Did you read this week’s Border Crossings column? I know, it’s rather a touchy subject but every now and then we need to be reminded that when we cross borders, we frequently end up immersed in cultures entirely different than our own and need to be mindful of our manners. Go ahead, read it, and, as always, feel free to comment.

When traveling, especially when traveling abroad, I always recommend doing it on your own, free of the confines of the packaged tour. On the tours, you’re virtually isolated, experiencing the stops on your itinerary through a bubble of the tour bus, despite occasional stops to get out and stretch your legs or to take a group tour through a landmark before hopping back on the coach.

But even if you’re not traveling overseas, seeing new places by yourself or with just a companion (or two, but really, not many more than that) still offers the chance to wander off the beaten path and discover the real pulse of the places you visit.

Without the mob cruising on the Mercedes (or sometimes a Volvo) bus, you have more of an incentive to be more aware and respectful of the places you visit.

I once escorted a group to the Austrian Tirol for a winter holiday. One of the girls, who suffered from horrible bouts of ethnocentrism, said, “You gotta teach me some of that German so I can communicate with these people.” “These people” were our hosts. We were all appalled at her attitude, wondering if it was the same way she approached her hosts when she’d visit peoples’ homes back in her native Minnesota.

So we told her, “We’re sure you noticed how dining is such a nice, leisurely activity over here.” “Yeah,” she retorted. “It takes forever to get your food!” We tried in vain to explain to someone with a McDonald’s viewpoint on dining that meal times in most Germanic cultures are times to relax and converse. Meals can go on for hours, if you wish. Finally, since she insisted, we had to teach her to say, “I’m hungry!”

“Ich bin schwanger,” she rehearsed a few times, getting it down pretty admirably, in fact.

After a lively snowball fight in the street outside our Kitzbühel pensione late one afternoon, we tumbled into the wonderful café down the street to warm up over some hot cocoa and pastries. To hasten hers along, Carol declared to the dirndl-clad server, “Ich bin schwanger!” The waitress looked in amazement. Carol smiled and nodded. The server nodded.

We had taught Carol to say, “I am pregnant.”

I can’t recall if we ever corrected her. Probably not.

The point is, mind your manner when abroad—or even when traveling domestically. Innocent cultural and etiquette faux pas can be easily forgiven by your hosts, but ethnocentric arrogance reflects poorly not just on yourself, but on all Americans.

Keep crossing those borders!

When I blew over to Crestview from New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, all my friends back in the battered Crescent City laughed and said I’d be returning as soon as I possibly could. Little did they know that I had already fallen in love—with Crestview, with the relaxed life in rural north Okaloosa County, and with the people I encountered here. I’d visited here quite a few times before, as my Tulane school chum Leon Curenton lives over here.

Oddly enough, this area reminds me quite a lot of the small town in which I was raised on a mountain in New Jersey. The people actually care about each other here. Amazing! On top of it all, Crestview has something the entire New Orleans metro area sorely lacks, and which I really missed from back home (besides people who know how to use turn signals): a culture of customer care.

I was only in Crestview a couple days when I went in Publix to do some grocery shopping. Looking a little lost as I tried to orient myself to a new store, not one, but two people came from opposite directions and asked if they could help me find something. In New Orleans you have to scout out employees when you need assistance, and they can sense you coming, scurrying away like roaches when you flip the kitchen light on late at night. If you do encounter a clerk and are able to ask about something on your shopping list, you’ll be lucky if you can get a grudging, “It be on Aisle 5.” Usually you get, “I be on my break.”

In Crestview it was “Can I help you find something, sir?” I wasn’t sure how to respond, so resigned was I to never experiencing customer courtesy again. When I finally stammered out the grocery item I needed, one of the helpful clerks actually took me right to the commodity. It was about then that I knew I’d picked the right place in which to be a hurricane refugee, and later to resettle.

During my visits, Leon would take me to worship with his family at the stunningly charming turn-of-the-century Laurel Hill Presbyterian Church. (Its congregation is older than the town.) It reminded me considerably of the simple little church I attended back home in New Jersey, right down to the kind and hospitable congregation. Once I realized I’d be here a while, I joined the little congregation.

My New Orleans friends, whom I dearly miss–just as I do the Penthouse Nachos at the Sun Ray Grill, reading alongside the Mississippi River, and the city’s rich theatre scene– have resigned themselves to the fact that I’ve become a Floridian. “So what’s the biggest change in your life?” they ask, expecting me to cite the change in cuisine or an imagined lack of cultural activities. They’re surprised when I respond, “The church supper.”

