AUSTERITY---HERE AND NOW

In a recent blog about my recent trip to France, I referred to the French upset and day of strike protesting the proposed change of retirement age from sixty to sixty-two expounded by the President, Nicholas Sarkozy. I have read several analyses of this French rebellion, and one of the common threads of these articles has been the French refusing to face reality. I think this has been a problem for more than the French; it is certainly prevalent in England and in America.

In England, the new coalition government headed by Prime Minister David Cameron, a Conservative, and Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg, a Social Democrat, has proposed austerity measures for drastic fiscal belt tightening, the worst since the 1920s in the aftermath of World War I. The unions are up in arms and screaming for "civil disobedience” and strikes to protest and force the government to back off.

In the U.S.A. screams have come from both extremes of our basically two-party system, ranging from decrying government waste (so what else is new?) to exhorting for more governmental expenditures to stimulate the economy. Lots of talk and little action.

Let’s face it: the spectre of austerity is an international problem. It is only magnified by the size of the major world economies, such as the U.S.A. China, Japan, Russia, Germany, England, France, India---you name it. Especially in the major powers we thought the expansion and the good times would go on forever. It is as if we were in the middle of a riotous all-night party and, in our drunken craze, thinking at 3:00 a.m. the party would last forever---and then discovering at a bleary 6:00 a.m. that we were wrong.

Yes, folks, “The party’s over, it‘s time to call it a day…”, as the song says. Things are not the same, and I seriously doubt if they ever will be again. We’ve been greedy; we have not looked beyond tomorrow; we have ignored the lessons of the past. I’m not saying things won’t get better someday, but it is going to take a lot of work, a lot of belt tightening, and a lot of long-term planning and the guts to stay with those long-term plans before that day will come. So now it is time to go to work. Let’s stop bickering long enough to recognize that we need to cooperate for our future wellbeing. In the process we might try showing some tolerance toward others as part of this cooperation.

End of sermon. Austerity is here . Let’s recognize that fact. Let’s live with it. Let’s work together to mend and recover. Amen.

THE FRENCH ARE STILL THE FRENCH

My wife and I have just returned from a five-day holiday in France where, for the first time, we traveled by coach (bus). We were picked up in Eastbourne at the civilized hour of 11:05 a.m. Sunday by a “feeder” bus which took us to Hythe in Kent, about an hour and a half east of Eastbourne where we combined with other feeder buses to make up a party of thirty to board our Euro-Cruiser. We thought we might go the easy way through the “chunnel” from Dover to Calais, but instead we went by ferry, an hour and a half ride (as opposed to twenty minutes through the tunnel) to Calais and then faced a four-hour ride in our Euro-Cruiser to our destination of Cabourg in Normandy, so we were a tired bunch of puppies by the time we checked into our room at Le Grand Hotel in Cabourg.

Le Grand Hotel is truly grand, the product of la belle epoque, that era of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries when opulent palaces were the watering places of the rich. Marcel Proust, arguably the best French writer of the twentieth century, used to stay at the Grand in Cabourg with his family and has written many reminiscences of his times in Cabourg. There is even a casino next to the Grand. The beaches are sand but of an almost industrial grade, orangish and gritty, not the most inviting but still popular. We were there after the season, and most of the summer homes are boarded up. A long promenade along the front facing the beach makes for good walks and a vista of the summer mansions with their steep mansard roofs and dormers, often combining stucco and wood beams, similar to Elizabethan houses.

The main shopping street stretches north from a lovely garden and plaza in front of the hotel and has a variety of shops and restaurants where you can purchase, in food and drink, the wonderful cider produced in the area and Calvados, a potent brandy made from apple jack which can knock you on your can, as well as an assortment of cookies, pastries and bread for which Normandy is noted.

The first full day we drove to Mont St. Michel, a two-hour drive south, to see this famous castle built on a steep mount and surrounded by water. At low tide, the water recedes enough for the plethora of buses and cars to drive in park and infest the Mount with visitors. It is magnificent from a distance. Once you start the steep ascent up the cobbled streets, you are in a swarm of tourists and are exposed to an endless row of gift and novelty shops all selling the same tourist items at incredibly high prices. Some of the more avid shoppers in our group claim that every shop had identical prices, so I’m sure a bit of touristic collusion is going on. We found a delightful little inn and had a delicious lunch of les moules avec frites---mussels in shell in a cream sauce accompanied by French fries, all washed down with a delicious rose¢ wine. We were glad to see this picture postcard castle and mountain---but once is enough unless you just love being jostled in mob scenes.

