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On Board the Hiye Maru |
| The European Rotary Trip of 1936, letters and notes |
| February 2, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce:  Dick
joins me in wishing to thank you for your kind thought of us as we
started on this great adventure. Your candy – Pardon me. I am still
groggy from those thank you letters.It is the last day on board; and this morning, land happily met our gaze. We can also see junks and sampans in the distance. Snow rests on the higher land, for it is a clear day, and we can see for quite a distance. We reach Yokohama tomorrow morning early. Now we are steaming down the eastern coast of Japan. Shun will be there to meet us; so everything will be fine. There is so much to tell that I hardly know where and how to start. Dick will probably give you a better idea of it all. When we arrived on board we were given first-class accommodations as we have already told you; and since, we have had the run of nearly all the first-class facilities. During the first part of the trip we practically lived in the first-class lounge. It is a most gaudy, poorly decorated room, the worst I have ever seen, but it served as a place of warmth. I did a bit of piano, once in a while, as did Dick. One day we were ut out of there; so we moved into the smoking lounge, in which I am now writing. It has all worked out very well. Every morning we open your present, Mother, and we surely do appreciate them. As for our candy, we left some with the McLeans and have eaten but one box of Edy’s. The remaining three boxes have not been touched, but we plan to use them. By the way, in the “Asia” magazine you wrapped up for us in an article about “jade” by Julean Arnold. It is excellent, and we were surprised and happy to find it. I don’t know whether you knew it was there or not. Dick and I have been gradually realizing what we are going to miss about the most, and that is our food. The food aboard ship is good, but different. The Oriental sauces and seasonings are a radical change from what we are used to, and the lack of green vegetables is not so good; but I am sure we’ll pull together. Probably the most interesting phase of ship life is people. Dick and I are two of eight white people on board, the remaining being Japanese, even the officers and crew. The Japanese are very sociable, and we enjoy talking and doing things with them. The Captain is a keen guy. He has five sons in Tokyo, two studying to be doctors in the Imperial University. He has shown us lots of cards and match tricks. He has played bridge with us, and we have a fine time playing deck golf with him. Each officer is a character in himself, but time and paper do not permit me to go into detail. The one first-class passenger is a dealer in Oriental antiques for large stores in the East, some transactions running into thousands of dollars. It must be an extremely profitable business because of the high percent of profit. The only second-class Japanese passenger is a Mr. Higo, who is on his way from Quebec on a government mission for the Province. He has helped me considerably in learning a few words in Japanese. Two of the select eight on board are missionaries on their way to a post outside of Canton, China. They seem happy in their anticipation of their work ahead, but keep very much to themselves. Another is a Philadelphia girl who is on her way to Lingnan University as an exchange student. She has plenty of nerve and is a good sport. We like her considerably. The fourth white person is a nurse who seems to have had wonderful training. She says she got tired of the Vancouver life; so she took a job as a nurse in a missionary hospital in Sendai, a town in North Japan. She spends the first two years learning the language and is there about five years. She will surely be successful. Another passenger is a Tokyo business woman. We all like her very much. She has told us much of Tokyo and of the people. We all have a lot of fun together. I have saved the only other white passenger until the last because I like her most and think she is most interesting. In the first place, she is English, which is very prominently displayed in her name, Mrs. Barrington Foote. From the first, she has been my dietician and has done fine. She is a soldier’s widow and has traveled most of her life, although this is her first trip to the Orient, and the last, sh says. Mrs. Foote is bound for Capetown, Africa, where she plans to spend quite a bit of time. Her explanation is that Capetown is the winter resort for the British society. Her life has been one of extreme sorrow, having lost her husband, brothers, and other relatives in different ways. She is also an expert bridge player, having taught bridge during the war to disabled soldiers. She is, by the way, the last of the Barrington Footes, a most prominent name in England. We expect to visit her in Kobe, where she must wait for her boat to Capetown; so I will tell more of her later. During the first voyage we used the deck chairs quite a bit, reading, and watching the deck games; but lately it has just been too cold. Dick (I believe there is a page missing here) put before us, and into a dish of cabbage and sauce we dipped our fish. Rice, “Ebi”-prawn, “kiss,” and “Ika,” a kind of eight-handed fish, were some of the assortment laid before us. When time was called, I had difficulty in rising, I was so full. Back to the dining room, where fruit satisfied our remaining desires. After dinner, we participated in a variety of Japanese games and tricks. I played the piano while the younger son of Baron Togo played the trumpet. It went off pretty well. Dick and I dance with the Baroness and her daughter, both excellent dancers. About ten-thirty, Shun called us, and we prepared to leave. We thanked our hosts over and over again for a lovely evening in their beautiful home with the realization that we were extremely fortunate in having the privilege to enter a Japanese home. As we rode home with Shun, we spoke of our appreciation, and to this he added “and only Rotary can do it.” We were very much impressed. We said goodnight to Shun and rode home past the Imperial Palace grounds, which stood out in relief in the moonlight. This morning we are pressed for time; so I must close. Dick and I are in the best of health and are really having the time of our young lives. We will tell more when time permits. With best of love, Ted -------- N.Y.K. Line One Board M.S. Hiye Maru February 3, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: I am writing this letter in the cozy smoking room of our ocean caravan. It is 2 p.m. Outside the sun is shining brightly, reflecting its brilliant rays off the water so that we have to squint. This is the nicest day we have had since leaving Seattle. A long, low line of perpendicular cliffs can be seen in the distance off our starboard side. Our first glimpse of Japan came this morning when Mt. Kinka-san loomed up through the haze. Since then we have passed a number of fishing boats, our first glimpse of Japanese life. I was going to write this letter in -day-by-day form, referring to my diary. Ted is sitting across the room writing his general impressions of nothing in particular. January 21 The McLeans were wonderful to us. We were feeling pretty lonely on arriving in Seattle, but they took us right in and made us feel at home. We had a luscious hamburger and some new-fangled ice-cream at Broom’s. Outside, a man was tramping up and down with a sign saying “Unfair to Organized Labor.” The shop had already been bombed once. Mr. McLean then showed us around the city, the lakes, and University of Washington gymnasium. (You could put four of Stanford’s in it and two of California’s.) At 2 p.m. we got all of our things ready and drove down to the boat – Mr. and Mrs. and Harriet. We couldn’t see anybody but Japanese. We looked in vain for some white passengers, but there seemed to be done. On going to our cabin, we found it to be roomy, with three beds. We couldn’t imagine such a room for “tourists.” Ted and I then had our picture taken by Mr. Pease of N.Y.K. office, on top deck. Be sure to get a print of this photograph. I told him to send you one through McLean. I suppose you received our newspaper picture. Please write for a print of that too. Mr. McLean can get it. At 4 o’clock the boat backed out. There was much color as serpentine was hurled back and forth, and crying of Japanese who were leaving home to go a long way. The weather was very cold, and we watched a glorious sunset as we glided through the channel. The food is good, and everything is spick and span. Spent the evening reading. January 22 We slept like logs and were awakened by room boy for breakfast. After writing letters to you, we took a taxi into Vancouver (not being able to find any other means of transportation). There we visited the two big stores, Hudson Bay Co. and David Spencer’s. We saw beautiful skis at ridiculously low prices, and we wished we could bring them along. Ted bought some cough drops, and we returned to the boat by street car. At 12:30 p.m., our ship moved slowly from the dock. Once more the cries of Japanese filled the air, and serpentine streamed back and forth. Passing out the channel once more, we could see the heavily wooded sides of mountains covered with snow. Our last glimpse of land came at 4 p.m. as a heavy fog settled down and the ship began to roll in the open sea. A hearty dinner, fifty pages of January 23 The ship here began its pitching, which continues all the way. Our first pangs of nausea are felt, but are cleared up by some brisk walks around “A” deck – eleven times – one mile. We are pleased to find that our cabins are really first-class cabins, and we also have the run of the sip. This is because there is only one “first-class” passenger, a Mr. Magagown from Boston. However, we eat in “tourist” dining room. Opened our first packages this morning. We sure do look forward to every new day and new surprise. Dorothy Shields evidently went to a lot of trouble, too, to fix her package. After breakfast, met other eight “tourists,” Mr. and Mrs. Krug, a missionary and his wife going to a mission near Canton., They are missionaries of the “old school” – don’t believe in movies and other such pleasures. Miss Caroline Furst, a girl from Philadelphia, nineteen years old, is going as an exchange student to Lingnan University in Canton where Bill Lang is studying. She is full of pep, lot of nerve, and is engaged to a minister. He has a job on his hands. Miss Bradbury is a Canadian nurse who is going to Senelile in Japan to nurse for five years. She is less than five feet tall and in a profession which takes strength. Miss Gibson is a Tokyo business woman who has visited in Vancouver. She is an awfully good sport and has a room across from us. Mrs. Barrington Foote is a charming English widow who is traveling to Cape Town and is writing a book. She has had a very fully life – losing most of her family in accidents. She is very entertaining and loves to talk. She is a wonderful bridge player. Managed to awaken a spark in me for the game. She has given us some fine bridge lessons, and we have played quite a bit. Your little book, Mother, helped a good deal. Mr. Higo, a Canadian Japanese from Quebec, is a swell guy. He is thoroughly Americanized and has been a fine, cheerful, and thoughtful traveling companion. We all like him, and he has given us a fair Japanese vocabulary. Altogether we have a fine group of passengers and have had many enjoyable hours. The ship is dipping a great deal. The sun is shining, and the air is really cold. Ted and I play ping pong and were taught deck golf by Captain, after which we were thoroughly beaten by him and Mr. Nagagawa. In deck golf, you push flat, round blocks into holes marked by chalk. By hitting each other we get extra turns, etc. It is a little too difficult to explain here. We rented deck chairs (one dollar) and spent most of time in them – trying to keep warm. January 24 Ted was not feeling so “hot” this day. Ship rolling and pitching quite a bit. Because this is a comparatively small boat, it pitches even in quiet weather. The Captain says a depression is just ahead (a storm to you). All the port holes are battened down with metal plates, and forward windows covered. The sea is really getting rough; a strong wind is whistling through rigging. It is now hard for us to keep our balance. Waves are coming over the lower deck, and we are in for it. We managed to catch a few winks of sleep as we rolled back and forth across our bed. We hope this doesn’t keep up. January 25 Boy, what a night! More like a log-rolling contest. Everything fell all over the floor. After breakfast and a “hot” salty water bath, Ted and I played some intensive ping pong. We ought to be champs by the time we get to Japan. “Spot,” a Japanese boy from Seattle, played with us also. After lunch we played some more deck golf with Captain and Carol. The Japanese officers are a bunch of “regular fellows,” especially the Captain and 1st officer. They’re both deck-golf whips. The Captain spends lots of his time catching us on his card tricks. He is a great big bluffer. He bluffs his way out of our tricks, and if we guess his, he acts as though he doesn’t understand. Started dealing out our Edy’s candy at dinner and cinema with Jack Holt, after dinner. January 26 - Sunday. We awakened about five-thirty with the rolling of the sip. Managed to get along a little in my reading before the Captain snared us for some golf. Mr. Nagagawa and I almost took him and the Chief Engineer. At 7:45 p.m. a church service was conducted by Mr. Krug. The singing went along fine until Mrs. Foote came in on the high notes. It was all we could do to contain ourselves. I don’t know whether I can live through another service. Mr. Krug got some good practice, talking to us as if we were heathens and he was trying to save our souls. January 27 Each day we turn our watches back about forty minutes. I don’t need to turn mine back; it seems to adjust itself – “My Pal.” We are getting closer and closer to the Aleutian Islands, and the air is getting colder and colder. Light flakes of fluffy snow were falling when we came out on deck. The sea is very calm, but the ship still rolls. Sunshine warmed things up a big. We made 400 miles yesterday, the most yet. I read the “Leica Manual,” and we had our passports O.K.’d by purser at tea at 3 p.m. Our position went up several notches in N.Y.K. society when we presented our gold seals to our eating companions. After dinner we watched some movie comedies in the 3rd class dining room. It was chuck full of tiny Japanese. January 28 – The roughest day yet. Ted is having his menu supervised by Mrs. Foote, a seasoned sailor. Snow fell again this morning. We opened our packages and letters about five o’clock when we awakened. Note: I continued to awaken at this time, or a little later, the rest of the trip. A heavy tail wind whips the spray into whitecaps as far as we can see. During the evening, some large swells came over the “A” deck, laying it awash in about two feet of water. No harm done. About 1 p.m. we crossed the International Date Line – 180 degrees meridian. We will pick up a day here, skipping tomorrow. coming back, you lose a day. Spent most of our meal times chasing dishes around the table. More fun! After dinner we played bridge – Ted, Carol, and Miss Gibson. Mrs. Foote helped me, and we managed to win. While lying in bed, we can hear the water as it comes over the side of the deck above us. January 30 By padding ourselves with pillows, we managed to keep from rolling in our beds. The weather is colder than ever, and terrific, icy wind blows across the decks, blowing spray with it. We studied Ely’s bridge lesson and Japanese vocabulary. Took a nap in the lounge. After dinner, I made my first major attack on bridge, won one rubber and am getting the hang of it. Some hilarious movies followed, and then to bed for another night’s roll. Ted and I just took time out to take pictures of the passengers and to go up on the bridge where we were shown how everything works, by the 3rd officer, an awfully pleasant young fellow who tries so hard to be nice. He taught us how to use the sextant, and we used his glasses to see objects on the sore six miles away. We then came down and watched our most beautiful sunset yet. The sun was a ball of red fire, giving a red hue to the sky and silvery borders to the few clouds on the horizon. As soon as we came back into the smoking room again, the Captain speared us with some more card tricks. We’ve figured all his out so far. He is a great guy – jovial and chubby. January 31 Colder than ever. Awakened about 5 a.m. and opened our packages. We tired to play deck golf, but we got “cold feet” – no fooling. Mrs. Foote then gave us another bridge lesson. The sukiyaki dinner was called off for this evening because the ship is rolling so badly, and the dishes would not stay on the Japanese tables. Sukiyaki is a famous Japanese dish that all travelers have. It is made of everything. We will have to wait until Tokyo now to get some. A light snowfall deposited snow on all the decks. Ted and I made snowmen and had a miniature snow fight. The snow is just like cotton, but slightly colder. We padded ourselves in bed for another night of rolls. February 1 Extremely cold all day as usual. Spent the entire day inside. Snow covered the decks again this morning. Icicles hung from the rails and rigging. I learned the last two parts of Dad’s address to the Oakland Club for my talk. I am going to let the rest take care of itself. Ted has his “Charge” well in hand. We read an article on jade in “Asia,” written by Julian Arnold. This will provide something for us to discuss with him, and maybe he can show us the native shops he speaks of. About 5 p.m. the boy came into the room saying that he had a telegram for me. I almost had kittens for fear of hearing bad news from home, but it was just the opposite – a telegram from Shun saying: “Welcome, see you on board.” We were sure happy to hear such good news and can hardly wait to see what is in store for us in Japan. February 2 We awakened at 5:30 a.m. as usual. Instead of lying in bed though, we dressed and went outside to watch the sunrise and perhaps take a picture. To our disappointment though a coming storm cut the sun from view, and we shivered in the cold. We wrote all our letters this a.m. and p.m., about sixteen total, playing intensive games of double solitaire with Carol for relaxation. Managed to