way from the hotel to the station, I inadvertently left my briefcase in the taxi. I was not too concerned, because I knew the Japanese cab drivers had a reputation for honesty, and I could run the briefcase down when I had time.
But imagine my surprise, when upon checking into the hotel in Nagoya, the desk clerk handed me the lost briefcase.
In checking it out later, I found that the taxi driver had noticed the briefcase, and taken it back to the hotel doorman. The doorman checked with the front desk, who thought that I might be traveling to Nagoya. So they called the Nagoya hotel, and sure ‘nuff, I was due to check in that afternoon.
So the hotel bellman took the case to Tokyo station, and put it on the bullet train as, I guess, an express package. Upon the train’s arrival in Nagoya, a bellman from the hotel retrieved the case, and left it at the front desk awaiting my arrival.
Talk about service!! And since the trains ran every twelve minutes to Nagoya, which was only two hours away, the case beat me there handily.
And speaking of Tokyo Station, it was a big ol’ place, and sometimes there was quite a distance to walk to catch your train . Anyway I had this old Sampsonite suitcase, the kind which had four wheels and which a person pulled with a leash. So to have a little fun, I fashioned a dog’s head and tail out of cardboard, then affixed the head to the front of the case and the tail to the back. When I pulled that contraption thru the station, it really stopped traffic.
The porters in Tokyo Station were also an also interesting lot. About five feet tall, maybe weighing ninety pounds, and looking to be one hundred years old. Anyway, they could, with the aid of various straps and harnesses, pick up a load of six to eight suitcases, and effortlessly, or so it seemed, trot down the corridor to one’s train or taxi.
Incidentally, when I was first there, tipping the Tokyo Station porters was the only tipping done anywhere in Japan. And if someone not in the know, for example, would leave money on a restaurant table, the waitress would chase them down the street to return it.
And while we are on the subject of of Tokyo Station, let me relate this bizarre tale.
Usually when we traveled in Japan on business, the agency or company we were working with would assign us an official guide, or guides. These guides, who were invariably junior executives or management trainees, served two purposes. The first was to keep the foreigners from getting lost, and the second, and most important, was to report back to their handlers any intelligence they could pick up. These kids really took their jobs seriously, but weren’t always real knowledgeable about the nuts and bolts of traveling in Japan. Often it seemed, we the foreigners had to take charge, to keep everyone from getting irretrievably lost.
And sometimes we deliberately lost our handlers, but let me explain. There were no mainline train tracks through Tokyo, so if one were traveling by rail from South to north via Tokyo, (or north to south) One had to detrain at Tokyo Station, then take surface streets (or transit) to Ueno (the north) station, there to entrain again for the north. Our handlers would have a limo or limos standing by for this surface run, but we would give them the slip in Tokyo Station, then grab the elevated, which was three times as fast as a limo, make our way to Ueno, hide out till thirty seconds before train time, then jump aboard. Our handlers meanwhile were running around Tokyo Station, about to commit Hari Kari because they had lost their charges, and we would have a peaceful ride to our destination in the North. No matter how many times we pulled this, they never did catch on. They always thought they had lost us.
Tokyo bars were another interesting institution. They were tiny, crowded, and there must have been 100,000 of them in town. And everyone, pretty much patronized his “own” bar.
There were several good reasons for this, which I will get around to in a moment.
First, the regulars were known and made welcome in their bar of choice by the Publican, or Mamma San, as she was known in Japan. Second, pricing was an interesting exercise. With the exception of some tourist bars, which charged an arm and a leg, how much one got charged was based on an undecipherable formula, carried in Mamma San’s head, which considered, among other things, how much you drank, how long you stayed, (space was expensive, and therefore limited, so had to be efficiently utilized) how you treated the bar girls, how well Mamma San liked you, and perhaps the phase of the moon. Then there was the business of payment. Most everyone ran a tab, which was paid twice a year on bonus day.
But let me explain. Japanese workers generally got paid by direct deposit to their bank, this giving the wife, who effectively ran the household, control of the purse strings. There was an out though. About fifteen percent of a guys pay was called a bonus, and was paid directly to him, in cash, twice a year. This money was used for drinking, carousing, and supporting a mistress, if the guy was lucky enough to have one.
Anyway my bar, appropriately named the “Come In” in English, was in downtown Tokyo not far from the Okura. And it was a “Salaryman’s” hangout. Salaryman being the Japanese name for lower or mid grade professional businessmen.
