Michigan, Days One & Two

For the past five years, I have been taking an annual trip to Ann Arbor, MI, to visit dear friends G&N. Ann Arbor, the home of the University of Michigan, is usually considered an intellectual and economic oasis in the industrial desert of Southern Michigan, and for the first few visits I was content to stay there and not make the effort to explore the rest of the state. For some time, however, I have been hearing that there was much more to Michigan than gun-toting militias and the Flint-Lansing-Grand Rapids rust pile. The Upper Peninsula, in particular, was said to contain some of the most breathtaking and untouched wilderness within easy reach of the East Coast. So in 2006, I ventured up there for the first time, camping and hiking for a few days in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, mountain-biking around Grand Island, and kayaking on the Manistique River in the Seney Wildlife Refuge. I fell in love with the area. At the time, I went alone, J. being unable to come along for a variety of reasons, but I've been wanting to share it with her ever since, so this year, being on a somewhat restricted travel budget, we forwent a flying vacation and headed for the UP.

“Easy reach” is a relative term – Michigan is a big state, and few people who never venture outside the Detroit-Ann Arbor megalopolis realize it. Two years ago, I drove from DC to Munising, MI, on the Lake Superior coast, in a single day. It took seventeen hours and nearly killed me on the deserted, pitch-dark highways of the UP. I was not about to repeat that foolishness. And in any case, our itinerary was slightly different this year and was to take us first to Mackinac Island, so leaving first thing Saturday morning, we drove as far as Mackinaw City, on the northernmost tip of the Lower Peninsula (they don't seem to call it the LP, however), at the base of the Mackinac Bridge. This took a “mere” fourteen hours, but we arrived safely, and at a half-way reasonable hour, aided by the ridiculously late August sunset (besides being so far north, all of Michigan is in the Eastern time zone, though some of it borders Wisconsin to the West), and lodged for the night at a perfectly adequate and, for the height of the tourist season, even reasonably priced Econo Lodge.

The following morning we took a ferry to Mackinac Island. Three ferry lines ply the waters of the Straights of Mackinac, where three of the Great Lakes – Huron, Michigan and Superior – meet, and though priced identically to the dollar, and operating on almost the same exact schedules, each one does its utmost to distinguish itself from its rivals. Our innkeeper, a purposeful elderly gentleman who seemed trustworthy and in fact had something of a retired sea captain about him, recommended Shepler's, evidently the oldest line in continuous operation. We were glad he did – Shepler's dock, situated at one end of Mackinaw City's three-block-long main drag, was large, clean and well maintained, and the staff was friendly. After an unsatisfying breakfast of pancakes at a local restaurant, we boarded the boat for a 9:00 a.m. departure and were pulling into Mackinac Island Harbor fifteen minutes later.

Mackinac Island has been inhabited by the Ojibwa Indians since prehistoric times. The name means “turtle” in the Ojibwa language, and was bestowed upon the island because of its shape. The first European arrivals were the French, who settled there permanently in the 1670s, only to lose the island to the British during the French and Indian War. The British built Fort Mackinac – an imposing looking fortress overlooking the harbor – in the 1770s. No battles were fought there during the American Revolutionary war, the island changing hands peacefully under a treaty in 1783, but the war of 1812 saw two battles, which the British won, reestablishing control of the island until 1815 and building a second, smaller wooden fort further up the hill from the main one. Starting in the mid-1800s, the island became a major tourist attraction, and a number of hotels, including the famous Grand Hotel, were built. Most remain to this day. A large portion of the 3.8-square-mile island today is a state park.

For me personally, Mackinac Island proved to be the least enjoyable part of the trip (J. disagrees). The island allows no motor vehicles, and the most common conveyance, in addition to bicycles, is the horse-drawn carriage. The first thing that hit me as we stepped out of the ferry terminal onto the main street of downtown Mackinac Island was a pervasive smell of horse manure. Horse droppings were everywhere on the street, almost impossible to avoid stepping on unless you stick exclusively to sidewalks, which were very narrow and crowded. To think that every American city was like that up until World War I or so, and to imagine it on the scale of a place like New York...