solve Captain’s hardest trick about 6 p.m. It is a dinger. The Captain said we would see land tomorrow. The sea is quite a bit calmer now. Our 7:45 church service was carried through in fine style. Mrs. Foote was absent, making things quite a bit easier for us, having only to contend with Mrs. Krug’s noise (I couldn’t say voice). We are becoming more excited as Nippon comes closer. February 3 Land at last, after twelve days on the anything but pacific Pacific. Ted and I are real “salts” now after weathering everything with flying colors. Our first view is of Mt. Kinka-san, blue and majestic in the distance. All day we have traveled along the sores of Japan and will arrive in quarantine at Yokohama harbor tomorrow at 7 a.m. I’ll bet your Hot Springs trip was a fine rest for you. Bruce probably put on some more pounds. Ted and I can hardly wait to hear how everything is going – how Bruce’s team came out against the B’s and how Stanford is doing. Before sending a letter to the American Express office in a city, be sure that one is located there. There is none in Tokyo, but there is one in Yokohama. our trip has been wonderful from beginning to end. Everything about this ship is spick and span, and the service is A1 – these Japanese boys do their work well. Ted and I are awfully lucky boys, and we know it. Jumbled Thoughts We will write every day, and I know we will have an awful lot to tell. Bruce, take good care of Mother and Dad until we get home. I don’t think it is necessary to type these letters from the ship. Please just keep them for reference. Our “Great Adventure” really starts tomorrow, and we will go into detail from now on so that the letters will be interesting to others. The water is so calm now that we barely know we’re moving. We should sleep well. This letter will have to do until tomorrow. Keep the home fires burning. Your loving son, Dick Excerpt from Weekly Bulletin, dated February 9, 1936, of The Tokyo Rotary Club Wednesday Meeting, February 5, 1936 President Oshima then said, “We have with us most welcome guests from Oakland, California in the persons of two young men, sons of Past-Governor Lyon.” He asked Mizushima to introduce them to the club. Thereupon Mizushima rose and said he had no sons, so two handsome sons were sent to him by Rotarian Lyon of Oakland. They are students of Stanford University and quite good athletes. They are as you all see quite tall, 6 ft. 4 inches in height, and they have now started on a tour round the world. Their father thought it would do them more good to travel round the world than to stay in the University; so they started out on the S.S. Hiye Maru of N.Y.K. Line. President Oshima rose to say that Lyon was so thoughtful to have entrusted his two sons in the hands of the N.Y.K. Steamship Line, and he sincerely hoped that our fellow-member Nagashima, who is the Manager of the Passenger Department of N.Y.K., would do his best to take good care of these two young passengers round the world. As our well-known proverb says, “Let the dearest child take a trip,” they will surely widen their knowledge, and finding true friends wherever they go gain a deeper knowledge of “The Brotherhood of Man.” “Your father, dear young men, has put you on the right track to pursuing true education, and I sincerely hope that you will take good care of your health and enjoy the trip.” You Lyon then rose, and thanking the President for his kind advice, said they feel so happy to reach Japan and to be able to see such a beautiful snow scene. They have been so hospitably welcomed by the Rotary Club of Tokyo, and they will never forget the kindness shown to them by everybody here and especially by Mr. Mizushima for taking them under his tender wings. His father has been an ardent Rotarian for many years and they heard of his meeting Mr. Mizushima in Oakland and Mr. Yoneyama in Dallas, and now they are so glad to meet these gentlemen in person here in Tokyo, and to realize true international friendship in Rotary. February 6, 1936 R. F. Moss 506 Sanshin Building Hibiya, Tokyo Dear Mr. Lyon: At the Tokyo Rotary Club, of which I am a member, I had the pleasure, yesterday, of meeting your two boys. The Club gave them quite a cordial reception and Mizushima introduced them with complimentary remarks both about them and you, after which Richard got up and made as graceful and appropriate a little speech of acknowledgment as I have ever heard from a lad of his years. They are attractive boys of whom you may well be proud as you no doubt are. Our secretary will, no doubt, acknowledge their visit, but I am writing separately because I know you will be glad to have my impressions and because I hope, some day, some Rotarian may see fit to write me a similar letter about my two boys, now in high school, one of whom is also named Richard. Sincerely yours, (Signed) R. F. Moss Mr. Harvey B. Lyon, Oakland Rotary Club, Oakland, California. N.Y.K. Line Nippon Yusen Kaisha Head Office Yusen Building, Tokyo February 6, 1936 Mr. Harvey B. Lyon Lyon Storage & Moving Co. Oakland, California, U.S.A. Dear Sir, Not only as a fellow Rotarian, but also as one in charge of the Passenger Department of the N.Y.K. Line, I am pleased to advise you of the safe arrival here of your sons, Richard and Harvey, by the “Hiye Maru” on the 3rd February. Shun Midzushima, to whom you had written of their coming, met the boys on their arrival at the quarantine anchorage, and has since been looking after them. Yesterday, they were present at the meeting of the Tokyo Rotary Club, and Richard delivered a very fine address in response to a welcome message given by the President. I am sure they will have a very interesting time here. Shun showed me your letter to him. I do not know what caused you to choose our ships for your sons’ trip both trans-Pacific and via Suez. Whatever the reason, I am more than pleased to know of the fact that the N.Y.K. Line enjoys so much of your confidence as to have your dear sons placed under its care for their first long sea-voyage. You may rest assured that you have made no mistake in our choice. The boys told me that they had a very pleasant voyage on the “Hiye Maru.” I am sure that they will enjoy an equally, if not more, pleasant and instructive voyage on the “Hakone Maru” and “Suwa Maru.” I have had special instructions issued to the commanders of these ships and branch offices en route that your boys be well taken care of, and be given every possible facility to make their tour interesting. I may have a further opportunity of writing you of the boy’s tour. Meanwhile, I remain, Yours sincerely, Nippon Yusen Kaisha, Passenger Dept. (Signed) Y. Nagashima, Manager Tokyo, February 6, 1936 Dear Mother, Dad, and Bruce: Since our arrival in Tokyo day before yesterday, Dick and I have been going steadily, and this morning we have a slight breathing spell. Mr. Midzushima has been watching out for us wonderfully. This morning a clear blue sky is overhead, and below us as I look out of the window are the snow covered roofs of the Japanese stores and houses. Snow is still on the streets, and the taxis and cyclers have a difficult time making their way about this huge city. It is my duty to tell you of the eventful yesterday. After taking pictures of the lovely, white snow effects, Dick and I left the “Y” and started out to see some of the city. Down one side street we watched Japanese children making their way over the slippery show to their school. It was a cheerful sight. Shops along the street of many different kinds and sizes are selling merchandise and food of every kind. Coolies and shop owners alike were attempting to clear the snow from the sidewalks. On Ghinza Street, one of the main business centers, we entered a department store and made some small purchases. Then to the Union Club to meet Mr. Midzushima, but as I crossed the street, we passed over an exceptionally slippery area. For the first time in my life, my feet flew out from under me like a shot from a gun, and I was on my back. In my embarrassment I arose and nonchalantly brushed myself off. Cyclers were witnessing experiences like mine frequently as they rode along. At the Union Club, we were introduced to the Secretary of the Travel Bureau of Japan, and then took a taxi for the Rotary club. In the fine, big building where the meeting was held, we ascended to the second floor and entered the lobby where the men were grouped around, talking. Our first acquaintance was M. Kitishima (“Kitty”), who told us about his schooling in Oakland and acquaintance with you, Dad. We then met the leading business men of Japan – Mr. Fukushima of the Mitsui Company, with whom we have lunch today; President of the Club, Mr. Oshima; Mr. Yonoyama, Past Governor and founder of the Club; Mr. Seki, Baron Togo, and others. Every member is the leader in his craft, and they had a very sociable luncheon. Dick spoke a few words for both of us and was complimented by many afterwards. They all seem to take quite an interest in us. They complimented Dad many times in connection with his interest in Rotary. After the meeting, Mr. Yagi, whom we met at the Union Club, escorted us by means of the subway to the Rotary Department Store. This store is truly the most beautiful Dick or I have ever seen, all in modern modeling. A few small purchases, and then to the Rotary photography store. Dick and I were surprised at the excellent equipment on hand in the store. We inquired about the Leica camera and bought a tripod, filter, and cable release for our Kodak. We think we will wait until we get to Germany to buy our camera, because of the high tariff. It was getting late; so we taxied to the Imperial Hotel, where we inquired about friends from the Hiye Maru, and inquired about shirts and pajamas in the Arcade. Mr. Yagi then introduced us to a Chinese tailor, from whom we plan to get suits. We went to his shop, a very small building a little way from the Hotel. Not having decided on a material, we were pressed for time and promised to return the following day. To the Union Club we hurried and arrived there about six o’clock. A taxi was called, and with Shun we drove through the city to the home of Baron and Baroness Togo in the old quarter of the city. The adjoining street was exceedingly narrow, not having been built for automobiles but for jinrikishas. The garden was snow laden and beautiful. We swung to the front door, alighted, and entered the warmth of the home of the host. Removing our shoes for the more comfortable slippers, we entered the living room and there met Rotarian guests, some of whom we had made acquaintance with earlier that day. Everything was very informal, and the home, although not of true Japanese style, was beautifully decorated with old Japanese pictures and pottery. Dinner was served, and we stepped merrily into the ultras-modern dining room. This room had been planned by the Baron’s brother who had studied architecture in Cornell University. We were seated around a long, linen covered table, and before us was a wooden box with chopsticks wrapped in paper, lying on its top. The box contained the deliciously arranged hors d’oeuvre of many assortments. This hors d’oeuvre was made up of vegetables and fish of unique Japanese names. They called one elephant ears; another, some kind of devil fish; prawn of salmon; black sweet beams; cucumber; fish sausage; and a variety of Japanese cabbage. The use of chopsticks came to me quickly as I watched the proper technique. Everything was tasty. Beer and hot saki were served with that first course. I noticed that the guests across the table would get up in alternate groups and leave the table. My curiosity was satisfied when my neighbor, Mr. Seki, announced that it was our turn to eat tempura. Into a small alcove we stepped, and there before us was a table, and behind it a big pot with a hot liquid within it. A Japanese servant was cooking our food in this boiling liquid, and we sat down with anticipation. The fish of different variety was [Something seems to be missing here] Tokyo, February 8, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: Although Dick and I have been in Tokyo but four days, we love it and its people, and are having truly the time of our lives. Whenever we do something in the real Japanese style, Dick and I remark to each other, “Boy, would Mom and Dad eat this up!” We are truly seeing Japan in a wonderful way. And it is only because of Dad’s Rotary that it has been made possible. Yesterday was a very eventful one. After a good haircut and breakfast here in the Y.M.C.A., we took a taxi to the big Tokyo station where the Tourist Bureau is situated. With Mr. Yagi, our good friend, we started out through the snow covered streets to the Mejii Shrine. A beautiful, large, untarnished torii marked the entrance; and we walked through the snow covered gardens with anticipation. In front of the shrine we purified ourselves by washing our mouths and cleansing our hands and face in a sacred well. All was quiet as we walked under the hand carved gateway and into the sacred square enclosure of the shrine. Straight ahead was the offering temple. The doors and outside woodwork were marred by smell indentations made by thrown coins during a certain festival of the year. As we stood looking into the beautiful piece of workmanship, Japanese worshipers would step up beside us, throw a few sen into the temple and clap their hands two or three times as they bowed. All too soon we had to leave, but a definite feeling of respect for the Japanese people and their beliefs was instilled in us. Everywhere the snow was lovely. We merely drove past the Unknown Soldier’s Monument Temple, but we could see at a glance that it was indeed a fitting tribute to the country’s dead. As we entered the Mejii Art Gallery, we did not realize that we were in for a wonderful treat. I shall not attempt to describe that beautiful work of architecture and art, but I will say that in that building is the most beautiful collection of art that I have ever seen. Our next destination was Asakusa-Ku, a district which compares favorably with Coney Island, and in which is the Temple of Kwannon, Goddess of Mercy. It would take pages and pages to justly describe that work of art; so I shall not try. Along the streets of Asakusa were small shops in which one could spend days examining curios and souvenirs. And it was a happy sight. Everyone seemed contented with their lot. Back to the business center we came, back to modern civilization after a brief audience with the ancient. Down the main street, Ghinza by name, we walked to see the sights. Dick and I never seem to tire of this experience although we have done it quite a few times. In every window is something to catch the eye. Into an eating place we went and enjoyed a real dinner for an extremely reasonable expense. A little purchasing ensued, but do not be alarmed; everything is so very reasonable, one cannot help himself. Back to our Tokyo home, the “Y,” we hurried in order not to be late for a six o’clock engagement. In a short time, we were speeding to the home of Baron and Baroness Togo, where after being received graciously by the Baroness and her young daughter, we sat down to a dinner of sukiyaki (pronounced skiaki in rapid style). Sukiyaki, as you know, is a combination, a variety of everything. Prepared in a Japanese home, I believe this meal has a much finer quality and deliciousness. After dinner we were escorted to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe, where we enjoyed a very lovely home party, dancing with the Japanese girls and young ladies, who, by the way, are very excellent dancers, all of them. Lovely food finished off the evening entertainment with gusto, and we were two very tired young men as we said goodnight in Japanese style. But we were not finished yet. Baroness Togo had invited us to spend the night in her home, sleeping in real Japanese style. We were overjoyed at the prospect. We were ushered upstairs to our room, which was a section of a large room set off by curtains to one side. On the floor were beds, but beneath our bedclothes were three thin quilts which insured a good night’s sleep. On top of the spotless white sheets were two huge silk covered quilts under which we slid in our Japanese double kimonos. The full, straw-padded pillow was comfortable enough, and we quickly drifted into slumber without a sound. It is snowing now, and we are preparing to leave for Nikko. Much is in store for us, they tell us; so we are naturally a bit excited. Dick and I will write every two days from now on. We find that system is best. More and more every day we wish we could stay longer, but since it is not possible, we are hoping that we may return again to see more of Japan and its loveliness. Dick joins me in sending as much love as a tongue can tell. Love, Ted Tokyo, February 9, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: Yesterday at Nikko, we spent a most glorious morning visiting the religious monuments of Shintoism and Buddhism. The effect of the snow combined with the colorful shrines and temples was one of breathtaking beauty. We left the hotel early, down the winding hotel road and across the bridge that spans the Daiya River. Our introduction to oriental art was the red lacquered bridge, “God Bridge,” which is about fifty yards above the one we crossed. The river was framed under it, and beyond towered bright snow covered mountains. But on to the temples we went. As we bought our tickets, a native Japanese who spoke fairly good English offered his services for a small price. But we had our little guide book and were confident that nothing would be missed. But as we approached the Hall of Three Buddhas, a feeling of awe and helplessness came over us. And to our surprise, who was patiently following us but the forsaken guide. We quickly hired him and started into the first and largest building in Nikko, Sambutsu-do. We must remove our shoes for a heavy sock which the guide produces from a brown cloth he carries. Directly in front of us as we enter is the priests’ shrine, the place of prayer and offering. To one side is a colossal drum which we learn is used only for ceremonials. Around the other side is the guardian of this holy place, the “God of Fire.” Every temple has a guardian in the form of some holy statute of a god or other being. And in the middle behind a bamboo screen are the three Buddhas sitting on huge gold lacquered lotus flowers. One is the Prince of Buddhas, and another is the many handed God of Goodness. In each hand he holds a different object