Southern church ladies can COOK! Now I don’t want to say they try to one-up each other when preparing their church supper dishes, but I can truthfully attest to the fact that they do pour their hearts into their contributions. Leon’s mom makes the world’s best chicken-n-dumplings, one of my favorite church supper menu selections. His sister, Tracy, makes a remarkable salad out of Ramen noodles and cabbage. Their Aunt Kitty’s baked beans are exquisite, as is another lady’s “best-ever” blueberry pie. And the list goes on and on…rather like some of the church supper buffet lines I’ve grazed since moving here.

Fortunately, the Crestview area’s rolling hills give me the opportunity for a bit of uphill effort during my 2-mile morning walks, and the large pond in the backyard is about 50 metres across at the point where I swim laps almost daily from mid-March until mid-October, so those church feasts haven’t gone entirely to my waist.

Some borders we cross are culinary. I’m sure glad I made this border crossing!

In yesterday’s paper, my Border Crossings column was about all the great stuff to see in Munich when you’re over there for the two-week Oktoberfest, which this year runs from noon Saturday, September 22, when the city’s lord mayor taps the first keg of beer, to Sunday, October 7. The first–and understandably obvious–question has already been asked of me: Why is more than half of Oktoberfest held in September?

Good question. To better understand the answer, it helps to better understand Bavarians, who are some of Europe’s most delightful, hospitable, gregarious and fun-loving people. Munich is the captal of Bavaria, which was the last independent Germanic nation to be absorbed into Germany, an event that didn’t occur until after World War I. Even today, when you enter Germany from Austria, the first sign says “Welcome to the Free State of Bavaria.” Only a bit later is there one reading “Welcome to the Federal Republic of Germany.”

Now, let’s go to www.oktoberfest.de for a little history, which also offers an explanation about why Oktoberfest, which really did originally occur in October, got moved up a bit:
“The historical background: the first Oktoberfest was held in the year 1810 in honor of the Bavarian Crown Prince Ludwig’s marriage to Princess Therese von Sachsen-Hildburghausen. The festivities began on October 12, 1810 and ended on October 17th with a horse race. In the following years, the celebrations were repeated and, later, the festival was prolonged and moved forward into September.

“By moving the festivities up, it allowed for better weather conditions. Because the September nights were warmer, the visitors were able to enjoy the gardens outside the tents and the stroll over “die Wiesen” or the fields much longer without feeling chilly. Historically, the last Oktoberfest weekend was in October and this tradition continues into present times.”

I love it when foreigners translate things into English. Of course, since my German is pitiful, I shouldn’t cast stones.

A couple things to point out: “Die Wiesen” is also the name of the part of Munich in which Oktoberfest takes place. There are 14 beer tents erected around the 100+ acre site. As an example, the Hofbräu Festhalle tent can accommodate almost 7,000 celebrants seated inside and and more than 3,000 outside. Here are some numbers from last year’s Fest:
- 100,000: number of seats available at Die Wiesen
- 4,000: number of personal belongings lost (including false teeth, crutches and wedding rings)
- 6 million: litres of beer quaffed
- 33,400: litres of wine sipped
- 515,000: bottles of water and soft drinks guzzled
- 200,000: litres of non-alcoholic beverages served (not in bottles)
- 360,000: sausages munched

Here are a few other good things to know:
- If you’re taking the train to Munich from elsewhere in Germany or Europe, don’t look for “Munich” on the timetable. All European cities are listed by their local names. Look for “München.” Sometimes it’s also spelled “Muenchen.”
- If you want a souvenir beer stein, don’t ask for a “stein.” You’ll be asking for a “rock.” (Imagine my embarrassment when I tried to buy an ornate stein for my dad on my first visit to Germany!) Ask for a “Mass,” but pronounce it “mahsss.” And don’t be surprised to see it spelled “Maß.” The “ß” symbol represents two S’s in most German-speaking parts of Europe. Outside of Munich, a stein is called a “Krug,” pronounced “kroog.”
- A litre of beer is expected to sell for about €8 this year. That’s about $10.50. But since most European beers pack more of a kick than most American beers, including imports specially watered down for the American palate, a litre will go a lot farther.
- The hometown favorite beer in Munich is, of course, Löwenbräu. But never, never pronounced it “Lowenbrow.” It’s “LOOV-en-broy.” If you want to avoid the madness of the Wiesen, you can get it in the popular downtown Hofbräuhaus beer hall, and at almost every beer garden.