This bar was run by Toshiko, an attractive lady of forty something, with the help of her ancient mother and younger sister. Along with a semi floating population of around six barmaids, or “hostesses”, thus qualifying it as a “hostess” bar. A Japanese hostess bar, incidentally, is like nothing else in the world, and is impossible to describe, so I won’t even try.
Since the patrons, as mentioned before, were generally working stiffs, and I was the only foreigner who ever went near the place, I was kind of the tame American, and a real celebrity. Accordingly, I got some real discount rates, sometimes even paying nothing at all for an evening of drinking and entertainment. Needless to say, I knew a good thing when I saw it, and never let another American near the place.
And now for a tale, which involves both the Okura and the Come In.
About six PM one evening, I was hosting a meeting with several associates in my room, which, incidentally, was on the main floor. I had an errand to run at the front desk, so excused myself for a few minutes. On the way back from the desk, I ran into an attractive woman, obviously of European origin, and she struck up a conversation. She said she was Swiss, this was her first time in the mysterious Orient, and she was intrigued by the proposition of being picked up by a German speaking American. I told her sorry, but it was not to be, as I was on my way to a meeting.
On returning to the room, I related this story to my colleagues, one of whom was a European, spoke German, and fancied himself to be quite a ladies man. Anyway, he immediately made a beeline for the lobby, but was back again in five minutes with an unlikely story that the lady had disappeared.
I suggested that he had run her off, and that he probably couldn’t pick up a girl if his life depended on it. He took instant offense to this, as I was sure that he would. So, at this point I threw several 10,000 yen notes on the table, (about two hundred dollars worth, as I recall) asked him to match it, after which, I suggested, we both head for town, and the first one back with a girl claims the pot.
Of course, he didn’t take me up on this, which would have been a sure win for me, since I would have headed for the Come In, and rented a girl for an hour or so.
Japanese bars were not the only institution with “flexible pricing structures, the Japanese native inns, or Ryokan, are often guilty of this practice as well. This makes it advisable to get a firm quote for the cost of the stay, before committing oneself. But let me explain.
It seems that an American associate and I plus our Japanese handler were visiting a plant on the Japanese West Coast. Comes the weekend, my associate, who was a notorious tightwad, opted for a $60 per night flea bag, while myself and our handler, looking for something a little more upscale, went for a nice Ryokan, which had been reserved through his company, Kawasaki.
We had a delightful weekend, enjoying old fashioned Japanese hospitality, but on Sunday morning the handler knocked on my door with bad news. “We have a problem”, he says. “ I don’t have enough money to pay the $600 per person per day room charge.” After telling him that this looked like his problem, not mine, I asked him what had happened. Well, it seems that nobody had tied down the price of the rooms in advance, so we were at the mercy of the Inn. Turns out that Kawasaki thought the handler had gotten a quote, and he thought that I had. I had assumed, wrongly, I might add, that Japanese efficiency had handled the situation, and hadn’t worried about it.
Attempts to negotiate a reduction on the spot, went nowhere. We were advised, among other things, that the pretty girls who had been flitting through the rooms all evening, and who, incidentally, we had not ordered, were all Vice Presidents, and thus, very expensive.
So we are in kind of a spot. The Japanese guy isn’t going to pay, first because he hasn’t got enough money on him, and second, because he will get fired if he turns in this expense.
I am in a similar situation, because my associate is going to declare about $120 for the weekend vs. my $2000 or so. And that is not going to fly, even with my known propensity for high living.
So I take the only reasonable course, pay the bill out of my pocket, and later dress down the Kawasaki travel people.
I had totally forgotten the incident, when months later I got a call from Kawasaki finance, asking how I wanted my refund, cash or check. Japanese Yen or US dollars. Seems that Kawasaki Travel had negotiated a reduction with the Roykan for almost the total amount.
And speaking of Roykan, allow me to spin yet another yarn.
It seems that I somehow got roped into showing a visiting VIP the ”real” Japan, which of course included the Roykan experience. So I picked a place in a quaint resort village about 50 miles up in the mountains. And although I had never been to the town, I had heard that everything was first class.
Anyway, all was going well till we decided to visit the bar next door, ‘cause the VIP wanted a drink. We had no sooner got in the door, than an attractive Japanese hostess, dressed as a Giesha, disentangled herself from her customer, came rushing over, threw her arms around me, and exclaimed, “John San” where have you been.
The VIP managed to keep a straight face during this exchange, but did manage to comment that maybe I did know Japan just a little too well.
The explanation for all this was that the woman was a bar girl acquaintance of mine from Nagoya, who had decided on a change of scenery, but I wisely decided not to share this information with the VIP.