symbolizing his protection of the people. Every little detail of those thirty foot high figures is done by hand, and with this knowledge, one has a feeling of deepest respect for the workman of many years ago. As we pass out of the first of the approximately sixty places of worship in Nikko, the sound of a bell reverberates around us, and we step to see a priest sounding the big bronze bell on the hour. As we leave the Rinno-ji temple precinct, we pass Sorento, or Evil Averting pillar, a copper tower forty feet in height and eight feet in circumference. Inside this structure, we are told, are hold scriptures of religious importance. Up the broad avenue between the huge Cryptomerias, cedars as we call them, we hasten to the Deyasu Shrine or Tosho-gu. The huge stone torii at the head of the avenue is framed by the trees on either side, and the effect of the snow falling from the warm branches a hundred feet in the air is one of sincere grandeur. As we pass under the torii, we catch our breath, for on our left and rising one hundred and six feet above us, is the five story pagoda. A close-up view presents the lacquered wood carving under each of the five tiers. Dragons, fish, horses, goats, dogs, and other animals of fantastic design encircle the structure under the eaves. The multicolored paintings, sadly warped by many a severe winter, give an atmosphere of antiquity. But all of this does not take away from the wood carvings themselves, for they will stand many years to come as a record of Japanese art of long ago. Just ahead is the Ni-mon gate, the first entrance to the shrine. To each side as we enter, stand devil figures of large dimensions, making hideous faces in us attempt to guard the entrance from Evil. And on the inside of the gate are two huge dogs with colored manes, posed for the same purpose of guarding the temples. Turning from the gate, the observer sees three Japanese buildings. We are informed that these are the storehouses for sacred costumes which are used but once or twice a year in the annual festival in June. Opposite these buildings is the Sacred Stable, a smaller building, but one of great importance, for under the eaves of the roof are carved the three monkeys, “Neither see, hear, nor speak any evil.” Further on is a cistern, where worshipers purify themselves. And just above the cleansing well are some interesting objects. Besides the Drum and Belfry Tower to each side are two lanterns of large dimensions, one a spinning, and the other merely a hanging one. Both are done in bronze and show fine workmanship. The second gate the celebrated Yomei-mon, is popularly called “the gate where one tarries all day.” The wood and metal work together with the intricate decorations make it one of the finest gems of art in the Far East. Inside the next enclosure are a variety of buildings wherein ceremonial objects are displayed. The formal entrance to the main building of this area is a “White Chinese Gate,” elaborately carved and lacquered in white. Contrary to the others, this gate is in Chinese style. Beyond the gate are the Haiden and Honden, two very elaborate structures. The Haiden or Oratory Room is the outer one, the ceiling of which is adorned with a hundred different dragons. Around the walls are the pictures of famous poets and a proverb of each. To each side are small dining rooms in which are exquisite carvings of the Phoenix. And in the center towards the back, hangs a silver disk into which one looks when he kneels to pray. This mirror exemplifies the Buddhist philosophy of “knowing one’s self.” Beyond the Haiden is the inner Honden, the main chapel. The floor of stone is supposed to be made of one huge piece of granite. To the back are food offerings of rice, fish, fruit, saki, and tea. In back of the offerings is a bamboo screen, behind which, not to be revealed to the public, are the statues of past Shoguns of Japan. All the woodwork of oak is excellently finished and is in wonderful shape. Retracing our steps through the Yomsi-mon and Nio-mon fates, and taking a last look at that very impressive group of buildings, we once again wander through the cryptomerias behind our guide to the Futara-san Shrine, built eleven hundred years ago. From the interior, somewhere behind a bamboo screen, comes a weird tune, played by a priest on a sacred instrument. The construction and decoration is much plainer in this shrine, and the only visible object is an offering box into which money gifts have been thrown for many centuries. Down some steps and a turn right through the colossal cryptomerias brings us within sight of the district of the Iemitsu Mausoleum. Climbing many steps, and after passing through the guarding “Demon Gate,” Yashamon, we at last reach the snow covered tomb of Iemitsu, the third Tokugawn Shogun. As we return, we stop at the Oratory, in which is the spirit tablet of Iemitsu. But back to the hotel we must hasten, for it is growing late; and as we walk briskly through the snow laden cryptomerias, we are reminded of the story of Hansel and Gretel as they wandered through the woods. Everywhere is a Christmas card scene, and we leave with the feeling of deepest admiration for nature and man. With lots of love, Ted (Written on Letterhead of The Nikko-Kanaya Hotel, Nikko, Nippon) February 9, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad and Bruce: Ohyao. Ombon-wa. Xhagadesu ka? Yoi? Wakari masu ka? Haie? Die? Hello. Good-day. How are you? Good? Do you understand? Yes? No? I am writing (or trying to write) this letter sitting in the train, riding down from Nikko, the most beautiful place we will ever see, I believe. It is a snowbound fairyland – Shinto and Buddhist temples, candy houses of Hansel and Gretel, so good we almost eat them. One cannot know or say “kirci” (beautiful) until he has seen the twenty-three matchless temples of great Japanese shoguns, constructed three hundred years ago in the prime of the shogunates. Words cannot describe such beauty. Ted and I have delegated to ourselves the job of shipping you off to Japan as soon as we can, and in the winter if possible. Ted will tell you all about Nikko as it is his day to write. February 8 A night spent in real Japanese style in the home of Japan’s kindest family, the Togos. Our room was the usual simple, square Japanese room, with sliding screens and straw mats. Our mattresses, composed of three thick comforters, lie on the floor, and covering us are three more warmer comforters. We slept like rocks, warm and cozy, arising at 8 a.m. For pajamas, we wore two kimonos tied tight with long sashes. In the morning we had to dress in our clothes of the night before because we had not expected such good luck and had brought no extra clothes. An appetizing breakfast followed after we had washed and brushed our teeth with Japanese toothbrushes, long bamboo handles and rather soft fibers when wet. These are also provided in all hotels in Japan, along with slippers and cotton kimonos. Fruit, toast, scrambled eggs and jam went down our hatches in a hurry. For fruit, we had apples the size of grapefruit, and pears almost as big, along with the small Japanese mandarin orange. After thanking our kind and charming host and hostess, we put our shoes back on at the door, climbed into a waiting car, and wound slowly through rumbling traffic to the “Y,” where we found our silk shirts awaiting us, $2.28 apiece. Good shirts in America are more expensive than this; so we will get a few more. They are beautifully made and of fine texture. The morning was rapidly passing just as all our days in Japan have been doing. There is so much to do and so little time to do it in. By twelve we had finished our letters t you, just giving us time to pack our things in one of our #7 suitcases, pile into a cab, grab a luscious lunch at the Olympic for $2.80 (or 85 cents) for two, our largest and most delicious American meal in Japan. In fact, we ate so much that it was almost painful to swallow that last mouthful of shortcake. By the way, strawberries in Japan are four times as big as in California. This is pretty hard for us “native sons,” and works havoc with our sales talks. Our feast – cream of asparagus soup (a big bowl); Swiss steak with spinach, rice, eggplant, celery fritter, with delicious buns; a milk shake and a real strawberry shortcake. We were in the pink of condition for our surprises at Nikko. In a text again to Asakusa station in East (by north) Tokyo to catch the train to Nikko. The Togos and a party of boys and girls were going to Nikko for ice skating, about twenty-five of them. We were invited to go along with them and were happy to accept. Mr. Yagi had written down our order for tickets; so we gave it to the ticket girl and held our breaths. After a number of minutes of jabbering with other sales girls, we were given something which looked like it might be tickets, covered with Japanese characters. By saying “Nikko” to a conductor, our train was pointed out, and we climbed in the first car, where, luckily, our party happened to be sitting. Just as we got in, a shrill whistle blew and our train moved off. There followed three hours of delightful company with our Japanese friends. A few could speak some English, and we had great fun showing each other tricks, eating candy, kidding, and in between, enjoying the beautiful snow covered terrain on all sides. Rice fields under a foot of snow, terraced hills white with falling flakes, and muddy roads along which the ever familiar bicycles pulled unwieldy loads. An occasional peasant trudging along in the slush and carrying his paper umbrella, could be seen from the windows of our speeding electric train – the ancient and the modern working side by side in complete harmony, typical of all Japan. Everyone works hard here, spurred on by the desire to show the world that the Japanese race is inferior to none. At five o’clock, our train pulled into Nikko, and we piled out of the car into waiting ‘35 Dodge cars which plowed through falling snow a mile of so, along Nikko’s one main street, lined with curio shops designed to entice the gullible tourist; garages; clothing stores, and native hotels, incidentally clean and typically simple. The Kanaya Hotel was to be our residence for the night. In order to reach it, our car slid back and forth in the slow, chained wheels sliding but managing to bring us to our destination. Ted and I were given a pleasant room overlooking a small court, and we prepared for an early dinner because our friends wished to get on the ice of “Lake Placid,” a beautiful outdoor rink, as soon as possible. By staying with the group, we also received cheaper rates and enjoyed the companionship of our Japanese friends. Our dinner was a mixture of foreign and Japanese style food. We were all provided with knives and forks, but Ted and I used our chopsticks for everything just as we do at all Japanese meals. Practice is making us very proficient. Soup and rice are eaten with every meal, even breakfast. Rice is eaten with everything, and we drink our soup from a bowl, chopsticks for everything else. Any Japanese exclamation we would make would bring much laughter, and we taught them several of our “slang” words. Dainty waitresses waited on our every desire and giggled when we would say “Arigoto” (thank you) or “Mo takesan desu (no more, thank you). After dinner, while the others went up to the rink, Ted and I got the camera and tripod and went out in search of beautiful pictures. We found several in front of the hotel, produced by the lighting on the snow covered trees and Japanese lamps, scenes which would be beautiful to use for Christmas cards. Ted and I were, and still are, thrilled with the beauty surrounding us, wishing we could take pictures of everything. After walking down the almost deserted main street of Nikko, looking in all the windows and enjoying the crisp winter air, we climbed the stairs leading to Lake Placid, where we found our friends executing beautiful maneuvers on the ice, and our most beautiful picture. After a good deal of work at clearing the snow off the ice, everyone put on their skates and did some great figure skating. Ted and I asked for skates, but the best they could do for us was a pair of dull ones which fit on one’s shoes. As we had low shoes on, our troubles were doubled, and it was with some difficulty that Ted managed to keep the family honor untarnished by keeping on his feet for several turns on the ice, then giving it up as a bad job well done. After several contests, all came inside and sat around the stove. Then followed an hour of Japanese games. As soon as Ted and I would have them figured out, they would change the game, and we would be right back where we started from. Japanese boys and girls have lots of fun together. There is none of this would-be sophistication which characterizes so many American young people. They are always doing something to keep themselves laughing, and there is no end to the games which there are to play. We Americans can learn many lessons from these happy people. Here is one of the games. All sit around in a circle. One is blindfolded and spun around. He then touches someone, and by asking the touched one to make certain noises, guesses the individual’s name. He may ask for three noises such as a dog’s bark, and may try it on three persons. If he is not right in any of the three, he must then do something silly as punishment. It is great fun. After eleven-thirty, a number of the boys danced a Japanese dance to the music created by their own singing. Ted and I joined in and soon were doing it to perfection. What fun! We felt right at home and laughed and sang with them. Friendship is merely understanding one another and enjoying things together. We were two terribly tired boys when we hit those beds. Sleep can wait, but our opportunities to know Japan and its youth come seldom, and we must make the most of them. As I write this letter (I mean murder), it is 7:30 p.m. and is dark outside, of course. Baroness and Baron Toto are seated across the aisle. She is dressed in her black kimono and ebi and is holding a little boy who just got on with his father. They are both wonderful people and have made Japan beautiful for us. We are continually thinking of you and how you would enjoy all this and know that it will not be long until you can. Your loving son and brother, Dick Tokyo, Japan, February 11, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: Today we were taken to Kamakura by our wonderful friends, the Togos. Without them we would have been lost. We left Shimbashi Station, Tokyo early on the trail and made the hour ride to Kamakura. But to our surprise, we were informed that Baron Togo was a vice-president of the Admiral Togo Memorial Institution, and that we were headed for a seacoast town farther on. Passing the naval base in which were many ships, we stopped and walked to the memorial ship. In memory of the greatest national hero, Admiral Togo, the Association had set his flagship, the “Mikasa,” in concrete, next to the ocean. All historical facts and scenes were royally displayed in the gun turrets and cabins. We saw where the Admiral just missed death when a shell tore through the floor not a foot from him. It was very educational and extremely interesting. After lunch, he headed back to Kamakura. Alighting from the train, we made our way to the main shrine temple in the vicinity. This shrine was erected in memory of a shogun and the gods he worshiped. A Japanese bridge, “Drum Bridge,” was the first object of attention. Spanning a small pond, it was constructed of cement and in the peculiar shape of oriental bridges. Beyond stood the shrine itself, perched on a hill. Mounting the steps, we entered and gave our offering of a few sen into the sacred money box. As we came out, pigeons were everywhere, and it was a very happy sight to see the children playing with them. Our second goal was the daibutsu of Kamakura. We approached it from a distance, and it was an unusual experience. So stately that Buddha met. As we approached, it grew larger until we stood at its foot and looked up until its huge eyes. Made of bronze which was green with age, it stood 12.89 meters or 42 feet high. We learned that for a small fee we might go inside. Baroness Togo leading the way, we entered, to find the structure to be hollow with a ladder mounting to windows at the back. Sacred treasures were displayed in a case, and on the bronze wall was a sign reading: “Stranger, whosoever thou art and whatsoever they creed, when thou enterest this sacred statue remember that this is a Tathagata Garba, the womb of coamical body, and should be entered with reverence and not contamination. By Order of the Prior.” These were surely unusual words. As we left we had a feeling of satisfaction in having seen another of the sacred memorials of old. With much love, Ted Tokyo, February 13, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: Today is the thirteenth. Tomorrow we must leave, and we are sincerely sorry to do so. Yesterday we attended the Rotary meeting. We met “Kitty” again and said hello to many men to whom we had already been introduced. Later we were formally introduced as visitors. The meeting was excellent, especially one speech or talk that was given by a Mr. Frazier, who although not a Japanese, has lived her for sixty-two years. Through his talk, we were informed that his house had burned down due to a faulty high powered wire. Everything had been lost, just as it had in the 1923 earthquake, except a pair of cuff links with the Rotary wheel symbol on them, which he had been given by the Tokyo Rotary Club. Of course he said he was very grieved at the loss until he began receiving letters of condolence from Rotary members. And we were very much moved when he stated that he felt as though he were a rich man again, not in money, but in friendship. And later he told me that if he had to choose between his property and his friends, there would be no doubt in his mind as to how to make the choice. Several things we noticed during the meeting. One was that instead of long tables where you gt to know only those beside you, the seating was around tables seating about twelve. This seemed to us to be a more satisfactory arrangement. They opened the meeting with a song in Japanese, which we naturally stumbled through with them. Then each member who had had a birthday during the week wa called on, and he would rise with one candled cake in his hands. Visitors were introduced, a club yell ensued, and reports from committees was had. The main part of the