Good
evening, 919 Gang. Our honeymoon topic is picking up steam with two more good
stories tonight. What's your story?
DEAN CALBREATH writes:
Like a lot of reporters, I’ve spent a
little time in war zones, but I don’t know a lot who spent half their honeymoon
in one.
My wife and I are both Americans, but
we were living in Prague in 1994 when we got married in Old Town Hall, built in
the 1400s in the middle of the old city. We were both making Czech salaries at
the time so we decided to do what most Czechs do, taking our honeymoon on the
cheap. As a result, we decided to fly to Croatia, which was very cheap at the
time since it was still at war with Serbia.
The war was winding down at the time,
but the Serbs did shell the airport in Dubrovnik a few days after we landed
there, and we could hear some machine-gun fire in the hills as our bus was
heading from Dubrovnik to the port for Korcula, the small island where we were
going to spend the week (where Marco Polo was reputedly born). The area around
Dubrovnik is a very thin sliver of Croatia separating Serbia from the sea, and
the border between the two was just beyond the coastal range of mountains. At
night, the skies over the mountains were sometimes lit up as if with fireworks,
as the Serbs and Croats bombarded each other.
Despite that – or partly because of
that – we had a very enchanting honeymoon. The resort where we stayed had been
built largely for German tourists, but they were staying away because of the
war, so the only people who were there were the Czechs who flew in with us on
the package tour. The menus at the hotel restaurant had been printed in
Croatian and German, but the German names had been crossed out and replaced
with Czech. From there, we were able to take a day trip to a nearby island
which had absolutely nobody on it. We went with about 20 Czechs, but we all
split off into separate directions, meaning that we were all able to find our
own private beaches, where we were able to do… well, anything you’d want to do
in private.
On a separate trip, we spent a day in
Dubrovnik – just the two of us (and I do mean just the two of us). Normally,
Dubrovnik is one of Croatia’s major tourist attractions – a beautiful medieval
walled city built directly on the shoreline. These days, the streets would be
crowded with tourists, especially in the middle of summer, which is when we
went. But at the time, it was a ghost town, since it was still recovering from
the heavy bombardment it had received from the Serbs a couple of years before.
We were often the only people walking around on the streets or the parapets of
the walls. Many times, not another soul was in sight. Once we met a couple of
Croats who showed us a memorial that they had built to the casualties. The only
Westerners in the city were a handful of UN aid workers (mostly from Canada and
Australia) and reconstruction workers (one was from the US, if I remember
correctly). Even though it sounds morbid to be tourists in that situation, all
the Croats that we saw were very happy and thankful that we were there. It was
a sign that normalcy was beginning to return, especially since we were
Americans and not (or so they thought) poor Czech workers traveling on the
cheap.
The second half of the trip was much
happier. My wife’s great-grandparents came from Veľký Šariš, a tiny farming
village in the far eastern corner of Slovakia, so after returning to Prague, we
took the train to track down her roots.
One of the interesting things was that
even though the Czech Republic and Slovakia had once been one country –
Czechoslovakia – their languages, although very similar, had a lot of
differences, including extremely different names for the days of the week,
among other things. When we got off the bus in Veľký Šariš (we had to take a
bus ride from Prešov, the nearest train station), I was trying to ask
directions for the cemetery, in hopes that we could find the graves of some of
my wife’s ancestors. But when I asked for the “hřbitov,” which is Czech for
cemetery, they didn’t understand me. (Their word for cemetery, which I didn’t
know at the time, was “cintorín”; the Slovaks don’t even have the letter “ř” in
their alphabet.) So I had to ask in German, asking for “the place of the dead,”
since I didn’t know the German word (Friedhof, for anyone who’s curious).
Thankfully, the woman we asked
directions of was very excited about talking to Americans and after a prolonged
conversation in German, Czech, Slovak and English (which her daughter was
studying in school), she took us to the local mayor (who was working
shirtlessly in his garden when we arrived), who took us to the city hall and
found the plot of land where her relatives are from. “Aah, the Bordals,” he
said. “They left a hundred years ago for O-hee-o in America.” By which he meant
Ohio. He took us to a small plot of land which was still called Bordaľova
záhrada, or the Bordals’ garden, even though they hadn’t lived there in a
century.
One of the odd things that happened in
that trip is that we spontaneously stopped in the Tatra Mountains, a chain
straddling the Slovak and Polish border, where we decided we would hike up a
tall mountain peak and cross the Polish border (hauling a suitcase for our
provisions, since we didn’t come prepared with a backpack). As we got off the
train, we struck up a conversation with an American woman who got off at the
same time we did. As it turned out, she was a reporter who had been hired to
replace me at the job I’d left in San Francisco when I moved to Prague. She was
hired after I’d left, so I’d never met her before – yet here we were meeting
for the first time, 9,000 miles away. Small world. We ended up spending the
next two nights together (nothing kinky – just that we were all trying to save
our money by rooming together, and the small cots in Slovak backpacking lodges
make romance pretty difficult anyway, even for honeymooners).
SUZANNE MACK writes:
On the subject of honeymoons, ours was
one for the books. After a long wedding
ceremony with a Mass and a reception at the COP club across the street from the
church we left in the back of Ron Hutcherson's car. Sorry Ron, I don't remember
what you were driving in 1971. While others may go to Hawaii, the Bahamas or
the Virgin Islands...not us. I was asked where I'd like to go but was so timid
back then I didn't push for some place one usually thinks of as a honeymoon venue. We left in
our new Pinto and headed north. Our first stop was Zaby's Motor Inn in Anaheim.