Which brings up one more thing I loved about Munich. I don’t drink alcohol, but still had as much fun in the beer gardens as the next person. Why? Because contrary to popular misconception, they’re not rowdy drunken venues. Most, including the sprawling biergarten in the center of the Englischer Garten–Munich’s vast central park–are social gathering spots for Muncheners of all ages. Kids will be cavorting (some beer gardens even have playground equipment) while mom and dad visit with their neighbors. And the food: yum! The best ribs I’ve ever had were in the Englischer Garten beer garden. Some beer gardens don’t have food service, so locals pack picnics when they go. It’s an interesting and integral aspect of a fun-loving culture.

Next week my column will cover the many great things to see and do outside of Munich, using the Bavarian capital as your headquarters. Meanwhile, you can see video of Munich on our Web site. It’s imbedded in my online Border Crossings column this week.

I’ll leave you with the traditional Bavarian greeting and farewell: Grüß Gott! (God’s greetings). Prounce it “groos goat.”

Mark Twain once said that people in South date things “befaw the waw” or “aftuh the waw,” referring, of course, to the Civil War. In New Orleans things are now dated “Pre-K” and “Post-K.” Like the Civil War, Hurricane Katrina suddenly became a milestone in time by which other events are dated. Post-K New Orleans is slowly coming along.

The city faces many major obstacles, both internal and external. One of its largest stumbling blocks is a deeply ingrained mindset of entitlement and a culture of dependency. It’s probably not very PC to say it, as sometimes the truth hurts, but for many black citizens, it dates back to the region’s plantation culture during which the white master took care of everything. This was further reinforced for blacks, and established for other southeast Louisiana residents, during the Huey Long administration, which promised “a chicken in every pot.”

Like it or not, many New Orleans-area residents not only expect “someone else” to fix things for them, but believe they are entitled to it. They’re therefore perfectly willing to overlook the accompanying culture of political chicanery as long as it produced tangible results, i.e. a new bridge, street repairs, pavement improvements, increased homestead exemptions, etc. When I lived there Pre-K, this even extended to basic things like litter. “Someone else” was always there to pick up locals’ waste.

(One of the hair cutters at the place I go here in Crestview volunteered at her church to help hurricane refugees. One New Orleans lady tossed her food wrapper on the floor. “You’ll have to pick that up,” Terri told her. “Tha’s OK,” the lady said. “Dey got people here who do dat.” “I’m one of those people, and you’ll have to pick that up.” The lady was shocked. She never had to do that before.)

Sadly, many, many New Orleanians are still sitting on their duffs waiting for “somebody else,” in this case “the government,” be it state, local or federal, to hand them the piles of money to which they feel entitled. But in other cases, such as in the devasted Lower Ninth Ward, some folks are just rolling up their sleeves and doing their own recovery, and pitching in to help their neighbors do theirs.

But even this rare do-it-yourself attitude is posing problems, because some parts of the city as well as most of the outlying areas were built where urban development just never should’ve taken place. In my previous entry, I mentioned the lovely, shady cypress tree in my old backyard. That means the lake was just about where my former home now stands. And I lived almost a mile inland from the lake. That swath a mile wide used to be wetlands that helped protect the homes wisely built on higher ground farther inland. But not any more.

I visited my buddy Paul Nelson while we were in New Orleans last weekend. Paul’s a realtor (give him a call!) who lives in a delightful c.1840 Creole cottage. He had friends who didn’t bother buying flood insurance because the levee was only two blocks from their home. Paul snorted and said, “Don’t you think it means there’s the potential for flooding if a levee is needed so close to your house?” As he wisely ppointed out, a levee is “flood protection, not flood prevention.” And we all saw what happened when some of those levees just weren’t up to the task.

And so places that should never been built upon, including the luxurious Lakeview neighborhood, are still a wasteland.

(Paul also told a new joke making the rounds: Why did God send Hurricane Rita to New Orleans right on the tail of Hurricane Katrina? Sometimes you just gotta flush twice.)

But fortunately for visitors (I should’ve mentioned this earlier in this post. I’ve probably lost most of you by now) most of those parts that SHOULD have been built on are doing fine, and those neighborhoods include some of New Orleans oldest and most charming visitors’ destinations. The French Quarter, the Riverbend area, Faubourg Marigny, the Irish Channel and the Garden District were all sensibly built on high ground. (”High ground,” of course, being a relative term in New Orleans. That means they might even be at sea level!)