meeting was made up of a group of short talks by members, such as Mr. Frazier’s. After the meeting, Dick and I met prominent Rotarian visitors from Ozaka and Kyoto. By the way, Shun and Baron Togo have given us letters to prominent people in those cities we shall visit – Kyoto, Osaka, Kobe. The early part of the afternoon was spent going through the Mitsui Trust Company Building. It is colossal. The Mitsui Company is surely a massive corporation. After talking a bit with Mr. Fukushima, who is head of the research department and a Rotarian, we inspected the Mitskoshi Department Store. Although not directly connected with Mitsui, it was once part of it. It is the largest and most beautiful department store building in Tokyo. Then we hastened to Ghinza, the main business street, and did some purchasing. Back to the Y.M.C.A. for dinner, and we were then asked to say a few words at a Japanese student English conversation class. Dick and I talked to them and gave our ideas as best we could. It was interesting. I have just told of yesterday. This morning we talked to the Secretary to the Governor of Rotary of this district, Mr. Shiba We had quite a discussion. Later to the bank, and finally to lunch with the Baroness Togo. In the afternoon, we visited the Imperial University with the President of the Rotary Club, who is head of the Chemical Engineering Department. It was interesting, but of course the apparatus was a bit confusing and complicated. This afternoon we said goodbye to Shun, and we thanked him for his kindness. It is due to him that we have had the marvelous educational as well as entertaining experience. This evening we said goodbye to the Togos and also expressed our gratefulness to them for their kindness. It has surely been a revelation, and we are sorry to leave. With much love, Ted Tokyo, February 11 and 14, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: Today is our eighth day in Tokyo. We should have been on our way to Kobe yesterday, but everyone has been so kind to us and there is so much more to see that we hate to break away. The weather is really cold today, and roof tops below us are covered with a thin matting of snow. Today is a famous Japanese holiday – Constitution Day, celebrating the anniversary of the Emperor’s ascension to the throne. There will be no brilliantly colored parades or special “Fourth of July” talks. Strange as it may seem, on such days, girls graduating from dancing and dramatic schools put on programs in Tokyo’s numerous auditoriums. We will not be able to witness these shows because we are going to Kamakura, Tokyo’s summer seaside resort to see the great Diabotsu Buddha. The Togos called up this morning and said that they would like to go also; so our trip will be more interesting and educational than ever, with their help. February 10 Yesterday, February 10, was a shopping day for us; so I will not be able to tell you of any new glories of Tokyo save the “Girls’ Opera” to which we were taken by Mr. Nagashima, Rotarian, and Manager of Passenger Division of the Tokyo N.Y.K. office, last evening. We started our day off with a bang by getting on the wrong street car, which took us several blocks out of our way before stopping and giving us a chance to get off. Everywhere we go, because of our height, we stand head and shoulders above our Japanese friends, and the street car is no exception. When we ask about the cause of the small Japanese stature, we are told that Japanese children in the past have always kneeled and squatted on the floor, and in poorer houses, huddled around the small brazier heated with charcoal, which was the houses’ only means of warmth. This condition exists even today in the poorer homes, but for the most part, chairs are being used now, and better heating systems, in the homes of those fortunate enough to have the means; so that Japanese youth is growing taller, an average measure of one inch in the last seven years. it is interesting to know, however, that the army prefers men to be small in stature because it gives the small men an advantage in quickness and agility over his large and clumsy foe. The small man also, quite naturally, is a harder target to hit. Yesterday morning, Baroness Togo was again kind enough to help us with our shopping, taking us about in her hired car (it is much cheaper to hire one than own one in Tokyo), and giving us her advice and opinions on prospective purchases. At 10:30, we had our fitting for our new suits. They will be double breasted and are of a light material which will be well suited to warm climates and at home. Ted’s is a light gray, and mine is light brown, with straight line patterns. We are very pleased with them. As you may imagine, very few people working in these stores can understand English; so without the Baroness’ aid, we would be lost. Whenever she goes out with us, she wears her kimonos, ebi, and padded slippers. I can’t imagine anything more comfortable. The day was the usual rush in order to do everything and keep our dates with Rotarian friends. At 5:30, we went by the Union Beer Hall to get Shun and the tickets. As the show would soon start and he was not ready, we took our tickets and hurried on to our evening’s entertainment, “The Girls’ Opera.” This show is very famous in Japan, and should be so around the world. There is not a male member of the show. Girls take men’s parts and carry everything off swell. The costumes and scenery are elaborate, with every sixty girls in each show. These girls are really dance students from the Takarazuka School of Dancing in Osaka. There are several shows out all of the time, moving around from city to city, playing a month at a time, and to packed houses. I could hardly believe that they were all Japanese girls because their features, in many cases, were occidental, and many were beautiful, especially those who took the boys’ parts. Of course the whole production was in Japanese, but we enjoyed every minute of it. The show was really a series of five sketches, which are enclosed. Due to a lack of time because we are just getting ready to leave for Kyoto, and we are already several days behind schedule, I will not be able to go into detail. The entire opera lasted until 10 o’clock. At 7:30, we had dinner, between sketches, in one of he numerous eating houses inside the theater. All types of shops can be found on any of the building’s five floors, and any kind of food can be found. The “Girls’ Opera” would make a great hit in the United States, not as a road show, but as an education in the harmony between the ancient and the modern ideas which exist in Japan. After the show, Mr. Oyama, a Stanford and Berkeley man, Mr. Nagashima’s assistant, saw us to a cab and back to the Y.M.C.A., two awfully tired boys, but contented with a fine evening’s entertainment. Ted and I can hardly wait to get to Shanghai and read our letters from you. We presume that you have sent them there because none have arrived here. We hope that all of you are taking up golf in a big way. Your loving son and brother, Dick Kyoto, Japan, February 16, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: This manuscript is being written on real Japanese letter paper in a real native hotel room. Yesterday we told our good Rotarian friend Mr. Shimomura that we wished to stay in a Japanese hotel this evening. He led us to this, the Rotarian hotel, and we are comfortably situated in our native quarters. It is rather uncomfortable to be writing on a low, highly polished table, but he floor cushion is soft and our charcoal heater beside me is warm. Yesterday we visited the old Capital Imperial Palace. When Tokyo was named capital in place of Kyoto, the royal family moved to Tokyo. Some moving job! But every now and then the Emperor and his one hundred odd attendants visit here and stay at this historical spot. A high wall surrounds the royal home, and on each of the four sides are large impressive gates, done in the finest by the finest. Situated in the center of Kyoto, it consumes many acres, and as one enters, everything is clean and rather new looking. We relinquish our shoes for leather slippers and following a guide, start on our tour of inspection. We pass down a long hallway, the floor of which is highly polished and lacquered wood. Since it is so smooth, it is easy to slide our leather slippers along as well come to the first rooms, waiting rooms for the nobles who are about to have audience with the Emperor. There is no object in the room; but we learn that this is the stork room, for many storks are painted on the paper walls. The stork symbolizes long life. Adjoining it and in the same barren style is the tiger room, around which are painted the figures of tigers. Since there are no tigers in Nippon, these figures, we learn, were drawn from the imagination. Further on is the dining room. The Emperor never eats with his guests, but he sits at the head as a royal host and sees that they are well taken care of. Afterwards he retires to his quarters to dine. We are informed that the architecture is of Shinto and that peculiarly enough, the roofs are made of cedar bark, tightly compressed to make a very sturdy, weatherproof shelter. The largest and most impressive room is the coronation room, in which are the thrones for the Emperor and Empress. Done in red and gold with brass work adorning it, the throne makes a very royal impression in one’s mind. Standing above the throne and its purple curtain folds is the royal Phoenix, the symbol of wealth and happiness, and molded many times in the woodwork is the chrysanthemum, of sixteen petals, which is the Imperial crest. The Emperor’s private suite opens upon the courtyard where festivals are presented in his honor. Three of the royal rooms are the day room, reception room, and bedroom; all with straw matting on the floors and noted paintings on silk hanging around the walls. Near the center of the palace is the garden. Evergreens overhang the ice covered pond, and small islands with stunted pine trees and Japanese stone lanterns on them seem to float above the ice. It is indeed a royal garden. We leave the old Nippon Palace by the western gate and turn toward the city once again. Must leave for my first Japanese bath now, but shall continue soon. Sending much love, Ted Kyoto, Japan, February 15, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, Bruce: Ted and I are now sitting in the lobby of the Kyoto Hotel writing our letters. Last night we arrived here about 9:20 and were met at the station by a representative of the Japan Tourist Bureau and a car from this hotel, the manager of which is a Rotarian but is now in Tokyo, to our disappointment. Yesterday, with Yamada’s help, we managed to get our last minute obligations settled and to get to the station where our train was to leave for Odawana and Myanashita at 9:55 a.m. There we bade “Aloha” to Mr. Yagi, Mr. Oyama, Mr. Yamada, and Mr. Nagashima of N.Y.K. Our trail, a crack Japanese express, pulled out right on time, and we rolled away to new experiences. Since there were very few people in our comfortable second-class coach, we had the car most to ourselves. Our train was the usual electric type, but would have steam power from Numadzu on. The first leg of our journey took us to Yokohama, the backyards of frail, paper shuttered houses staring us in the face. Here and there a small cemetery filled a backyard, and smoke belching factories popped up every now and then. Across the River Tama, through Kawasaki and Taurund to Yokohama, and a few minutes stop at the station where shrill voice vendors rushed about selling oranges and tea to the train’s occupants. Yokohama to Odawana, our first glimpses of Japanese rice fields, which would accompany us all through Japan. A light matting of snow, many days old now, covered the terraced fields as they spread across the hillside. Every available piece of tillable land is used in Japan because of the great need for food, and especially rice, which is eaten with every meal, and in some cases in every meal. These fields are laid out in neat squares extending as far as the eye can see. Planting will not begin for months; so the fields lie idle with dead stalks standing in symmetrical order. Here and there, the green leaves of vegetable plants can be seen, another staple crop of Japan. Several minutes out of Yokohama, we receive our first view of Fujisan or Fujiyama as it is known in America. San means honorable, and the mountain is spoken of as the honorable Mt. Fuji. It is just as painters have pictured it, snow covered all its sides which are bare of vegetation. We will see Fuji for many miles now as we rumble along besides it and beyond to our southern destination. At Ofuna, Japan’s new Hollywood, a modern Kwannon, massive and beautiful, is being constructed on a small hill overlooking the city. Kwannon is the Goddess of Mercy and should not be confused with the great bronze statute of Buddha which stands in Kamakura, the summer seaside resort of Japan, with the dream isle of Enoshima which rises out of the Pacific a short distance out. We are surely passing through the Japan we read about in story books, and as Lafondes Hearn describes to us. Flimsy, unpainted, thatched roof houses are scattered among the submerged rice patches. Here and there small groups of homes, better fit to stand the hurricanes and earthquakes prevalent in Japan, with tile roofs of many colors and picturesque gardens surrounding, quite a feeling of permanency. Evidently today is washday, for brightly colored kimonos hang suspended on long bamboo poles stretched between the eaves of curling Japanese roofs. While on the subject of roofs, it is an interesting fact that the Japanese tile is laid just the opposite from American tile, and it is possible to buy tiles in many designs. At Olso and Kozu, we pass close to the sea, rolling over great alluvial fans which spread out from valleys in the coastal hills and mountains which extend along Fuji-san’s base. At Odawana, we pile off the train, each of us carrying his well filled Japanese suitcase. Our modern American made machine carried us along well paved roads, bordered with more squat peasant houses and neat rice fields. Very few peasants toiled in the fields because harvesting season had not yet come. Soon our highway loses its smoothness, and we bounce back and forth along a narrow dirt road fairly cut out of perpendicularly cliffs, Fuji’s foothills. Up, up, we go, climbing a high mountain divide in order to reach our destination, Numadzu, where we will again take our train; and to see Mt. Fuji from the most advantageous points. As we climb, our mountain caravan straining with the steep assent, far below, hundreds of feet straight down, a small mountain stream cascades over smooth boulders and rack spillways constructed by man to lessen the water power in flood time. From time to time, our modern vehicle would pass Japanese coolies, straining with heavy loads against the grades, wearing for coats the traditional “hapy” or “happy coat” as called by the Ex-Price of Wales when we visited Japan several years ago. At 12:15 we arrived at Myanashita, one of Japan’s finest tourist hotels, and most popular because here is the base for all admirers of Fuji-san. Our bus conductor, a plump Nipponese girl dressed in uniform and cap, her hands calloused, probably from hard work in the fields, cries in a shrill voice for tickets, which she takes as we climb down, suitcases in hand, for a hurried land at the Fugya Hotel. Since we only had fifty minutes between busses, our truly delicious meal was quickly eaten, served by trim waitresses dressed in kimono and obi, in a strictly modern and beautiful dining room. Lunch over, we rushed down to the bus, just in time to catch it. For eight miles, we wound back and forth up the steep, narrow, twisting road to Lake Hakone, clear as a mirror, green with depth, casting reflections of Fuji and surrounding hills, up into our eyes. Snow was on all sides of us, resting in the shadows of scrawny pines where the sun’s warmth was not yet felt. Hakone Hachi, a small mature town on Lake Hakone, is one of the favorite spots for photographers, sketchers, and painters of Fujiyama because it is from such spots as this that the sacred mountain’s reflection in the water is most clear. As we drove up to Mayanashita, our main view of Fuji-san was unobstructed, but here at Lake Hakone, several billowy clouds are moving slowly across the face of the mountain, spoiling any chances we might have to catch Fuji-san in its greatest beauty. At Hakone we were to change busses, and there we had our closest call with old man “Catastrophe.” In order to make our train at Numadzu, many miles away, we would have to leave Hakone by the next bus, which, according to our schedule, was to set out right away; but we were told in a roundabout way by one of Hakone’s few English speaking persons that the next bus would not leave for an hour or so. If it hadn’t been for some tall talking by the main hotel manager, and for the bus company’s desire to please, we would still be there, I believe. Our bus driver and feminine conductor were not the least displeased by the order to drive many more hard miles over bad roads, but they smilingly helped us in, and we were off again. More miles of bumpy road. Every now and then we were able to catch a quick glimpse of stately Fuji. Small shrines tucked back into tiny valleys, native cemeteries with rock carvings of gods for gravestones, and at intervals, standing at the side of the road, covered with dust and scarred and broken from age, small statues of Jizo, God of Little Children, stand; and around them, dust covered pebbles are piled high, offerings by children for their infant friends who have been taken from them. Several times we pass through long rows of cryptomeria. Little children carrying their brothers or sisters, smaller yet, on their backs, horses and oxen weighted down with great loads of straw, so much in fact that the animal was smaller than its load, passed us many times going in the opposite direction. Halfway down, we were met by a ‘26 Buick touring car with uniformed driver and ticket girl. This was to be our bus to Numadzu, so in we jumped, and off we sped along bumpy roads to Numadzu, old Japan prevailing in the outer settlement, with the modern Japanese life centered around the town’s main street and railway station. There has just been a slight intermission while Dick has gone to sleep in his Japanese bed on the floor. He is now kneeling, uncomfortably, on a Japanese chair, a large pillow, and