When Pat came to Japan for a visit, I decided that she needed the Roykan experience as well. My Resident Manager said he knew just the place, a couple of hundred miles away, and with western toilets, no less, which I thought might be essential. (A Japanese toilet, incidentally , is more or less, a hole in the floor.)
So early Friday morning he and his wife pick Pat and me up at our hotel. When I ask him where we are going, though, he says he is not sure, hands me a map and a hotel brochure, both in Japanese, and appoints me navigator.
Well, I have navigated planes, boats, and automobiles all over the world, in some really tight spots, but this kind of took the cake.
And besides, this was all before cell phones, GPS, portable nav systems, and the like.
Anyway, after innumerable wrong turns, and several conversations with cops and bystanders, we finally found the town, but nobody knew anything about the hotel. But after another half hour of aimless wandering, and comparing buildings we passed with the picture on the brochure, we finally found a match. And guess what. It was the right hotel!!
And this was the guy who, when looking for an address in Tokyo, would hop on a subway which he hoped was going in the right direction, jump off the thing at random, then ask the first pretty girl he met on the street how to get where he wanted to go. Then he would repeat the whole drill again, as many times as necessary to eventually get where he was going.
This guy was big. About 250 pounds and over six feet tall. And there was a little guy who worked for him, who was barely 110 pounds wringing wet and maybe five feet two, if he stretched. But strong as a bull.
Anyhow, these two guy’s favorite pastime was to find a busy shopping center and chalk out a makeshift Sumo Wrestling ring on the sidewalk. A circle about twelve feet around. Then they would pose as Sumo wrestlers, glaring, circling, stamping feet, throwing salt, and so forth, just like the real thing. The act culminated though, with the little guy grabbing the big guy, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and stomping out of the ring. No wonder that the natives thought the Americans were nuts.
Finally, In one particularly wild escapade, this same guy lost his trousers, permanently, in a house of ill repute. I was inclined to be tolerant, but when word of this mishap filtered up to my bosses, I had to replace him.
Incidentally, this guy now lives about five miles from me, near Palm Desert CA. But for some reason, he never calls me.
A COMMON LANGUAGE?
Later, when running my consulting business, I spent most of one winter living in a cold damp room over a pub, in Manchester England. If you think that Seattle is cold and dreary in the winter, Manchester is ten times worse. Wind rain and snow, all the time. Although I knew most of the British words, and thought that I was getting pretty good at speaking Brit, my American accent would get me in trouble from time to time. Like when I set down one night in my “local” pub. Wanting a half pint of Bodington, the local brew, I asked the Publican in my best English English for “A half of Bod please”. Imagine my surprise when I got a can of Budweiser. What’s with this, I asked him, I ordered Bodington. Oh, he explained, I thought that you said, “I’ll have a Bud”. Who was it that said that England and America are two countries separated by a common language?? I finally got so that I would just tell people that I talked funny because I was an American.
ALASKA
When I was working on the Alaska Pipeline, and other related construction in Alaska, I maintained a suite on the top floor of the Captain Cook Hotel in Anchorage. This was the best hotel in town, and was owned by Wally Hickel, a previous Alaska governor, and sometime Secretary of the Interior. I also had the use of a suite in the Travelers Inn, also owned by Wally, in the fair city of Fairbanks, when I had business in that town.
My normal attire, in those days was a stained and dirty oil field roustabout’s winter parka, or a ratty Canadian Indian sweater, a pair of equally stained and dirty jeans, and a beat up pair of Wellingtons. (These Canadian Indian sweaters were make from unprocessed wool, straight from the sheep, and although warm and waterproof, and good to 30 below zero, normally smelled like a wet dog, and even worse when they got wet. The sweater, that is, not the dog)
I was giving the hotel enough revenue, though, that I was welcomed in any of the public rooms, regardless of my attire. Sometimes though, this get up worked to my advantage, but let me explain. Those of you who travel, or have traveled on business, know how boring an evening in a big city hotel can get. But we figured a way to break the monotony, and get free drinks in the bargain. Again, as you know, there is always some kind of convention going on in these hotels, and these conventions generally have a hospitality room, where the booze flows freely, and is free. So with my buddy, dressed in a similar get up, we would roam the public spaces till we chanced upon someone with a nametag, and then shadow such person till we found the hospitality room. Then we would make a grand entrance, and announce that we were the entertainment. The entertainment, I told the dudes, was that I preached, and my sidekick sang. This usually kept us from being thrown out long enough to explain that we were really prospectors, just in from the Bush, and looking for a little action. So everybody came out ahead. The dudes got to hear some hair raising, and totally fictitious stories about life in the Bush, while my pal and I got more free drinks than we could handle.