We walked a quarter mile or so up the main street to the hotel where we would be staying that night, asked the none-too-friendly desk clerk to hold our bags, picked up a map at a nearby tourist information booth, and as quickly as we could left the bustle of downtown to hike into the Mackinac State Park. By this time, the sun had burned off most of the morning fog and clouds and it was getting quite warm. Through a combination of stairs and trails, we made our way up the hill and into the quiet interior of the island. The horse smell and the noise of the crowds receded, and I felt better. The park, though owned by the State of Michigan, is actually dotted by majestic Victorian houses, beautifully maintained (a requirement for living on the island, I believe) and decorated. Eventually we reached Fort Holmes, the smaller of the old British forts. Now a ruin, it afforded beautiful views of the North side of the island and Lake Huron beyond. Descending back towards the town, we passed Arch Rock – a natural rock formation in the shape of a large arch – and more beautiful views of the lake before arriving back in the bustle. It was time for lunch.

Most, if not all, restaurants on Mackinac Island seem to follow a pattern – overpriced glorified pub-grub of dubious quality, with one or two token dishes that feature the one truly local ingredient – Great Lakes whitefish. It is apparently illegal in Michigan to pack local catch in durable packaging, making it impossible to ship over any appreciable distance. I first tried whitefish two years ago in the UP, in smoked form, and loved it, so I was looking forward to revisiting the experience.

We ended up at the Village Inn, more or less on a whim, attracted by its outdoor patio that had some available tables and the fact that it was located in a side street, minimizing the crowds and the horse smell (to which we were getting used by that point). The choice proved serendipitous – I had a bowl of delicious smoked whitefish chowder, thick with tender potatoes and several plump chunks of whitefish, plus many more that have disintegrated into the creamy broth and infused the entire dish with a strong, smoky and slightly oily aroma. Not everyone’s cup of soup, but I absolutely loved it, especially when washed down with a cold Bell’s Oberon, of which there were several more to come later that afternoon. J. opted for whitefish in fried form, on a sandwich, and gave it high marks, especially after dispensing with the mediocre bun.

After lunch, we briefly considered touring the fort, but couldn’t stomach the thought of fighting the crowds, so instead we rented a pair of bicycles and embarked on a circumnavigation of the island. We rode at a leisurely pace, with frequent stops, and after overtaking a large German family riding slowly four abreast and taking up the entire roadway, were finally able to relax. The views of the lake to our right were lovely, with wild beaches interspersed with rocky outcroppings favored by the many species of Great Lakes aquatic fowl. Three brown pelicans, their beaks as large as the rest of them, flew in formation low above the water. There was a strong breeze coming in from the North, and along the Northern side of the island the surf had pronounced white crowns – a preview of coming attractions.

We arrived back in town about two hours later, making a detour to see the exterior of the Grand Hotel – a truly gargantuan and impressive looking building. We got as close as we could without either being guests or paying the $15 admission fee that outsiders can pay to visit the public areas of the hotel. Having returned the bikes, we walked back to our own, equally historic but far less glamorous lodgings – the Island House Hotel.

The Island House is one of the oldest hotels on the island, dating back to 1852. The current building – an asymmetrical wooden structure with an impressive porch winding around the entire façade in modest imitation of the Grand – dates back to 1865. The building seemed to be kept in decent repair, but 150 years is a 150 years – the building is old and in many areas approaching decrepitude. Our room was adequate, no more, somewhat cramped and poorly laid out, with the window overlooking the rooftop of the restaurant and an incessant buzz of other people’s air conditioners wafting into the room, at least until we shut the window and turned on our own. The rate we were paying, although about half of what we would have paid at the Grand, was expensive by anyone’s standard, and for what we were getting it was sheer highway robbery. There was to be a sliver lining, however.

J., tired and overheated after the bike ride, laid down to take a nap, while I, showered and refreshed, set off in search of the hotel’s bar. It proved to be a casual affair with an enormous outdoor patio, really just an expanse of lawn with several tables and umbrellas. Large pine trees swayed gently in the breeze, providing much-needed shade. A middle-aged couple was having an early dinner at a corner table, but otherwise the place was deserted, and I ended up spending a couple of blissful hours there, catching up on reading, enjoying a couple of delicious Oberons, and occasionally chatting about Mackinac Island and its tourist trade with my none-too-busy waitress – a lanky but pretty college student from downstate named Kelley. Eventually, J., rested from her nap, found me there, enjoyed an Oberon of her own, and we set off in search of dinner, determined to avoid our hotel’s dining room.