The next day we were on our own in Cabourg and did the shopping/lunch routine. Once again we had mussels, this time in a meuniere sauce with more fries and, this time, bottled water. We had our dinners at the hotel where the food was delicious and creatively served, as the French do so well. The only drawback were the tables and chairs. Some efficiency engineer must have worked long and hard to devise a setting arrangement for thirty with two plus tables jammed together and stuffed almost immovable chairs in which to sit. It was a feat of advanced Yoga and contortion to get a seat, and then moving the chairs was like bench pressing.

The next day we went to Deauville, another exclusive resort town just a few miles from Cobourg. The weather started horribly with teeming rain just after we embarked from the bus. A compatible group of six of us spent forty minutes in a bus stop, trying to shield ourselves with umbrellas. Then we found a small restaurant/bar where we could have a drink and dry off. Fortunately, the weather later cleared and we were able to walk to the center of town where we saw scenic fountains and buildings. Deauville is very upper-class. There were American flags draped all around the main square in honor of an American Film Festival taking place that week. (Deauville is like the Cannes Film Festival of northern France.)

The last day was a wake-up call at 5:30, a quick breakfast, and the long bus ride to Calais where we connected with a noon ferry. Connections were smooth, and the feeder bus deposited us back in Eastbourne by 4:00 p.m.

My rating of coach travel; B-. Our driver was a nice guy, an amusing Yorkshireman, but he was a last-minute substitute for the regular tour driver for this area who was sick, and really didn’t know diddly squat about Normandy. It would have been nice to have had a director with some historical and local knowledge.

How do I rate France? Their politics are miserable and going through major convulsions at the moment. In fact, on the Tuesday they had a “national strike” to protest the new reforms President Sarkozy is trying to implement. The main grievance is raising retirement age from 60 to 62. 60 to 62---can you believe this crap? The poor darlings find it difficult to make such a change and join the rest of the world, which is talking about increasing retirement age everywhere. The people are fine individually. The Normands still fly in the major cities the flags of France, Canada, Great Britan and the U.S.A. in remembrance of D-Day and our liberation. The food makes it all worthwhile---ooh la la.

In other words, the French are still the French. In their own words, le plus qu’il change, le plus le meme: the more things change, the more they are the same!

THE BRITISH ARE COMING!

My Yankee blood got riled up today when I read a column in the Sport Section of The Daily Telegraph today by Oliver Brown. He was pissing all over Paul Casey, the Brit golfer who lives in America, which I think Brown views as a cardinal sin, particularly excoriating him for not playing at Gleneagles in Scotland last week but playing an American tournament. I don't mind him criticizing Paul Casey, but in the process he made some disparaging remarks about American golfers not caring about the Ryder Cup and chasing the almighty dollar.

The British sport columnists are frequently real shits, extremely opinionated and given to hyperbole. Oliver Brown just went one step too far, and my answer is below.

Dear Mr. Brown:

As a visiting American married to a Brit who spends and enjoys his summers in U.K., I must comment on your column of 1 September 2010 in The Daily Telegraph on Paul Casey. I can only say that I find your comments tasteless and mean-spirited, to say the least. You, quite obviously, do not like Casey, which is your privilege as a man and journalist, but I think, to use a favourite British phrase, you were a bit “O.T.T.”

You comment on the overemphasis of corporate involvement on the American tour, and I tend to agree to some degree, except for the fact that the corporations do provide economic security for the tournament promoters and a very good living for many golfers. I notice that many regulars on the European tour are quite willing to play some of these events, and I have also noticed that they have not turned down the money prizes. The true amateur spirit of “play up and play the game” is a virtuous sentiment, but a good number of European and American golfers also earn their livelihoods on the course.

I think Casey would have better served to have played Gleneagles to enhance his Ryder cup selection, but he was also in the running for the Fedex Cup, a Hobson’s choice which had to be painful.

I resent your assumption, which makes for colorful journalism but an unfair generalization, that all American golfers agree with Hunter Mahan and his frank but inaccurate comments regarding the Ryder Cup. A host of American golfers eagerly anticipate the opportunity to play for their country, ranging, yesterday, from Nicklaus, Palmer, Trevino, Watson and Crenshaw to, today, Furyk, Stricker, Crane and Johnson, to name a few. If you could stop dipping your poisonous pen long enough, you might realise that the spirit of clean and pure competition still lives in these mercenary, materialistic, dollar-grubbing Yanks on the right occasion.

Go ahead and take aim with your rifle at Paul Casey, but don’t use a shotgun that scatters ammo pellets on the whole of America golf. It is neither fair nor right.