And it’s those areas that recovered first and today bustle with restaurants, shops and night life. We got to visit some favorite old stomping grounds, including two of New Orleans many, many live theatre venues, and ate at favorite restaurants once again.

We saw Theatre Marigny new show, a musical revue, which was a scream, and rivaled the New York production in quality. Dinner was at La Peniché, a neighborhood eatery in The Marigny, where good, affordable down-to-earth food is served in a relaxing, pleasant atmosphere. The restaurant’s walls are paneled in bargeboard, giving you an idea of its old charm.

(Bargeboard was rough-hewn wood reclaimed from flatboats that were loaded with goods upriver, floated down to New Orleans in the pre-steamboat days, where everything, including the flatboat, was sold. The merchants would then return home to points north via the Natchez trace.)

One of my most favorite restaurants is the Sun Ray Grill. I like going to their Warehouse District location, though the same excellent, eclectic cuisine is available in their original home on Metairie Road in Old Metairie (a district which has also bounced back from the storm with vigor). Sometimes I just get the Penthouse Nachos (with duck) as my dinner, which I did this time. Afterwards it was off to my favorite New Orleans nightspot.

Le Chat Noir is one of the coolest places to go for evening entertainment in the whole city, and, surprisingly, many visitors are astounded to discover it’s not in the French Quarter. (Many guests seem to think New Orleans begins and ends at the Quarter.) Le Chat is a true cabaret, with the elegant Bar Noir out front. My friend Troy, with whom we stayed, swears by their martinis. In the equally elegant showroom, a variety of cabaret performances and live theatricals are presented. This past weekend it was a delightful cabaret performance. I was bummed, however, because in the audience was the lovely Amy Alvarez, whose lilting voice has won her many an accolade, including a recent Big Easy award (the Tony’s of New Orleans) for her turn as Nellie in “South Pacific.” She told me that starting next week she will return to the Le Chat stage with her Rodgers & Hammerstein show, and I’ll miss it. Drat!

We enjoyed a late breakfast/early lunch at Camellia Grill, a long-time landmark in the Riverbend district, which has at last reopened after sustaining some water damage. As usual, lines were down to the sidewalk as we approached, but the wait is not long and it was fun meeting other visitors who were glad for the opportunity to be back in the queue. Our waiter, Phillip, served with aplomb as we once more settled ourselves at the counter. I had the Manhattan Omelette, a meal in itself, and, of course, a chocolate cheery [sic] freeze. The Grill is renowned for its freezes. Be sure to get one.

New Orleans is a city made for walking around. We strolled along Exposition Boulevard on the fringes of Audubon Park. A bagpiper was skirling tunes including “amazing Grace,” “The Marine Corps Hymn” and–you haven’t lived until you’ve heard this on pipes–”My Heart Will Go On.” We also walked along Magazine Street a bit, until a drenching rain forced us to go visit Paul again, and see his gorgeous German shepherd Cyrus, who forgets he’s a dog sometimes. And Leon and I returned to our alma mater, Tulane University, where he got to see the newly refurbished University Center for the first time. (I saw it earlier this summer, and still think it looks llike a medical center.)

New Orleans is still a lively place, and there’s life in the ol’ girl yet. She needs her friends to pay her a visit, pump in a little cash, and help her back to her feet. Go see her one of these coming weekends. She’ll show you a good time. And be sure to spend an evening at Le Chat Noir, especially to catch Amy Alavarez in her Rodgers & Hammerstein show. That’s worth visit the city in itself!

I’m heading back to New Orleans this weekend. Along with many memories, many friends and favorite eateries are still there. Half of me is saddened as we approach the city through New Orleans East, which, two years after Hurricane Katrina, is still a flattened wasteland. But the half shamefully says, “nyah nyah, I told you so.”

Some parts of New Orleans just never should’ve been built on. The neighborhood south of what used to be the fishing village of Bucktown where the house in which I lived, up until the storm, still stands is one of those places. In my back yard was an impressive, massive cypress tree, even though I lived more than a mile in from Lake Pontchartrain. That means my neighborhood was once part of the now-vanished wetlands that once surrounded New Orleans and kept it relatively flood-free.

I lived a block and a half west of the famous 17th Street Canal, which is now landmarked along with neighborhoods, now familiar thanks to media saturation, such as the Lower Ninth Ward, St. Bernard, Gentilly and Lakeview. Fortunately for me (and for my stuff), my house was a block-and-a-half off the canal in the safe direction. My counterparts on the east side of the canal were swimming.