J. suggested a place called Seabiscuit which we walked by earlier in the day. I must say her intuition was spot-on – we ended up having a delicious meal in the midst of Mackinac’s touristy mediocrity. Chatting with the hostess a bit while waiting for our table, we found out that it was a favorite among the locals. The bar scene was lively, but we opted for a regular table, pressed closely against its neighbors, almost New York style. Determined to get our fill of whitefish while we had the chance, we both ordered whitefish wraps. They were served more chilled than I would have done it – the whitefish salad, though obviously house-made, must have come straight from the refrigerator, but were otherwise delicious. Chunky smoked whitefish, mixed with fresh crunchy coleslaw, its mayonnaise providing the necessary binding qualities, wrapped in a spinach tortilla, it was very satisfying while being marginally lighter than the fried monstrosities that populated much of the rest of the menu.

After dinner, we walked a bit along the waterfront, enjoying the cool, clear night, spent a few minutes sitting in the rocking chairs strewn about our hotel’s porch, then turned in, in anticipation of an activity-filled day.

Obama

I know I keep promising to keep politics out of here and fail, but this is an election year after all, and for the first time in my life I live in a state that's expected to be competitive in the general election, I need to start worrying about this stuff.

In his speech accepting the Democratic nomination, Obama has said (as quoted by the WaPo):

America, we cannot turn back, not with so much work to be done, not with so many children to educate and so many veterans to care for, not with an economy to fix and cities to rebuild and farms to save, not with so many families to protect and so many lives to mend

Where oh where did he find that it is the government's job to do any of these things?!?!

Update

Quick update, before J. and I hit the road.

Dostoyevsky
Finished Notes from the Underground, in the original, some two weeks ago. I can't really write anything meaningful about it. Suffice it to say, it was phenomenally powerful, even though it was my third time reading it. It has been many years. As despicable as the main character is, I saw myself in him more than once. I suspect this is true of more people than would be willing to admit it.

Georgia vs. Russia
Sad. Minds, and pens, far greater than mine have provided plenty of commentary. I have nothing to add. This seems to me to be on the money. It actually proposes a well-defined course of action, and a good one at that. Too bad we will never come anywhere close to doing this.

Translation
Finally started my long-delayed translation of St. Exupéry's Courrier Sud. Unbelievably difficult. When reading a novel in a foreign language for the story -- granted, the most superficial way to read it, but also the most common I suspect -- we don't realize just how much we get from context and how many subtleties we lose. When translating, every last bit of minutiae is indispensable, and then you have render it into something resembling decent prose. It took me an hour to get through two paragraphs of the opening chapter. This is going to be a long project. I will buy a beer -- nay, a single-malt scotch -- to anyone who comes up with an acceptable translation of this sentence, especially the second clause:

Sur nos fronts cette lumière de lampe qui ne livre pas les objets mais les compose, nourrit de matière tendre chaque chose.

Back on the 26th.

Firefighting

I had a Computer Science professor in college. Many of my fellow students thought him to be cantankerous and unfriendly, and I initially had that impression myself, but eventually I realized he was one of the best people on the department's faculty -- supremely knowledgeable, sharp, intellectually curious and, once you got past his mannerisms, a very good explainer of complex ideas. He was also much friendlier in one-on-one conversations than he was in a classroom. Anyway, the syllabus for one of his classes said something about the need to complete assignments early because computer systems had a propensity to crash just before deadlines. Thankfully, I have never been too much of a procrastinator, but I thought the statement was a little melodramatic, and was designed to get our lazy undergrad butts in gear. Computer systems do crash -- I wouldn't have a job if they didn't (or would have had a much more pleasant one, depending on how you look at it) -- but surely statistics show us that they crash all the time, not just before deadlines. But maybe there is a grain of truth to what the old prof said after all. I am leaving for a vacation this Friday, and I am trying to finish a zillion projects at work before I go, and starting last Friday, every single morning there is an unexpected problem that needs to be dealt with. It is now Tuesday, and we are three for three, and I have a feeling there will be more to come before I can finally hightail it to Michigan for a week and a half. Statistics, schmatistics...

Richard Bernstein

Finished Richard Bernstein’s Fragile Glory: A Portrait of France and the French a few days ago. I can’t quite remember how I came upon this book, but I am pretty sure it was by accident. Perhaps I found it in the basement of my old building in Cleveland Park, where residents had set up an informal book exchange. I definitely did not set out to get it, and certainly did not pay for it.