We haven't fought the British for awhile---maybe it's time again!

I'M STUPID---HOW ABOUT YOU?

I have just read an article in The Daily Telegraph which confirms some suspicions I have sensed in an abstract way without having the data to support these suspicions. A new book, “The Shallows: How the Internet Is Changing the Way We Think and Remember” is being published by Nicholas Carr, who also wrote this article in the newspaper entitled “How the internet is making us stupid”.

His premise is that the fathomless depth of information available today on the internet is confusing and changing the way we think. To quote Mr. Carr: “A growing body of scientific evidence suggests that the net, with its constant distractions and interruptions, is turning us into scattered and superficial thinkers.”

Carr believes that scientific evidence demonstrates that we are losing our ability for deep and long-term thinking because of the short-term emphasis on brief hits of information and stimulation which cause us to lose the ability to focus for longer periods of time.

He cites various scientific tests in support of this premise. For example, at Stanford they gave cognitive tests to a group who used the internet for media multitaskings and to another group who don’t multitask so frequently. They found that the group who do not mulltitask on the net so much did much better on the tests while the multitask performed poorly. At another American University, unnamed, they had half the students at a lecture allowed to browse on their laptops while the other half could not; a subsequent test showed that those without the computers understood the lecture’s content much better than those with the laptops. Another study at U.C.L.A.’s Children’s Digital Media Center showed that studies indicated that the computer tasks like video games increased the speed at which the children could shift their attention to icons and other screen images but also resulted in less rigorous and more “automatic” thinking. Some scientists make the case that this constant barrage of bits of information is changing the neural patterns of our brains and slowing the long-term cognitive functioning of brains.

I find that I really have to force myself to concentrate when , for example, I am reading a book, much more so that in my earlier life. Some of that may be attributed to age, but I suspect that becoming exposed to the barrage of information on the net could also have an effect on my concentration.

So, just be aware. internet user; I know I’m dumber---maybe you are, too!

DON'T TREAD ON MY MEMORIES

I have come to the realization, particularly in my elder years, that many of the ideals by which I have lived are outmoded or obsolete by contemporary standards of the young. History, for example, the study of the past which has so often been useful in furnishing guiding lights for the future, is neglected. “The past is a bucket of ashes ,” wryly noted the poet T.S. Eliot. How many of the young today know more than the barest of bones about their own country? You would be astounded by the number of people in America who don’t know where Canada or Mexico is located, or able to name cities in those neighboring countries, not to mention have any knowledge of their histories.

In terms of history, World War II is one of my most vivid memories, not because I participated in it---I just missed it--, but because my late childhood and teen-age years ensued during the period from 1939 to 1945. The memories are etched deeply because my two older brothers were involved in that hellish conflagration, the middle brother killed in the Phillippines and the eldest shot down but, fortunately surviving and returning home. When you have those traumas as part of your life, you never forget the significance of the events of that war. I can still name the major areas of conflict and battles within those theatres of war; I can remember many of the paramount generals and admirals of the war; I can remember most of the planes, Allied and Fascist by their designation: I.e,., P-51 Mustang, B-26 Liberator (my brother was Navigator in one), P-38 Lightning, P-47 Thunderbolt, B-17 Flying Fortress, Messerschmitt 109, Focke -Wulf Spitfire, Hurricane, Zero, et. al. My British wife has her memories of being evacuated from a London suburb and living for some months in the country away from the bombings and from her mother, her father being away serving in the R.A.F.

With a trove of memories from this great conflict, which preserved and in many ways shaped this world of today, I am deeply saddened---and angered---by the ignorance of many, old and young, who simply don’t know or care about it. And I am infuriated when I read about those who desecrate those memories. In England recently, a young woman, flanked by lines of former servicemen, outside the Magistrates’ Court in Blackpool, raced down the line and urinated and performed sexual act at the town’s centotaph. Two other cases of pissing on memorials have occurred here, as well as a Muslim spraying graffiti in glorifying Osama Bin Laden on another memorial. I am confident similar offenses have occurred in the U.S.A. I realize many are disillusioned and expressing anti-war sentiments, but it is foul and, yes, evil to sully the honored dead. Protest a war, fine; dishonor memories, hell no.

It would never occur to those protesters that their right to protest is in good part due to those honored dead who fought and died to preserve the freedoms we have today.

I am ashamed of their insensitivity and ignorance. Part of their punishment should be an enforced study of history, particularly the two great wars of the twentieth century. Then they should scrub the monuments, memorials and cenotaphs on a weekly basis for some weeks.

These memories are too precious to be ill-treated.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE HEROES GONE?