is writing from its shiny surface of a square wood table standing one foot and a half high. He hopes you have not gone to sleep yet while trying to decipher this unparalleled monstrosity of literature and penmanship. Our crack express train pulled out of Numadzu right on the dot. The car was crowded; so we plumped down into two available spaces beside Japanese gentlemen (we hope so!). My traveling companion was a squat, chubby, kimonoed Nipponese, with practically no hair on his head, who said nothing, munched small mandarin oranges, and sipped Japanese tea (a very loud sip in fact), which he bought at every station. Ted was more fortunate and managed to have a little conversation with a student from Kyoto University. Down the aisle from us, a gray haired, determined looking woman would fill her long slim Japanese pipe with tobacco and take a few puffs. The bowl of a Japanese pipe is so small that after several puffs, it must be filled again. Looking out of the windows, rice fields stretched in all directions, with their raised borders arranged in straight lines extending for miles. Very often we would rush past large patches of tea, new green and ripening. Tea plants look very much like low American hedges, and picking will start in the spring. Just as with rice, tea terraces cover the steep sides of hills. These hillside fields are built up and held by rock walls, laboriously carried up from the valleys by peasant men and women. Thatched roofed houses and rows of vegetables with small sticks and banners sticking up here and there to frighten away birds, are now common to our foreign eyes. As the sun slowly sets over western mountains, peasants are toiling in the fields, harrowing with primitive and modern tools. Women swing cumbersome Japanese hoes. They are swung up and down, the digging caused by the force of the hoe’s fall. Men used modern hoes, and in some few cases, a horse pulled a modern harrow, probably for the wealthy farmers. As night slowly fell, ancient pagodas appeared silhouetted against the sky, overlooking the toil of years going on in the shadowed valleys. Modern Japan, happily for romantic travelers such as we, has not lost the flavorings of its past ages and has not yet thrown off the yoke of labor, which gives to Japan a civilization and culture all its own. At 9 p.m., we were met at the Kyoto station by a car from the Kyoto Hotel, Rotarian owned and managed, and taken to our home for the next two days. This traveling in Rotarians’ company, I’m afraid, is an expensive proposition. We will tell you more about it. Until tomorrow, Lots of love, Dick Nara, Japan, February 17, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: When you receive this installment of a couple of bums’ world tour, we will be probably somewhere in the vicinity of Hong Kong. We shall be hoping that you are in the best of health and making something out of these swiftly written letters. This morning we left our native hotel in Mr. Shimomura’s car. He has been very kind to us, and we thanked him appreciatively as we got on our train for Nara. Before, at the station we met a boy from Louisiana. He has been eight months from home traveling through China, India, and all points east, and was very enthusiastic at meeting fellow natives. We were in a hurry and could learn no more about him other than that he will be in Hong Kong at the time we are. Therefore, we shall see him there. Leaving Kyoto on the crowded electric car was not very impressive. The day has been very cloudy, much to the consternation of our camera and photo-meter. The people on the car were extremely interesting, of a much poorer type than those we had seen in our short stay. One old lady hobbled to a seat, sat down, and paid for her fare out of an old cloth which was her purse. In an effort to get comfortable, she drew her feet out of her shoes, and as she nestled them under her on the seat, her stockings were worn through at the sole, and mud was caked on the ankles. A glance down at the shoes found them somewhat fille with straw. With her kerchief over her head and her old coat around her shoulders, she seemed pathetic in her poverty. Another person across from us was some priest with a kind wrinkled face; and an odd sort of hat, something like a Scotch bagpipe hat, sitting atop his close shaven head. As we watched him, he drew from within his black cloak a small metal box and a leather bag and pipe case. From the pipe case, he withdrew a long stick with a metal cup at one end. Into this small cup, he stuffed some tobacco, and he lighted this contraption in the metal box by use of a match. All this preparation seemed to be wasted when we observed that only three puffs would consume his pipeful. This indulgence is quite common in native Japan. We arrived in Nara about eleven o’clock and had our first jinrikisha ride. Getting into the compartment is quite a feat for one of our stature, for the seat is not large enough and the rikisha rests at a steep angle. Once we are safely settled, the coolie steps inside the drawing arms, and up and away we go. To us, being rather young, the rikisha was a novelty, but after a while we are content to walk. Our coolie is about half our size and weight, yet he does a good job. We have heard much of the wonder and fame of Nara, and after we have it ourselves, we agree that in view of its tremendous age and history, Nara is indeed a real place of interest. But we have been spoiled by Nikko, and therefore it is not easy to see Nara in its true self. The first object of interest is the Kasuga shrine, approached along an avenue flanked by stone and metal lanterns numbering about three thousand, which are lighted only on February 3 (when winter yields to spring). The Kasuga proper is in reality one of a group of shrines, all in orange and gold, but in a different, new architecture, one which is hard to describe. The shrines were founded in A.D. 768, and each is dedicated to a separate deity. In the garden of the main shrine is a very unusual tree, a combination of many species of tree. It is thought of as reminder that the many religions of the world should live together in peace and harmony. Arond the San-gwatsu-do, third month temple, and Nigatsu-do, second month temple, famous for its small copper image of the “Eleven-faced Kwannon” (never shown), popularly believed to be warm to the touch, are fruit trees. And on some of the trees are tied pieces of paper. Upon inquiry, we learn that these are the symbols of bad fortunes the people have left on the trees in an attempt to gain good luck. Beyond this area is “the big bell,” cast in 752 A.D. The third largest in Japan, it weighs about 48 tons. Further on is the Daibutsi-den or “Hall of the Great Buddha.” As we approach, it seems to grow until it attains huge dimensions. Because of the many winters and storms, the paint is pretty well gone, but the construction is still present, and that is what is unbelievable. Inside is the bronze image of Buddha, the largest image in Japan. He is sitting on an open lotus blossom in an attitude of calm reflection. It was erected in 749 A.D. and contains 437 tons of bronze, 288 pounds of gold, 7 tons of vegetable wax, 165 pounds of mercury, and several thousand tons of charcoal. The gold and mercury are used solely for gilding. Then into meditation while waiting for the future Buddha. His grave is the mecca of worshipers who come from every direction to pray before his tomb, Shingon believers worship Kobo Daishi as an incarnation of the Buddha. When Koya-san was in its prime there are said to have been from 2,000 to 9,000 temples, but now there are only about 100. We were staying at probably the most widely known monastery, Shojoshin-in. After breakfast we left our lodging and entered the famous cemetery which lies to either side of the broad avenue one and one-half miles long, through cryptomeria and hinoki trees. Monuments to priests, warriors, famous men of the past, and Shingon worshipers of every size and form surrounded us as we walked down the stone avenue with our friend. He told us of this stone and that monument. One row as set aside for geisha girls. Across the way was the tomb of some famous monk. At the end of the cemetery was the grave of Kobo Kaishi where lights and incense are always burning and devotion is offered constantly. In a separate enclosure near Kobo Daishi’s tomb are candles which may be lit by pilgrims in memory of the dead, a pious offering in the eyes of Buddhists. To the back of this building are two candles burning: one, that of the Emperor Shirakawa, which has been burning constantly since 1023, and the other the lamp of a poor woman who cut off her hair in order to sell it to get money for one lamp. To one side of the Tomb of Kobo Daishi is a receptacle into which followers may have their ashes put after death. At a certain time, these ashes are gathered together and molded into a statue of Buddha. The cemetery was surely a thing to marvel at, and as we made our way back to the monastery, I wondered at the sincerity and power of Buddhism in the Orient. As we hurried to our bus over the frozen ground, we were sorry we could not have stayed longer, for there is much to see in Koya-san. And we recalled a few incidents that had made impressions on us. First, we were surprised when the young monk who was our friend, brought toast and eggs to us in the morning along with our Japanese food. And second when the same person smoked cigarettes in the cemetery. And third we realized that rikishas were not for us, for they are too slow, and when a coolie who weighs just half as much as we do tried to pull us over that snow, we wanted to get out and help him. One other thing we realized was that the spring or summer time was the proper season to see Koya-san. We could not fully enjoy its gardens and quiet beauty as it lay under the ice. Therefore we plan to return. This time was merely an introduction. Much has been written of Koya-san by visitors who have been duly impressed, but it is for the artist to write about, not me. I have merely given a brief idea of what Koya-san means to us. We returned to Kobe and enjoyed a wonderful sukiyaki dinner as guests of the N.Y.K. Company. They have been wonderful to us, and we shan’t forget them. Love to all, Ted Nara Hotel, Nara, Japan, February 17, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, Bruce, Elizabeth, Ching: As I write this great contribution to the literary world, “Oscar,” He of the Lion-Heart, site placidly before me, unmoved, giving me inspiration. Oscar is the newest addition to the Lyon family, and we thought that we should inform you of this. Oscar’s heart is really made of stone, but he is not a bad short at all. In fact, he is fashioned from pure Canadian agate – at least we were told by the shopkeeper who asked Y3.80 for it, but sold it to us for Y2.50 (75 cents) after some honest-to-goodness haggling. Oscar is our steadfast friend, and we hope he will stick by us and bring us good luck on our travels. He ought to – he’s getting a free trip. To get down to business though, yesterday the greatest of Kyoto’s temples opened their doors to us. I say, “the greatest,” because Kyoto or Kioto (old spelling) is certainly the “city of temples” – shrines on every street, all hanging with votive offerings from pilgrims. Our entire trip was made on bicycles which we rented from our hotel, and we pedaled many miles in order to see all of the shrines situated on the city’s outskirts. Ted has told you of the city; so I will merely speak of the temples, of which there is plenty to say. Kyoto is “old Japan.” Everything about it is old. Its temples are the oldest, its mode of dress is the quaintest, and many of its shops and streets have not as yet been touched by the changes in new Japan. Kyoto and Nara are cities we travelers dream about and are not disappointed upon seeing. Sanju-Sangendo or “Hall of 33 Ken” is our first temple of the day. It is sometimes called by the latter name because of the 33 spaces between the 34 front pillars, these spaces called by Japanese measurement, ken. Sanju-Sangendo is a Buddhist shrine dedicated to Kwannon, Goddess of Mercy. There are many temples to Kwannon, but this is the most famous because it houses 1,001 images of the Goddess. The building itself is very plain, badly weathered and unpainted, and our first impression of this 396 foot long structure is very disappointing, but after paying 20 sen admittance, removing our shoes, and padding along in stocking feet which soon became as cold as the bare lacquered floors, any hopes which we might have had are fully realized by the beauty of workmanship resting before our eyes. Row upon row of golden images, possessing many hands, each hand holding some religious object significant of Buddha’s many merciful acts of saving, always a hand to help those in need. (Note) Five days have passed, and I will continue writing on the Hakone-Maru as we leave Japan behind us and ply towards China. I hope my memory does me well so I can recall our experiences in Kyoto temples. Please excuse my wanderings. The striking quality of this great temple is the fact that the features of the 1,001 Kwannons are almost identical. They vary only in their costumes and in objects held in their hands. If I were a drinking man, I would surely think that I had passed my limit on seeing this mass of similar images. I hope the enclosed picture will give you an idea of what I cannot describe with words. In the center of the hall site the main statue of Kwannon, a large, golden Buddha, sitting placidly on a still larger, golden lotus flower. Kwannon’s features possess the quiet and serenity of Buddhism, and she towers over the row upon row of small, upright images at her side. Before Great Kwannon, stands the usual plain, red, lacquered altar trimmed with golden damascene. A simply clad priest kneels and chants before the altar as he offers sacred incense to the Goddess, while behind him, black kimonoed pilgrims toss pennies into the offering box – music to temple ears. We could stay here all day admiring Kwannon’s beauty, but we must be off, for Kyoto is full of just as beautiful temples, they say. So we shake off peddlers selling rosaries and postcards, and ride off down the street to our next adventure, Chion-in Monastery, one of Kyoto’s greatest claims to fame. Chion-in’s impressive entrance puts one in the right mood to receive the beauty to follow. A great gate, unpainted, and beaten with age, but still retaining that beauty enhanced by its 300 years of glorious history. Words cannot describe it, just as words cannot truly tell of any beauty in Japan. You must see it in order to know what I mean. Japan is ancient. Up until a few years ago, and that is less than 90 years, Japan was a feudal state, living just as it had for hundreds of years, with lords (daimyos) and serfs. Shoguns (dictators) ruled for spaces of years now and then just as in European feudal times. Nothing progressed save art and literature and religion. Japan was isolated, and it was not until the coming of Perry and the Majii Era that Japan suddenly transformed itself into a great modern country. Here in Japan we are studying the relics of a civilization thousands of years old, because Japan has been the same for thousands of years. It is hard to believe. Yesterday we saw a suit of armor made 80 years ago for a prominent shogun, to be actually used in warfare. It was exactly the same as one used centuries ago. So when we see these great Buddhist and Shinto treasures, we are seeing perfectly preserved relics of a culture older than the Roman language. Now, to continue with Chion-in. After climbing 50 steep steps beyond the massive gate, we receive our first full view of the monastery and all its parts – a group of five great buildings, weatherbeaten and unpainted like the gate, and just as colossal in size. In the main room of the central structure is situated Chion-in’s historical altar. Save the altar, the entire room is bare, with straw mats covering the floor. To strike a comparison, there is sample floor space for two full size basketball courts. On the altar stands a completely furnished and decorated model temple of bronze and damascene. Black robed priests chant over boxes of sacred literature, while the head priest, in gorgeous white, gold bordered robe, offers incense to Buddha and mutters sacred rituals. The rhythm of the chant is occasionally broken by the ringing of bells and the clicking of wood blocks. We stand entranced in the weirdness of the ceremony going on before us. It was something one could watch all day, bewitched by the mysticism of a Buddhist prayer passed down unchanging through the ages. After paying an entrance fee of 10 sen, we were taken into the adjoining buildings of the monastery by a guide who was extremely happy at the chance to practice and display his English. He showed us the Imperial suite where the Emperor stays on visits to the temples, beautifully simple with 300 years old, gold-leaf screens – in fact, so old that it is now possible to see plainly the borders of the gold patches as they were laid on. Elegant pine trees, morning glories, phoenix and herons, painted on gold, cover many of the temple screens, all national treasures. These trees and birds are symbols of good luck. Evidently the Emperor does not place much faith in these luck bringing objects, for he has a special room opening into his own suite, where guards may stand watch behind damascene doors, ever ready to protect the Mikado. At the time of our visit, one of the main structures was having a new roof of cedar bark, pressed tightly together, a foot a d a half thick, put on to replace the old, now beginning to leak after years of service. We pass out along the singing corridor, which is really a squeaky floor, but which manipulated by the skillful feet of priests, produces the singing of birds. We watch a black robed monk striking the temple bell by means of a long pole suspended from the ceiling by ropes, its weight giving it the needed momentum to sound the bell in deep, doleful tones. The priest then points out to us a magnolia tree planted by General Grant in the Temple garden, when he visited Japan many years ago. Many interesting stories are told of General Grant’s visit. He is very much admired by the Japanese people. The temples are all very interesting, but we next visited something, Mother, that you would have gotten a great thrill out of, that is, a real, honest-to-goodness Japanese garden. Even though we saw it at its worst, without blossoms or