Even though the hotel was expensive, that wasn’t enough for them, and they consistently double or triple billed me. You see, I was handling the Alaska contracts for a subsidiary of a large Fortune 500 company, while working through a local Alaskan outfit to sell services to the Pipeline. I also ran my own construction firm, which was a wholly owned subsidiary of another subsidiary of the Fortune 500 company, And to top it off, I was consulting for Bechtel, the people who were actually building the pipeline, so I was carried on that firm’s register as a contract employee. If you couldn’t follow the above, don’t worry, I had trouble keeping it straight myself.
I had expense accounts with, and was drawing expense money from all four of these companies, though hopefully not for the same items. This came about because I could not negotiate what I thought was fair compensation for my Alaska services from my parent company, so instead I settled for an unlimited expense account, while I banked my entire paycheck. I then billed a portion of my expenses to each of the four companies so nobody would get nailed too bad. (Or figure out how much I was really spending.) The bookkeepers at the Captain Cook figured this out early on, and would routinely bill multiple companies for the same meals, bar bills, and so forth, and even sometimes the suite. I caught onto this scam fairly early, but ever succeeded in getting it totally eradicated.
Some of my fondest memories of Fairbanks were the wake up calls one would get in the middle of the Alaska winter. As I remember, they went something like this. “Good morning, it’s 6:00 AM, the temperature outside is 60 below zero (Fahrenheit) and the wind chill factor is 120 below. Have a nice day.” Of course it was pitch black outside, with the wind howling furiously. Enough to make one climb back into bed. In the summer, though, it never got dark, and the temperature could reach almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
NELSON LAGOON
From what you have heard so far, you must think that I always, while running a construction job, lived in luxury digs, but that is definitely not the case. To prove this point, let me tell you a little about Nelson Lagoon, on the Alaska Peninsula in Alaska. Where I built a power plant.
Our quarters were an abandoned native shack with dirt floors, which we covered with foam rubber packing, which we had removed from our equipment, before we spread our sleeping bags. Myself, though, being the boss, found an old sway backed divan, which I appropriated as my bed. The first three or four nights were kinda cold, as the sleeping bags had become soaked when offloaded from the airplane into a snow bank, but we coped.
We had brought along our own cook, an old boy named Snodgrass, and most of our necessary provisions. We then, however, supplemented these provisions with salt salmon provided by the natives. This salmon, which had been laid alongside a native shack to cure, and had then been peed upon by the ubiquitous native dogs, had an interesting flavor, to say the least.
This mention of dogs brings to mind a real good anecdote about the village dogs. As I mentioned before, the weather in the Aleutians is really horrible. It can go from a flat calm, with pea soup fog, to a full gale, in less than thirty minutes. The weather is so bad, in fact, that you can only maybe fly a plane one day out of two or three. Anyway we are finally done with the job and are packing up, when I see Snodgrass feeding the surplus food to the dogs. Hey Snodgrass, I say, “What if the airplane can’t get in tomorrow, what are we going to eat.” Snodgrass then fixed me with a steely gaze and replied, “Well John, in that case, I guess that we’ll just have to eat the fucking dogs.” Fortunately, the airplane came.
Incidentally, a legend sprung up around the company that John had built this power plant with nothing but a duffel bag full of twenty dollar bills, and an airplane load of whiskey. This was not quite correct, the airplane was only half full of whiskey. The rest of the load was our equipment.
You can read more about my adventures at Nelson Lagoon in my blog, "Workin' 'Round the World", which is linked to my "John's World Travels" web site.
NEWPORT BEACH
Somehow I got tagged by my company to straighten out a mess that Hughes Aircraft had gotten themselves into in Southern California. Thinking that I might as well live comfortably, I moved into The Tennis Club, near Fashion Island, in Newport Beach. Expensive, but I figured that I was worth it. A young lady named Jeanie who I had recruited to help me was living in some dump hotel down the street, but since I was signing her expense reports, I told her that she might as well move into my place. (Separate rooms of course.) Which puts me in mind of the evening we were dining by candlelight in this romantic restaurant overlooking the ocean, and Jeanie wondered aloud if any of the other diners believed we were talking about airplanes. Jeanie also would often mention that she felt safe with me, since I reminded her of her dad. Anyway, we got the job done, and even managed to have some fun in the process.
I could go on and on about other interesting places, but you have the idea, and are probably bored stiff by now, so we'll put an end to these tales.
John, Edmonds WA, May 2008