One of the great pleasures I enjoy is reading the obituary page of The Daily Telegraph (or any of the major British newspapers) where this type of writing is an art. The only close competitor in the U.S.A. would be The New York Times. These obit columns deal with important personages and are international in scope, not simply British. They are always well written, filled with anecdotal information as well as biographical and career details.

Frequently, they are of World War II heroes who, as you are well aware, are dying off rapidly. Tom Brokaw in his wonderful book about WWII “The Greatest Generation”, extolled this generation who saved our democracies. The British obit writers appreciate them just as much.

A special one struck my fancy yesterday in reading of the death of Billy Millin, an 88 year-old Scot, who was piper for Lord Lovat and his regiment and, at the D-Day landings, from the moment he emerged into the icy water from the landing barges playing his pipes, while the soldier directly behind him was killed as he came out of the barge, Billy waded ashore and continued marching back and forth along the beach while his Scottish comrades were landing, inspiring them with Scottish melodies. One Tommy ran up to him and exclaimed, “Yer a crazy bastard, ye are!” Billy Millin then followed his regiment into France and , while they were enduring fierce German resistance in the hedge rows of Normandy, Billy continued to march down the roads playing his inspirational songs. Soldiers were falling all around him, but he was unscathed, except for one bullet which slightly damaged his bagpipe, which was still operable. They later captured German prisoners, and one of them told him that the only reason he wasn’t shot was because they figured he was mad. Billy was depicted in the war film, “The Longest Day”, where his piping at the landing was shown.

As part of the international flavor of these obits, there was a beauty today for Bobby Thomson, Scottish-born, the creator of “the shot heard ‘round the world”, the famous home run when the New York Giants beat the Brooklyn Dodgers in a playoff game, after coming bsck from a 13 ½ game deficit in August to pull off “the miracle at Coogan”s Bluff “ (the Polo Grounds, home of the Giants). In the obit, they told that Glasgow-born Thomson and his family moved to America for greater opportunity. Bobby came out of Curtis High Scool in New York and was signed by the Giants for the handsome bonus, in those days, of $100.00! He was a bombardier in the Army Air corps during the war and did not start his career in baseball until 1946.

Yes, the old heroes are going fast. But is fun remembering them through these wonderful write-ups.

SEEN FROM HERE

It is interesting to view America from another perspective, as I can do in England.

The honeymoon for President Obama, as in the U.S.A., is over here, and he is getting his share of questioning and criticism from the journalist pundits here. His handling of the B.P. mess was particularly exacerbated, as I said in a previous blog, by his constant reference to B.P. as British Petroleum, which was a bit too personal as far as the average Brit was concerned who took it as an anti-British stance.

Several commentators have also criticized his handling of Iraq and Afghanistan, particularly feeling that he is rushing out too precipitously to bolster his ratings in the polls and the upcoming mid-term elections. Anti-war sentiment is strong here, as well, but the concern is that we should not set dates to leave and stay as a presence to assure, in the case of Iraq, that a stable government is in place and, as for Afghanistan, to render some kind of order out of chaos so that the many factions can at least talk to each other. They don’t see any kind of real victory there---and I have to agree with them on that.

Disagreement also rears its head in the handling of the economy. The Brits, under the new Conservative administration, are really going in for retrenching and tightening the belt, slashing programs, reducing budgets, cutting personnel and the like to reduce the deficit and get expenses under control. They are against priming the pump through governmental expenditures, as the emphasis has been in the U.S.A. But they also contradict themselves by talking about “QE”---not Queen Elizabeth---but Quantitative Easing so that money can be pumped into the economy. One paper referred to the recent moves of the Federal Reserve’s plan to buy long-term Treasuries to keep the economy moving as “QE-lite”. I think they are as confused as we are on how to stimulate the economy. No wonder Thomas Carlyle once referred to Economics as “the dismal science”.

Prices are high here, although they seem better to Americans here because of the strength of the dollar. Only a couple of years ago the British pound was $2.00. Now it’s $1.55 to the pound. Most food items are higher, with the exception of bread, milk and eggs. Clothing costs are high, which is why most Brits head for the mall outlets when they come to America to stock up on clothes. Their beef doesn’t compare to ours, except for the most expensive Angus beef . Their hamburgers are minced and horrible. But their bacon and sausage (called bangers) are fabulous. And I love their beer, particularly the brown ale called “bitters”. John Cleese of Monty Python fame used to refer to American beer as “half-frozen bat piss”, but he probably hadn’t seen some of the great beers coming out of some of our micro-breweries.

I love it here. By September, though, I’m ready to come home.