These places just never should’ve been drained and built. (Just ask the thousands of Irish immigrants who died of tropical diseases and industrial mishaps while digging the canal that is now Pontchartrain Boulevard. Decades later the canal was filled in just by dumping dirt in it. All that water had to go somewhere. People still act surprised that neighborhoods for blocks on either side are sinking.)

And sadly, New Orleans is poised for a repeat when the next storm hits, because local politicos, fearful of reducing their political base, refuse to even contemplate reducing the city’s footprint and restoring the natural protective barriers that used to buffer the city from storms and surges.

I had long thought about leaving New Orleans. The blissful ignorance (which locals try to pass off as “laissez faire”) the rampant corruption, and shady politics get sickening at times. Though I loved my job as marketing manager for the oldest American-flagged cruise line, the Delta Queen Steamboat Company, our Buffalo, N.Y.-based parent company installed their hand-picked management, a group of cronies who never understood the company’s culture, didn’t care, and never tried to learn it. I was assigned the Boss From Hell. It’s no wonder that this work environment coincided with a spike in my blood pressure and the manifestation of a leaky heart valve!

But then came Hurricane Katrina and life turned upside down.

Upside down, however, can sometimes be a fun perspective. I evacuated to St. Francisville, La., a lovely, historic village upriver from Baton Rouge, and spent a delightful three days in the country with my friend Chris at his dad’s home on Lake Rosemound. Then I undertook what should’ve been a five-hour drive over here to Crestview. But with I-10 impassable and gas at a premium, I ended up heading north to I-20, east to Montgomery, and 10 and a half hours later, arrived in Crestview at the home of a friend from our Tulane days, Leon Curenton. Crestview is his hometown. He lives about two miles from the hospital where he was born.

Now Crestview is my home.

But in the aftermath of Katrina, life was uncertain, so I did what every good traveler should do. I took a trip. Leon and I had planned to vacation in Vermont anyway. I figured I can worry about my house and job in lovely Stowe just as easily as I could worry about them down here.

Hmmm…I seem to have digressed. The point is I’m off to New Orleans for the weekend. It has one of the South’s most lively theatre scenes, which, with my friends and the Sun Ray Grill, are the things I miss most about New Orleans. We’re going to take in a little theatre, eat at the Sun Ray, and shop at Whole Foods and Suda Salvage.

I love Suda. I used to hit it once a month or so. They are a salvage grocery. If your grocery store in Des Moines burns down, yet some of the stock is salvageable, it might wind up at Suda. Hence, you can usually find great stuff not typical of the area. I once found blocks of Philadelphia scrapple, a pork loaf I loved as a kid, at Suda. They’re motto is “The neighborhood grocery that’s not in your neighborhood.” You gotta love that. They’re tucked in an industrial section of a New Orleans suburb called Elmwood.

I’ll let you know how my trip goes. Now our publisher, the radiant Kelly Humphrey, is reminding us that we have a paper to publish, so I’d better write some articles for it.

I rather thought that as I embark on a new adventure—i.e. blogging—I should have my passport with me. It’s a comforting thing to have, rubbing familiarly in my left front pocket. Sort of like the towel Douglas Adams recommends you carry in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” (Good travelers know they should always keep their passports safe. Mine never goes in a pickable pocket. The silver graphics on the cover have worn off as a result, but it’s a small price to pay for still having it in my possession, unlike people who kept theirs pristinely in a fanny pack, from which they get stolen in Rome.)

Anyway, I found my passport, which made the move from New Orleans with piles of other stuff, and realized it was out of date, but still within the renewal period. So while renewal was fresh in my mind I went to the State Department’s Web site, and started the process of downloading a passport renewal application. Next I need to run to Wal*Mart and have my passport pix taken.

But I figured I’d better lose about 15 pounds first (all of which I gained working at the News Bulletin, incidentally) because I’ll have to live with that photo for the next ten years. (On the other hand, a bad passport photo isn’t such an awful thing. Foreign customs and passport control officers always say nice things like, “Vell, you haf zertainly lozt zum veight, hafn’t you?” It’s such a nice, warm fuzzy when an officious government functionary flatters you while you’re abroad.)

So, my new passport is temporarily on hold until I swim about 50 more kilometers over the next several weeks and then have the pix taken. But my blog is hereby launched. As with my “Border Crossings” travel column, I invite you to join me as we cross borders together through these scribblings. They may be physical borders, they may be mental. But we’ll hold each other’s hands and take the plunge. There’s lots of world out there. Thanks for joining me as we explore it together.