Given that pedigree, or lack thereof, it actually ended up being a very decent read. Bernstein, a longtime New York Times correspondent in Paris, attempts nothing less than the examination of the French national character, and, assuming such an examination is possible at all, comes close to succeeding. Anyone writing about culture not his own is liable to fall into stereotypes and facile judgments, and Bernstein does so rather quickly: “The French are not a people particularly known for the modesty of their self-conception.” (p. 4). To his credit, however, it gets better from there, and where it does not, at least Bernstein backs his claims up with convincing arguments.

The book is divided into three parts, all somewhat oblique to one another. The first deals with the idea and the reality (the two are frequently at odds) of the French countryside. La France profonde, it is apparently called, “the deep France.” This section is probably the most valuable purely in terms of what one learns about everyday life in rural France. It is a side of French culture that foreigners, and in many cases the French themselves, according to Bernstein at least, know very little about and rarely, if ever, stop to contemplate. To the extent that they do, their idea of it comes from some starry-eyed travel piece in a wine magazine, or something equally disconnected from reality. Bernstein, who traveled extensively in the countryside, sets the record straight, painting a relatively dark picture of a people far more conservative and less prosperous than what most of us think when we hear the word “France.”

The second part deals with the aspects of the French culture that we tend to have in mind when we think of the French without really thinking – food, style, driving habits, alleged reflexive anti-Americanism. Most of it is highly entertaining, much of it insightful, and Bernstein manages to minimize judgment. More serious, and sometimes disturbing, aspects of the culture make their appearance here, to be examined more fully in the last section – xenophobia, anti-Semitism – as well as less obvious but still significant preoccupations of the French – the role of traditional aristocracy in modern French society, for example.

The last section deals with the history, principles, and functioning of the French state – not just the government proper, though that gets a lot of attention – but the phenomenon of the pervasive, technocratic, hyper-influential state, by turns a stern schoolmaster and a loving parent to its citizens, often despised by the French who depend on it for much of their livelihood. I found this fascinating because even as a minor Francophile, I was only vaguely aware of the details. The general outline is familiar, of course, especially with Sarkozy and his attempts at reform frequently in the news these days, but I didn’t really appreciate just how profoundly different civic thinking in France is from its American counterpart. It is here that Bernstein offers the most direct and damning moral critique of French society. He covers the modern political Far Right, of course, as well as the history of Vichy and (in passing) of the Algerian war for independence, but the real problem that he explains and illustrates so well is the French government’s ongoing willingness to cover up unsavory, sometimes exceedingly so, political affairs in the name of preserving the honor of the French state and – even more worrisome – the public willingness to go along.

If an overall conclusion emerges from the book, it is two-fold. One is that the French, despite all their cries of “Vive la difference,” as individuals and as a society are far more friendly, accepting of strangers and less mysterious than we tend to give them credit for. The other is that the defining feature of French society, and a major factor in how it expresses itself, is the idea is that France is slowly but steadily losing its former grandeur on the world stage, and that many of its citizens, whether consciously or not, try to slow down that decline with their behaviors and attitudes, even though they realize that the decline is ultimately irreversible.

My biggest criticism of the book is not at all Bernstein’s fault. Published in 1990, it is quite simply outdated. Some themes are timeless, of course. Most are, in fact, and that’s what keeps the book largely relevant. Others, however, are very much a sign of Bernstein’s time. President Mitterand, now largely forgotten, figures very prominently, and the discussion of the EU is all but non-existent. His illustration of a sordid affair is the government coverup of the sinking of a Greenpeace ship off the coast of New Zealand in 1985. Who remembers that now? On balance, however, Bernstein’s book has enough historical vision and enough thought-provoking observations to survive, at least if you can find a free copy in a basement somewhere.

Solzhenitsyn

Solzhenitsyn died the other day. I'm not going to re-tell his story here, of course. Commentary is plentiful, much of it quite good. Here is one of the more balanced opinions I've come across. I do want to point out, though, that I can think of no better illustration of the depressing and dangerous idea that opposing a specific repressive, tyrannical regime is no guarantee that you will embrace the principles of liberty and openness, even if you oppose that regime with your entire being, like Solzhenitsyn did. Opposition to a regime, unfortunately, is not the same as opposition to the principles on which it is founded, and rejecting the manifestation of something without simultaneously rejecting its underlying moral foundation opens the door to a host of equally sinister alternatives.