By this time it was February. Up the coast we traveled to Solvang,
Carmel, Mt. Shasta and on to Portland, Oregon to visit a friend. From
Oregon it was down to Sacramento for a tour of the capital and dinner with
George Dissinger. I'd had visions of what my honeymoon would be like and this
wasn't it. A large hotel, a desk clerk, signing the register Mr. and Mrs. while
I blushed demurely. At the Mansion Inn
Bedel signed with only his name
(because it was the credit card receipt)....no Mr. and Mrs. I was a little put out and decided to get
sassy, and I took a line from "Barefoot In the Park". As we passed
two elderly ladies waiting on a bench I said with a big smile, "Gee Mr.
Mack...look me up any time you're in town".
That night the 1971 earthquake
happened (Sylmar maybe?) so we headed home. No matter how you cut it, that one
is never going to make Bride's Magazine list of
most romantic getaways.
--------------------------------------------
BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:
Jack, your news about the gigantic
thermometer in Baker, Calif. prompted my only memory of that town. It was
around 1962, when I was 18 and a year out of high school, enjoying having our
home to myself, as my parents and younger brother were on a car trip to
somewhere. Late in the afternoon the telephone rang, and as I happened to be
home instead of out cruising or on a date I answered the dang thing. It was my
mother, who related that the '61 Buick that my dad didn't take care of had
overheated "in the desert" and that my dad had gotten a little crazy
about it, what with leaping from the car and throwing sand onto the engine and
perhaps suffering a mild stroke or at least an emotional response that left him
limp. "We're at the motel in Baker," said my mom, "and we need
you to come get us." Come get us? How?
Well, whatever, at 18 I feared nothing
and knew that I could handle the situation. I said, "OK mom, I'll be there
as quick as I can." It seemed to me that my car, a hot rod Ford with an
Olds engine, would not be my best bet, as it smoked and clanked. Kind of
unreliable too. Quick as a flash I thought of Greyhound Bus Lines, and phoned
my girlfriend, whose parents loaned me the bucks for a one-way ticket to Baker.
Maybe they thought that I'd stay there. My friend and her mom drove me from
Chula Vista to the lavish Greyhound terminal in Downtown San Diego, and off I
went into the darkness surrounded by U.S. Marines on their way back to Camp
Pendleton or Los Angeles or who knows where. They offered me cigars and
whiskey, which I politely declined.
Long story shorter: arrived in Baker
shortly after dawn, and the bus driver slowed down enough so that I could jump
out. Found the motel and my family; went to the garage where the tow trucker
had taken the Buick, as he owned the garage. He had dismantled the engine and
the exhaust system. Quick as a flash with my youthful courage I ordered him to
stick everything in the trunk and haul us to the Buick dealer in Barstow, which
he did, only charging an amount that was probably close to the national debt of
a small country. A relative came from San Bernardino to drive us home while the
Buick was repaired. I tried to get my dad to just trade it for a new car, but
he was partial to it for some reason. OK, not too short a story, but that's my
memory.
I recovered from the heat, fatigue and
aroma of cigars and whiskey quickly. My girl's parents were happy to see me
back. Maybe. Don't know a thing about the thermometer you mentioned Jack, but I
can tell you that Baker was and probably still is a Hot Place. Remind me to
stay away from the Mojave Desert.
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BRIAN CLARK writes:
I read with great interest Jamie
Reno's piece on the greatest high school football game ever played between Des
Moines Dowling and Valley High School in Iowa - way back in 1977.
I liked it because Lee Crawford, the
winning coach at Valley, was my high school football in the little burg of
Tipton, Iowa (pop.3,000) during the 1969 and 70 seasons. He was a great coach,
which is why he was hired by a much bigger school system.
We went 7-1-1 my senior year. Not bad,
by any stretch.
But we are remembered (if at all) as
the team that blew our high school's 30-plus game winning streak. All those
teams were coached by Crawford. It started when my older brother was a senior
and his team went 6-3, or something like that. Then, the next two seasons,
Crawford coached the Tipton Tigers to perfect seasons. Alas, it all ended one
cold and blustery night when our quarterback's passes were blown astray by the
wind.
We weren't a big team. In fact, I
played tackle at 175 pounds. This was 40 years ago, but I remember going up
against a real, 260-pound tackle. Fortunately, we stunted a lot and even pulled
tackles on some plays. In reality, we had a center and four guards in the
trenches. Still, the big guy opposing me squashed me a few times.
Anyway, Crawford got the most out of
us. And we would have done most anything for him. He was far and away the best
coach I ever had. Others motivated by fear. He inspired, like the best editors
I've ever worked for.
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DON BAUDER forwards:
David Copley owned Bela Lugosi home:
REBER: My next career? I want to be the person who
(on commission, of course) liquefies all of David Copley's assets.
TIM WILSON forwards:
How
about being able to travel anywhere in the world in under four hours?
Here
is a new jet engine that runs very cool. It’s a real game changer for air and
space travel:
DIANA
MORTENSON forwards:
Departing
Space Station Commander provides tour of Orbital Laboratory.
P.O.
Box 2239
Ramona,
CA 92065
U.S.A.