flowers, it was beautiful. Stone lanterns, small torii, arched bridges, scrawny Japanese pines twisted into truly artistic shapes by the greatest artist of them all, Dame Nature, cherry and plumb trees, water falls, and tea houses all played their part in creating such beauty. In the central, large pond, 12 inch goldfish swam about and fed on a light form of bread tossed in by an attendant. Tea and delicious cakes completed our visit to Mr. Nomura’s garden, and we vowed then and there to bring you here in the springtime as soon as possible, to enjoy Japan before Western civilization tramples down its beauty in age and destroys a culture uncontaminated through years of isolation. Our next object of adoration “The Kinkakuji” or “Gold Pavilion” lay on the opposite side of the city; so it took some hard pedaling up along hills, and at the same time dodging wild Japanese taxi drivers. And I mean they are wild! It seems to me that they all close their eyes and blow their horns, with their feet jammed down on the accelerators. The correct Japanese way to stop a car is to wait until ten feet or so before the intended stop, and then to jam on the brake, using up about 20 cents worth of rubber each time. Riding in taxis is a sport like riding in a stunting airplane. Kinkakuji, whose proper name is Rokuonji, belongs to the Zen sect of Buddhism. It was originally a pleasure house of a leading Japanese, but at the end of the 14th Century, Ashikaga Yoshimarteau, after abdicating the shogunate, retired to this place where he became a Buddhist monk. Here he made a beautiful garden, in the center of which is a picturesque pond, and on its bank he built Kinkaku (the Gold Pavilion). The ceilings, railings, etc. were once embellished with gold, but now very little remains. In order to reach the Pavilion, we had to pass through the adjoining temple. No one could speak English so we were obliged to navigate by ourselves. The temple was typically Buddhist with the usual gold hangings, screens, and lamps. One object which interested us especially was a broken and weatherbeaten model of the three famous monkeys “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” They must have been centuries old. After putting our shoes back on, we wandered along winding paths through a garden as picturesque as one could imagine a Japanese garden to be. Landscaping carried to perfection, centered around the mirrorlike pond, irregular bordered, with islands and trees arising in miniature from the water’s surface. In the background, the “Gold Pavilion,” now brown with age, reflected its three stories in nature’s mirror. Our only disappointment was that they day was cloudy, and only after much maneuvering were we able to secure photographs, which we hope will show the beauty which we can’t describe. The Pavilion is really very simple, at least from what we could see, not being allowed to go above the first story. It is a pavilion, just as the name implies, and just as we Americans would imagine it, spacious rooms opening out onto long porches overlooking Kyoko-chi (mirror pond). It is said that the ceiling of the third story is made entirely of one piece of camphor wood and on the second floor, a statue of Kobo Diahi, founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism and really Buddhist itself, reposes. A seated image of Buddha embellished in gold, is the main object of interest on the first floor, surrounded by numerous smaller figures unknown to us. Ted and I enjoyed seeing the Pavilion very much, but we felt that the true beauty of Kinkakuji lay in its gardens. Pines, firs, magnolias, and cedars grew in abundance, one of these pines being fashioned into the shape of a Chinese junk by the skillful hands of monks. At the gate, as we strolled out of Kinkakuji, a strange religious ceremony was going on. Seated around a fire made of green pine boughs, and throwing on votive offerings, bundles of sticks tied in paper and blessed by the head priest who tapped each with a knife in a certain fashion, a number of priests, clothed in what seemed to us to be sacking cloth, stamped with large ideographs, chanted and rang bells (always at the wrong time, we thought, because any semblance of harmony was always thrown off with the untimely ringings). Fruits and vegetables rested on a plain, makeshift altar, evidently food for the god or gods of the small red temple standing in the background. We would have been content to stay and watch for hours, entranced by the strangeness of it all, but there was more of Kyoto to be seen, and we would have to hurry as night was not far off. Down through the city again, woolen watch caps pulled over our ears to keep out the nippy air, we pedaled hurriedly in order to see the largest Buddhist and Shinto shrines in Japan, situated in the city’s southern side. Higashi-Hongani Temple, the magnificent Buddhist temple, was erected in 1895 at a cost of 7 million yen, about $2,000,000. It is colossal, prodigious, and stupendous. It dwarfs any temple in Japan, save the Nishi-Honganji Shinto Shrine situated behind it. The main temple and great building of Higashi is made up of one great room. This room is beautiful in its simplicity. Its spaciousness inspires one in one as he stands contemplating the power and influence of the Buddhist religion. Higashi’s tremendous size is a true symbol of the authority and influence exercised by Buddhism in Japan. In the center of the immense hall, the altar glimmered through shadows now deep as night approached. The brilliant reflection of candle flame on brass and damascene was all that could be seen. Believers padded in, shoeless, on mats, tossed coins into the offering box, kneeled and bowed low, then padded out again. This procession has been going on for years, day and night, and will continue as long as Buddhism survives. It is a revelation to see with what sincerity the Buddhist demonstrates his belief. It was almost dark, so we rode quickly over to the Nishi-Hongangi Shrine, Shintoism’s symbol of power. Almost as big as the Buddhist temple, and equally as impressive, Nishi Shrine appeared to be almost the exact counterpart of its larger competitor. Unpainted, its pillars covered with little scraps of paper on which are printed Japanese characters, votive offerings to the gods, and with its steady flow of believers to offer prayers, Nishi-Hongangi is truly as awe-inspiring as the Buddhist shrine. Shintoism, however, is slowly losing ground as the imported Buddhism from India by Koba Diashi, gradually gains power, just as Japanese life is being revolutionized by imported Western civilization nation. Buddhism is a beautiful and idealistic religion, and we hope that this part of Japanese civilization will remain strong through this period of change and confusion. It is strong enough to survive. Darkness was now upon us, so we climbed on our bikes and rode off to our hotel. Mr. Shimomura, owner and manager of Kyoto’s great department store, was waiting for us, and after gathering our things together, we drove off in his English touring car to spend the night in a real Japanese inn. Please stick around – I hope you can take it – some more is coming. Dick Nara, Japan, February 17, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: We have enjoyed our short stay in Kyoto very much. During the first day we saw the Imperial Palace, but spent most of our time seeing the city life in the streets. It is not easy to do justice to the sights we witnessed that day in the old capital of Japan. Kyoto of one million population is more a native city than Tokyo. Most of the streets are narrow and dirty. A continuous procession of humanity flows through those streets. Bicycles are the main means of transportation and are of commercial importance. Men and women alike pull their goods along on a two-wheel affair. And sometimes the horn of a car is heard above clatter of clogs on the dirt and cement. Shops are everywhere intermingled with private residences and inns. Brightly colored flags indicate by means of large ideographs the necessary advertisement information of each open store. Fruit stands are numerous. Japanese apples and oranges are arranged in a very tempting manner. Also the bakeries are many. I had no desire for those heavy starch cakes of many colors and was satisfied to pass on. One of the rarer places is one fish market lane. Every kind of sea life and being sold to housewives who carried their children on their backs and usually had a few kiddies chasing behind. This district of Kyoto we called the multi-stench district, because there was not one distinct odor, but just as many as you would care to imagine. Everyone with the exception of the children who are playing in the streets is businesslike and serious as they go about their work. Only in the evening along the movie avenue are the crowds gay. One evening we left the hotel and walked to this so-called movie street. Japanese and American theaters alike were situated along the brightly lighted avenue. These buildings are of strictly modern architecture, a surprising fact to be noted. To each side as we make our way along are brightly lighted shops; and fakers, with a crowd around them, are telling of their wonderful product. The only sound above the hum of voices is the clatter made by the Japanese shoe of wood. Dick and I being so tall are at an advantage, and we watch with ease the fascinating displays of cheap merchandise over the heads of the smaller Japanese. Everything is tempting, but luckily enough we have no money to spend; therefore we are safe. I have tried to give you an idea of what we have seen in Kyoto. To us it is just like one continuous theater, the players being the peasants and natives. One must see it in order to fully appreciate the quaintness of it all. As we were walking up one street, we saw two gentlemen walking towards us. They had large baskets over their heads completely covering their faces. In one hand they carried a stick. We later learned from Mr. Shimomura that they were professional entertainers and that the clubs in their hands were instruments of some sort. Although everything and everyone are very unique to us, we being foreigners of such height are quite an unusual thing to the Japanese person. We virtually tower over them, and as we walk along they stop and give us a very close once-over, sometimes remarking to a friend with a giggle or muttering something under the beard. We can take it though since we are proud of our height. We are getting quite used to driving and walking on the left all the time. Since there are no speed cops in Japan, one may travel as fast as desired. The taxis, of which there are thousands, since it is cheaper to ride in a taxi all the time than own a private car, are supreme on the street; and the bicycle must watch its step every minute. Pedestrians of course must watch out for themselves. Many American architects have been brought to Japan and have constructed some very beautiful buildings such as the Mitsui Bank Building in Tokyo; and also there ha been much ultra-modern construction. But there is that part of each city which is the real primitive thing; and that is what Dick and I look for in a town. Thatched roofs, adobe walls, and peasant scenes are what we have seen in the poorer district. This is old Japan. We wish we might go further into the back country and get a better idea of what has been going on for many centuries. But we must save that for another day which we all must enjoy in a few years. Boy, could I go for some home cooking! A milkshake! Don’t mention it, it gets me. But as we say, we can drink milkshakes the rest of our lives; but this is only one treat in many. Tell Elizabeth to start preparing a real home-coming dinner. She’ll have plenty of time, but it’s got to be good. Give my best to everyone. With sincere love, Ted (Page missing??) temple built to shelter it burned twice, and a third structure, reduced to 66 percent of the old building, 160 feet high with a frontage of 188 feet, and a depth of 166 feet, holds the distinction of being the largest wooden structure in the world. A feeling of awe came over me at seeing this huge Buddha, knowing that there it had sat and had been worshiped for centuries. It seemed like a living thing of the past. The Buddha itself had a dark gray color, and the gold gilding behind made a halo around the head and shoulders. We were very much impressed, and we had a funny feeling as we left, knowing that long after we shall be gone, there it will sit as though waiting for some great day. Around and about the seven great temples of Nara in a deer park, in which some seven hundred tame deer roam unmolested and well fed. Everyone seems to enjoy them, and we wish we might have one for a pet. In this natural park are oak, pine, cedar, cryptomeria, and magnolia trees overhung by lilac and wisteria bushes. Fruit trees are also abundant. But everything is a dull brown or green during this season of the year, and we are becoming more and more firmly convinced that this is not the time of year for the photographer. After dinner, we met a fellow Californian, and with him we walked into the town from our hotel. After an enjoyable talk with him in his native hotel room, we returned home for a real night’s rest. We are having some great experiences. Lots of love, Ted On Board Hakone Maru, February 22, 1936 Dear Mom, Dad, and Bruce: As we are leaving Japan after a marvelous two weeks of education and pleasure, I shall tell you of some of our experiences during the last few days. From various sources we have heard of a mountain town called Joyaman, which consisted of Buddhist monasteries in which we could stay overnight. In the spring and summer time, it is a popular trip, but very few venture there in winter. Anyway, we were enthused at the idea since we had read much about it in a paper given to us by Dr. Burke and Dr. Rickley. Everything was arranged, and we left Kobe one afternoon and took the train. The train climbs the mountain party way, then a cable car goes the rest. The train ride through those mountain towns and farms was fascinating, and exceptionally so when it grew dusk and lights began to flicker, and smoke began to curl from the farmhouse chimney tops. Although it was late in the afternoon, people, men and women, were still in their fields tilling the soil. The thatched roof houses, constructed of bamboo and plastered with an adobe, were surrounded by rice and vegetable fields. I could ride for hours among those scenes without tiring. Everything seems so neat and quaint from the train as it winds up the mountain. The farmers wear a blue dungaree sort of dress and always have a towel or cloth tied over their heads for protection. All in all, I wanted to get off the train and wander over the countryside in that peaceful, harmonious atmosphere. Early in the evening we reached the cable car and boarded it for the top of the mountain. It became colder and colder, and snow as abundant. A frozen waterfall was to one side, and we muffled up more and more. From the top, we took a bus to the entrance to the city proper. Rikishas awaited us, and we were hurried through the snow, past brightly lighted shops and dimly illuminated temples to our monastery gate. Everything was peacefully quiet as we waited for a monk to open the oaken door, and when he finally came, we were ushered through the halls to our Japanese room. Having left our shoes at the front steps, and leaving our slippers at our room, through a sliding screen door we entered and warmed ourselves over a charcoal brazier, the only means of heating in the Japanese home. After a Japanese meal, to our surprise, a young monk entered our room and spoke good English to us. We talked for quite a while, and then walked into the town before getting to bed. In the morning we were awakened very early by our friend who spoke English. The temperature was below zero, centigrade; and we were mighty cool. We followed him down a hall and stopped in front of a screen door. From within we could plainly hear the chanting of men’s voices. He slid back the screen door, and we stepped into a long room, which revealed itself to be the main temple. Behind the tall candles which lined the front side of the shrine were golden lotus plants. All the decoration was in gold lacquer and brass, and in the middle, directly in front of the presiding, chief monk, was the altar on which stood a statue of Buddha. In front of us as we seated ourselves in the difficult Japanese style were the believers, pilgrims who had come to give offering and receive blessing from the monks. Along the back of the room, to either side of the chief monk, were the monks of the monastery, chanting in the Shingon style. In a few minutes the chief monk, at the sound of a gong, arose, bowed slightly as he approached the altar, kneeled and bowed again three times in front of the shrine, each time touching his head to the floor. As the chanting continued, he offered incense to the Buddha into a sacred bronze bowl. Soon he arose and signaled each believer to approach in his turn. To each he gave blessing, and each bowed low in his turn. Finally at the sound of a gong, the chief monk, together with the believers, left the chapel; but the chanting continued. At the sound of another gong, the music stopped. Each young and old monk took a string of beads called a rosary, out of his kimono sleeve, rubbed it between his hands several times, then arose and departed. The service was at an end. We returned to our room, and during our Japanese breakfast we were told of the history of Koya-san. This mountain was discovered by Kobo Daishi, the founder of the Buddhist religion in Japan. He wanted to find some spot where he could settle and teach his belief. Presented by the Emperor with the mountain, he with his followers constructed the temples of Koya-san, most of which have bee destroyed by fire and the elements. It is the belief that Kobo Daishi did not die, but merely entered. On Board Hakone Maru, February 22, 1936 Dar Mom, Dad, and Bruce: Yesterday morning we left Kobe on the train for Meji, via Miyajima. Until the day before, we had planned to take the day express through the Island Sea; but on learning that a visa costing ten dollars would be necessary for Shanghai, we change dour plans and started by train. The train ride held many new and beautiful sights for us. Looking out a train window in Japan is to us like watching a lovely drama. We came in touch with more of the real, old Japan than ever before. Houses and dress were more primitive, and the countryside was beautiful as ever. Every now and then we would catch glimpses of the refreshing Inland Sea and its quaint sailing vessels. It snowed for a while during the morning, but by the time we reached Miyajima, everything was clear blue. Perhaps you are wondering what Miyajima is and why we are interested in it. You have heard of and have seen pictures of the “Torii in the Water.” Well it is at this place that I speak of. We alighted from the train and took the ferry to an island. But first let me tell you a little of this place of interest. By some it is judged to be one of “the three famous views” in Japan. Miyajima is an island in the Inland Sea, 5 miles long and 2 1/2 miles wide. In every season of the year it is beautiful. The hills and valleys run right down to the sea, and fishing boats along the shore give a very romantic setting. The main object of interest is a temple, which is so built that it looks to float on the water. In front of the temple about one hundred yards out in the water is the Torii (temple gate). It stands about 45 feet high and is a weatherbeaten piece of history. It must have been a beautiful thing in its day. And even now there is a majesty about it. Tame deer are everywhere, giving a peaceful, quiet effect to the landscape. On a small hill above the Torii is a five-storied pagoda standing 100 feet in the air. There are many legends about Miyajima, about three goddesses to whom it was dedicated thirteen hundred years ago. Back in the hills are many parks, in which, they say, is real beauty. We were sorry that time did not permit us to see everything. We enjoyed the town itself, which lies near the temple. It is principally composed of curio shops, which were very enticing indeed. We spent about two hours on the Island, and about sunset when the shadows began to lengthen, we left on the ferry for the mainland. We had a satisfied feeling within us, for we had seen a truly famous relic of beauty. Again boarding the train, we made the acquaintance of a Japanese Army Officer, on his way to Manchukuo. He spoke very little English, but due mostly to Dick’s patience, we had him fairly at ease as we asked each other questions. We were speaking of military operations of the world when he volunteered, “We do not want to fight America,” which is truly the feeling in Japan, contrary to America’s fears. When we left, he asked for our address and said he wanted to write us about Manchukuo. We exchanged addresses and felt very happy in our acquaintance. When we reached Shimoneseki, across the way from Moji, an N.Y.K. man met us and had a launch waiting to take us to our ship, which was anchored in stream. Some style! Dick and I plan to jot down our impressions of Japan, although incomplete as they are due to our short period of stay. We have surely had a profitable stay in Japan with the exception of the pecuniary angle. But we think we know quite a bit, and only hope that the rest of the trip will be as successful. With much love, Ted Our suits are great. We look slick in them. They are of good material and light – just right for California, and our silk shirts are the cat’s pajamas (not if we can help it) – he can wear his own pajamas. Charley Frazer wrote a magazine article on his stay at our native inn at Kyoto, and he got some beautiful photographs with his Leica. We plan to get our contax in Hong Kong, and then will “go to town.” I hope you are getting some good pictures with the movie and Recomar. At the Tokyo Rotary meeting, District Governor Asabuki of Japan introduced himself to us. He said he was coming to the Conference in the U.S.A., arriving on May 27 (I think) on the “Afama Maru” in San Francisco. It would be fine if you could meet him and take him to Rotary the next day. He expressed his wish to go to Oakland Rotary if possible. I think that you had better check up on the date and boat. It is not entirely necessary for you to meet him, but someone should. You might make another fine Japanese friend. I am enclosing Baroness Togo’s card. She is going to write you, but perhaps you would like to write her first, Mother. She will be a great friend when you come to Japan. There is not much to tell about these last few days. Ted has told you about Miyajima and Koya-san, the two high spots. Anyway, I will go briefly over the events. February 18. After spending most of the morning writing letters, we climbed on the tram-car at Nara and rode for over an hour to Osaka. Osaka is the manufacturing center of Japan. It is purely a commercial city. It also stands out in my memory as the dirtiest of Japan’s cities. There is very little to tell about it except to say that its one place of historical interest is Osaka Castle. It was built in 1585 by Hikeyoshi, one of Japan’s great war heros. At the train, we were met by a representative of the Japan Tourist Bureau who took us to another station where we boarded the electric train to Kobe, at which place we arrived in twenty-five minutes and were met by an official of N.Y.K. at Mr. Nakase’s instance, Mr. Ishiguro, Assistant Passenger Agent. After taking us to lunch at th Oriental Hotel, he helped us get our tickets for Koya-san, and we left, on our journey up the mountain. Ted has told you about this, thank goodness. My arm is giving out. (No, this is not a handout.) On arriving back in Kobe at 2 p.m. the next day, February 19, we immediately went to the Hakone at dock, cleaned up, put our new suits on, just arrived from Tokyo, and went for an N.Y.K. drive along the beachfront. Sukyabi is Kobe’s finest restaurant, and we enjoyed it as much as usual. After dinner, a walk own Kobe’s main street, on which no cars or bicycles are allowed, and then to bed on shipboard. Kobe is the port for Osaka’s manufactured articles. It is a real shipping city, very much like Yokohama. The buildings are old, and much of old Japan still remains within a few minutes’ walk of the city’s center. February 20. Made arrangements for our railroad journey to Moji via Miyajima, where we would pick up the Hakone on the 21st. At Rotary lunch at the Oriental Hotel, Ted and I sat at the Chairman’s side, and I said a few words about our impressions of Japan. The Club is entirely Japanese, about seventy of them. Does not compare with Tokyo. They don’t come much better than there. Mr. Yussa sat next to me and was very kind, inviting us to stay at his home on our next trip to Kobe. He has the real spirit. After lunch, N.Y.K. took us out to Takarazuka, headquarters of the Girls’ Opera, and about forty minutes tram-car ride from Kobe. There we enjoyed a beautiful presentation by the girls, the same girls who gave the opera in Tokyo. We had gotten in touch that afternoon with Mrs. Barrington Foote, who told us she was staying in a lovely English boarding house, and we could have two meals and room for 11 yen. Of course, we jumped at it and enjoyed two real home-cooked meals, soft beds, and conversation with Mrs. Foote and the charming English, French, and American boarders. The Americans were real people in Kentucky. They will call you when in San Francisco, but they cannot stop over. They are aching to get home. Kobe’s hotels are terrible, and Mrs. Foote had almost gone crazy until she found this place. Believe me, we will stay there when in Kobe – much cheaper and nicer than hotels. I will send you the address so that we can tell our friends. It will be a real help to them. This letter has been one complete mess, and I hope you have been able to make some sense out of it. You should be getting our letters fairly regularly now. We will number them now so you can tell if you get them all. (1) has already gone. Well, I hope this letter will do. Our next will tell of China and Shanghai. We think constantly of you and would sure like to have Bruce along in side car as he suggests. However, his day will come, we know. Lots of love, Dick -------------------- February 23, 1936 A NIGHT IN A JAPANESE INN Since we had asked to spend the night in a real native inn, Mr. Shimomura took us to the finest one in Kyoto, naturally, because we were a leading Rotarian’s son and would demand the best, especially of such an inn owned by a Rotarian. A special rate of 19 yen for a room and dinner and breakfast for two was made. You can see our position, being entertained by wealthy Rotarians who naturally think we should have the best, and pay for it, especially if the establishment is Rotary owned. You see, in Japan, the finest of everything is owned or managed by Rotarians, and Hiragiya, our native hotel, was no exception. At the entrance, we were met by a group of smiling girls, in kimono and ebi, who chattered welcome to us in their native tongue. Although we understood few of their words, they smiles and giggles carried to us what their tongues did not. After removing our shoes and donning slippers in customary Japanese style, although our feet were slightly large in comparison to the slippers made for small Nipponese feet, we padded along behind our feminine guide, who was to be our private servant, to our room for the night. Major Overton would have felt right at home in such a place, not a speck of dirt anywhere. Highly polished floors, neat paper screens, and spotless mats. Coming into our rooms (there were two of them), Ted and I committed our first major blunder. We wore our slippers into the room and on the clean mats. Muttering apologies and trying vainly to hide our embarrassment, we hurried to the door and slipped our footgear off. One never wears anything but socks on mats in a Japanese house. Our two rooms were plain, but beautiful in their simplicity. Sliding, gold lacquered screens separated the two rooms. For pictures, large ideographs on smooth mounted Japanese paper were placed in several places around the screens. More writing of Admiral Togo. It seems to Ted and me that the great Japanese here must have spent most of his time writing such characters, taking a half hour off to lead his Japanese fleet against the Russians. For heat, the ancient Japanese warming plant, charcoal, had to fill the bill. The day was cold and foggy, and braziers had been placed in each room. Our rooms opened on to glass encased verandas overlooking a tiny Japanese garden, which we could not fully appreciate because of the darkness and lack of springtime blossoms. We could not imagine any hotel more comfy or more picturesque than this. Kneeling on silken pillows around the low Japanese table, we were served unsweetened Japanese tea in dainty porcelain cups with wooden saucers. Although Ted and I can’t say that we crave this beverage, it is refreshing and does quench the thirst. It is an institution in Japanese life. After tea, Mr. Shimomura bade us goodnight, leaving us at the mercy of our smiling Japanese guardian, who was to show us the why and wherefore of everything. Would we like sukiyaki for dinner? We replied with an enthusiastic “Yes.” “Chicken or beef?” “Beef.” We knelt on our cushion, frequently changing positions as our muscles became cramped, while Tanaka (our girlfriend’s name) made ready for a dinner of our favorite Japanese dish. It seems to me that “sukiyaki” grows on one. The more you eat, the more you want. In the center of our spacious dinner table, she heats the “nabe” or cooking pan over the usual charcoal fire, which gives off a surprising amount of heat. Animal fat is used to grease the pan, then “Shoyu,” a basic oriental sauce, is poured in to season our dish. From a dish beside her, Tanaka takes thin slices of beef, leeks, onions, konnayaku (a think spaghetti-like gelatine vegetable), and tofu, a highly important Japanese bean curd, indispensable in soups. She places these constituents in the steaming nabe, and delicious odors fill our nostrils. We did not realize how famished we were until now. As soon as the meat and vegetables are cooked, we pick them out with our “hashi” (chopsticks). But they are too hot for our mouths, so we dip them in a beaten raw egg sitting before us in china cups. Tanaka keeps our nabe full of good things all of the time as we consume great quantities of this savory dish, helped along by several servings of the indispensable Japanese rice. Boy, what a meal! America has no dish to compare with this. If they serve sukiyaki at that San Francisco Japanese restaurant, you should try it now. To top off this delicious meal, Japanese soy bean soup and Japanese cucumber and cabbage are served, ending with fruit, luscious mandarin oranges and red apples. Ted and I then sit back, stuffed to the top, and contemplate on the beauties of life and especially sukiyaki! Tanaka then removed the portable kitchen, and left us to our own devices. After writing some letters, we slippered to the door (some use of the English language?) and shoed down the street (some more English) get our last glimpse of the brightly lighted Kyoto theater street, and to enjoy the shop windows and excitement in the air. At nine o’clock our Japanese bath would be ready, so we returned early to prepare for our next adventure. We had heard so much about the Japanese institution of bathing and were anxious to see how it conformed to our ideas. In the theaters, one can rent a bath and spend his time there between shows. Tanaka informed us that our bath was ready, and told us to follow her to the room. We had heard much about bath girls who scrubbed your back for you, and were greatly relieved when placed in the hands of a male attendant who showed us our haven of rest and enjoyment, a square tiled room in the center of which stood a similarly square wooden bathtub, filled with steaming hot water. We hurriedly slipped off our clothes in the adjoining dressing room, and raced in, each trying to get there first. With a great splash, we piled in (of course we would both bathe at once), but we were out again in less time than it takes to say Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. (It takes us an awful long time because we don’t know it.) That water was hot, but by means of an immersion by stages, we managed to at least sit on the bottom, our heads only above water. What a life! Dad ought to try it sometime – complete mental and physical relaxation, without having to dangle abnormally long legs over the end of the tub. As we became used to the water, more hot water was added. It’s lucky Dad wasn’t there with a thermometer – it would have broken with the temperature. It was with great heroic sacrifice that we climbed out, soaped ourselves and dropped back in. In fact, we felt that if we didn’t get out soon, our muscles would turn to gelatine with heat and relaxation, and we would never get out. So out we climbed agin, ran a light towel over our bodies, climbed into our kimonos and padded to our room. They say that after taking a Japanese bath, your body is so warm that you need never be afraid of chilling by cold air, and most Japanese do not dry themselves, but merely wrap up in their kimonos, the heat of their bodies drying themselves. On returning to our rooms, we found our beds already made up and waiting for us, inviting us to climb in between thick, soft, warm comforters, brightly colored in Japanese style. Each comforter was really a large kimono with places for the arms. The bed, naturally, was laid on the floor in true Japanese style. Our mattresses were three heavy silken mats laid one above the other. For a pillow, the mattress was merely raised by a small mat placed underneath. With no effort on our part, we were soon off in the land of dreams – dreams as strange and charming as our native inn. Early in the morning we arose from our comfortable bed. There was much to do, for we must soon be off for Nara and more of old Japan. We brushed our teeth with Japanese toothbrushes and toothpaste (Lion tooth powder), provided by every native hotel. Tanaka then announced breakfast; so, squatting in our kimonos, we enjoyed an appetizing repast of Japanese soup, vegetables, eggs and fruit. Then, after packing our things, we left our fairyland in Mr. Shimomura’s car to hurry to the station, and as we put our shoes on and climbed into the waiting car, all of our Inn friends, Tanaka especially, cried cheery “Sayonaras” and wished us good lunch on our journey. This was true Japanese hospitality, which is found only in the inns of old Japan, and it was with much regret that we had to leave. Ted and I will always remember those happy faces and our visit at Hiragiya Inn. Your loving son and brother, Dick Hakone Maru Shanghai Feb 26, 1936 its serene as I sit in my cabin with one foot in the waste basket. The wastebasket as you know is a very convenient thing to have handy when you are trying to put together a letter. Monday morning at day-break we steamed up the Whang Po River. For a hundred miles at sea the water had been a brackish brown from the mud brought down by the Yangtse Kiang. Dick and I were excited and after a quick breakfast got out on deck in time to see one of the first junks pass on its way downstream. It was an interesting craft, very seaworthy looking and very dirty. The sails were real veterans, black with age and filth, and patched at every seam. The unclean meagerly dressed people on the deck looked up at us blankly for a moment, then continued their business of sailing to the sea. As we neared the landing we saw sampans being sculled with one oar by a coolie, and marveled at his proficiency. On the deck stood more coolies, all poorly clad in ragged acquired here and there. We were met at the boat by Rotarian and Assistant Commercial Attache, Bland Calder, whom we liked immediately. With him came an apology for not meeting us on the boat and an invitation to luncheon with Mr. Fong Sec. As we drove the mile or so up to the Bund we eager;ly watched the people and their actions. The first thing we noticed were the rickshaws drawn by coolies, being controlled in the congested traffic by the large framed Sikhs, policemen imported from India by the British. More rickshaws than we had ever seen were everywhere around us, and Mr. Calder’s Packard was in direct contrast to these one-man vehicles. Soon we approached the Bund. Boats of all kinds and sizes lined the waterfront. And coming from the larger vessels were the coolies in twos carrying heavy loads between them strung from a thick bamboo pole by a rope. The thing that called our attention to them was their chanting as they struggled under the weights. One coolie would call to the other in a tenor voice and the other would answer in in the same way but in a different note and this would continue until their work was done. The philosophy must be that the rhythm of the song aids in easing the weight in some way. We listened to them and watched them for a long time. From the river we took rickshas to the old Chinese quarter where we alighted and started down a rather dark street. Without our experienced escort we might have felt differently but as it was we started boldly into Chinatown. Shops of many kinds lined the narrow poorly paved streets. Sunlight was scarce and everything had an unhealthy appearance. Slant eyed individuals were all around us and a beggar stepped out in front of us with arms outstretched. We had to brush by him quickly and move on. In every shop was the owner and family and relatives he must support, sitting round and looking important. Here and there were open-air restaurants where one might watch filthy food cooked to sterilization. Soon we approached the bird market. Bird cages hung everywhere, giving forth a furor of song. At length we were led by a man who insisted on being our guide to see one of the old Mandarin gardens. Artificial stones filled the landscape. A teahouse stood among some palms and bamboo, and above it silhouetted in the sky were the fantastic sweeping roofs of the ancient town. In the springtime this place is frequented by people who enjoy having tea in the warm afternoon. Later we entered a temple, or joss house, as it is called. Everything was dark and filthy in full view of the candle-illuminated image of a God. Gold trimming on materials framed the shrine, and in front stood the offering box. Incense fumes were heavy, and people grouped around watching these tall intruders. We hurried out to catch a breath of fresh air, retracing our steps back to those ivory and silver shops and past the curio stores at the entrance. One look at the modern traffic convinced us that we had just come from another world. Our next test of Chinese art was Chinese chow. As the guest of Mr. Fong Sec we entered one of the better modern restaurants. There we sat down to one of the most delicious meals we have ever tasted. That Chinese restaurant had cooking down to a science, and everything was surprisingly clean. After some soup, tea, and dried watermelon seeds, the fun began. Platters of delicious food were brought in at intervals and with our chopsticks we helped ourselves to each plate in turn , mixing the assortment in rice and sauce. One platter contained small shrimps in an omelet. Another was filled with bird nest soup, and pigeon eggs were cooking in it. There was fried rice with meat chopped up fine. And noodles were cooked in the Chinese style, all of this variety before we were served a whole fish simmering in a reddish brown sauce that only a Chinese chef could make. Within a few minutes the naked skeleton of that once proud animal was staring us in the face. We were sorry to see such food diapering so fast but nothing could be done about it. And we will never forget it. After the meal while Mr.Fong Sec, Mr. Calder, Dick and I were trying to recuperate, we talked over the Japanese-Chinese situation, and were given the Chinese viewpoint, the direct opposite of that of the Japanese. It was awfully discouraging to hear talk of Japan in a mode of world conquest and the annihilation of China, but there was no doubt that that is the way the Chinese feel. After lunch, Mr. Fong drove us to the new Civic Center of Shanghai. It seems that the present location and layout is poor and is therefore a great handicap to the city. So the government is attempting to build the city at another site. Several buildings with their beautiful roofs represent the foundations of a program to last several years. On the way back we passed a big stadium where a sort of national Olympic Games is held annually. Along the highway are grave mounds, monuments to the dead, that are said to occupy three percent of the nation’s land. Here and there were ruins of buildings recently destroyed by the Japanese. We came back into the city proper and went directly to the YMCA, a big building opposite the racetrack on Nanking Road, the main shopping street. It is a beautiful place fitted with excellent athletic and social facilities. After meeting the manager, a past president of Shanghai Rotary, Mr. Fitch. we had tea in the lounge. Mr. Fong mentioned the “Charge to New Members” and to our surprise, Mr. Fitch volunteered that he knew it by heart, having said it many times in his presidency. i showed him my copy and he recognized it immediately. As it was getting late we ascended to the roof of the building to see the lights of Shanghai and then drove to Mr.Calder’s home. After meeting his wife and young son, we inspected his house and found it to equipped with every modern convenience, contrary to the belief that life is a hardship in Shanghai. A visit to the country club was suggested and we quickly took that up. it as turned to be an excellent club with fine facilities for golf, tennis, swimming, bowling, ping pong, billiards and dancing. We were ready to camp there but when we mentioned our desire to get in touch with Mrs. Conrad, they told us they were the closest of friends, so we drove to the Conrad house and met the Mr. and Mrs. and the young daughter. We enjoyed them an Mrs. Conrad wished to know all about you, mom and sends you her best. With her and Mr. Calder we then went out for another fine meal together, the Calders having just returned from a trip around the world. They gave us good information on what to see in Europe, and the conversation was lively. At dinner it was decided to give us a taste of the night-life of Shanghai. We went to one cabaret and didn’t like it. S And then entered another called the St. George run by an ex marine. We sat down at a table and ordered refreshments and watched the dancers. Girls were seated in chairs around the floor and we learned that for thirty cents Chinese, or ten cents American, one might dance with the girl he chooses. “Ten Cent a Dance” was real. One section of chairs was assigned to White Russian girls, another for Eurasians, and still another for Koreans. Dick and I each bought three tickets and found each group to be great dancers and also very pretty. A Eurasian Dick danced with turned out to have quite a personality. We also danced with Mrs. Calder and Mrs. Conrad, and at no charge. That evening e stayed on board ship and the next morning after breakfast walked to the NYK office on the Bund. The assistant passenger agent offered to accompany us about Shanghai until sailing time. His name was O’Brien and had lived in all but three countries in the world. He was a most interesting person and at lunch we were given his opinion of the political situation. It had been snowing all morning so in the afternoon we walked down the white street. A small boy poorly dressed held out his hand as I passed. Into his palm I dropped a piece of candy. No sooner had that been done than a flood of urchins engulfed us, complaining in the only English they knew, taught them by the sailors. “No Momma, no Papa, no whiskey soda”. It was a sorry scene but a very common one. We needed light clothing for the hot weather ahead, so made a purchase from a street side tailor. You must never pay the asking price here so after 20 minutes of bartering we walked out of his store and were halfway down the block before he finally came down to our price, although it was probably his all along. Dad would have enjoyed that encounter. From the American Express we received our second letter from home and avidly read it. We hope to find more waiting for us in Hong Kong . With business finished we took the bus to the wharf and our ship. We said goodbye to our friends and thanked them for their wonderful hospitality, and in the rain steamed away from Shanghai down the Whang Poo River to the sea. Just a few observations: Lunch is called “tiffen” here in the orient by foreign residents. Tea is served around 5 o’clock and dinner at eight. At 9;15 the city’s entertainment industry starts and lasts well into the wee small hours of the morning. Those who don’t have to work sleep late until noon. Everyone takes life easy and enjoys himself as much as possible I’m pretty sure we won’t land at Naples since NYK doesn’t make that stop. Therefore Marseilles is the likely place to start our trip. We will have any mail forwarded to Marseilles, and the deadline there will be April 12. After that for three weeks it will be Geneva, Switzerland, and wherever. Everything is ship-shape..D March 1 Empress of Japan In past letters you have heard how our hands froze as we tried to write. From now on the letters will be stained with sweat from our brows as we labor in the tropics. Last night we left Hong Kong a 8 PM. Our ocean caravan this time is the real thing, the Empress of Japan, latest and the finest on the Pacific. Our second class accommodations are better than the Hakone’s first. And the food-what variety and quality! We have to waddle out of each meal. There is only a slight roll and no pitching of the ship. This is the real way to travel. Tomorrow will bring real heat, and Manila. About the letters we are supposed to have received pertaining to our stay in the Philippines. we have seen neither hide nor hair. I hope it was not that important. We did not find anything in Hong Kong and hope for something in Manila. From Shanghai to Hong Kong was an uneventful jaunt. The NYK people again put us in first class cabins, and we enjoyed “second-class: food, though “first-class” in quality. Our time was taken up, writing and playing a little deck golf. As Ted told you, we purchased two dozen handerkerchiefs and will send them out to friends in small batches. These handkerchiefs are so beautiful and so heap that on our return to Hong Kong we’ll get a number and bring them home to you. We feel any money spent this way is a way ahead in value and worth the splurge. Ted and I went to bed on Thursday night, doing most of our packing in anticipation of the next day. The night air was warm and after opening our two ports, we endeavored to get some rest. However, we spent the usual restless night that we experience the night before a new port. At 6:30 AM we were up and hurriedly packing suitcases for we could see that we were sailing through a wide channel, its shores lined with three storied white buildings that we have seen in so many pictures-the port of Hong Kong. The ship was not to dock until 8, and we seemed to have plenty of time to pack. Hardly started, though, we were interrupted by our room boy who informed us that passport examination was then being held in the smoking room. Passports examined without red tape, we finished packing as the ship slid into one of the docks, sticking like a finger into the bay. We certainly did justice to our last breakfast on the Hakone for we needed strength for a busy day. Mr. Kinsey, assistant manager of NYK was waiting for us on our return to the cabin. We were immediately on the best of terms for he is a Californian from Long beach and would be able to show us things Americans enjoy most. He was a typical happy-go-lucky port representative that we find here in the Orient, so often an American. He took full charge of our baggage, arranged for our cabin on the Empress docked a few feet away, and we were off to see the city, at the same time making important purchases, the most important to date being the Contax camera. I will not say much about the city now or first impressions but save them for our return visit when we know more. However I will tell you of the price, merits, and virtues of our purchase. Our camera is an f 2 Sonnar Contax with shutter speeds to 1/1000 of a second and to 1/2 a second. Its price complete with case was $400, or $133 American. This camera sells for $270 in America. Incidentally there is only one faster lens made and we have more than enough speed at our command. The Leica was $15 cheaper in our money but we chose the Contax for several reasons. Zeiss Ikon, maker of the Contax, is the top of the line. The Contax has a focal plane shutter of metal and not of cloth as used with the Leica, for heat in the tropics can be a problem. The loading mechanism of the Contax is much simpler and convenient. Focusing is also easier, and we feel it is a sturdier camera to stand the rigors of weather and bike riding. The disadvantage is that it is a little more bulky. We felt its advantages warranted the few extra dollars, so important to us. Aside from bicycles this is our last large purchase. I will write soon as to finances and how we are doing. We’ll now have some real pictures for you and for the years to come. I will take a colored roll for you to project on the screen Our day in Hong Kong was spent buying tooth brushes, film, slippers (6 cents a pair) and enjoying the sights in a clean well managed city, at least the case in the foreign quarter. The day was overcast and a few drops of rain came down but the air was warm and we dispensed with coats and hats. We thought that in this way we would look more like residents, but everywhere people took us for tourists and we had the usual trouble of shooing away the beggars. It seems that going around without a hat or coat is typical of the tourist. We’ll learn, I hope. Our 35 cent lunch at Jimmie’s was just enough to whet our appetites which we finally satisfied at dinner on the ship. This weather is getting to me. Any vivid descriptions will be badly soiled by the heat. The letter will be worthy for facts not literary value. The ship was to sail at 5 Pm we were told, but after standing on the deck watching junks alongside unload their cargoes, Ted and I became convinced something was amiss. And so off to the purser’s office where the sign said, “Sailing time 8 PM”. So off we jogged to look along the wharves and streets of Kowloon until 7;15, dinner time. We walked through clean modern wide streets for a mile or so and then into dirty narrow alleys of the Chinese quarter, filled with squalid children playing strange games. A beggar insisted on following us and it wasn't until I gave him several harsh “Get aways.” that he let us alone. On the main street we walked under a great tree filled with singing birds, their music heard a block away. Darkness had fallen by the time we retuned to the ship and we hurriedly cleaned up for dinner. As we finished eating, the Empress steamed slowly out of the harbor and when we came out on the deck to enjoy the evening air, Hong Kong’s lights were far behind and all was totally dark. We hit the hay and slept like rocks. This morning we again ran our waiter ragged but he seemed to enjoy the large meal with us, and we could hear him commenting to the other boy, who laughed with him. Our dining room is spacious and very few chairs are filled so we felt it our duty to clean up any food left around in the kitchen. As I sit here, four of the strangest people are playing hearts near us. One large man, visibly worn by the heat, one chubby red faced lady who has a word for everything; one thin sprightly elderly woman who must have been a hot momma at one time-a typical bunch of tourists, but I guess to them we looked just as odd. The sun is really beating down now and the sea one swell after another. Oh, to take a dip. This is just like Hawaii. We sure wish you could be here to enjoy this tropical weather. I've my Contax beside me, always on the look out for a fine shot. All of the officers are now dressed in white, so I guess we had better break out our newly acquired summer duds. This letter is the world’s greatest mess but this weather does something to you. I guess it is just the change for us. Will scribble again tomorrow.T March 2 Manila It was great to receive your letters from Oakland via the China Clipper. Thursday afternoon we watched her land in the bay, and got a few shots. White skirted men and women lined the waters edge for a long distance watching the giant airship, and of course sweating profusely under the scorching rays of the sun. We love it. Here you have the weather LA talks about and the year around. Everyone wears white all of the time for there isn’t any winter. We can hardy believe our eyes-flimsy houses, fully open without windows, just shades, just as in the country clubs too. To us this is just one big year around resort. Our ship, the Empress, finally after a lot of maneuvering tied up at the dock giving time to the customs officials to get their jobs done. Of course we had on our new white duck suits, trying vainly to look cool. White clothes here are made from everything from tissue paper to Saigon linen. Manila harbor is very much like the docking facilities in other cities. However, it does lay claim to fame because it possesses the largest dock in the world, dwarfing the Empress when tied up alongside, and the Empress is a mighty big ship. We were waiting around for someone to give us the keys to the city when two girls walked up to us. One was small, thin, and bespectacled, the other medium sized and tending toward chubbiness. They introduced themselves as Bessie and Mary Hackett, coming to take us in tow. So off we went. After a good deal of bickering managed to get our suitcase out of hock, piled into a taxi-all four with cases requiring a squeeze-and rolled off to the European-American YMCA. Manila was very mush as we expected. It is a typical tropical city. Everyone dresses in white, top to bottom, and laundry bills must be something. That’s the thing we don’t like about Manila. It seems silly to us, for everyone wears coats and ties all of the time in this heat. The comfortable attire would be shorts and a polo shirt. Of course I admit that some of Manila’s imported robust business executives would not present a pleasing sight, but we boys demand our comfort. Policemen direct traffic under umbrellas in intersection stands The traffic is made up of fast moving Austin taxis and their larger standard brothers from America. And there are horse-drawn carriages known as “Caratellas” which serve the native population as cheaper taxis. They look a lot cooler and comfortable than the overgrown motor driven carriages we civilized folk use, and there ride costs about 10 cents. The natives her just like the folks at home from the Philippines for they dress in all of the colors of the rainbow This seems to mean light pants with cuffs covering the entire foot, dark shirts and contrasting ties, usually white, and natty tie-pins and side burns. They really put on the dog and pay fabulous prices for their trappings. This is a land of wealth and sunshine. A very few have the wealth and all have the sunshine. As I sit here I look out through the open screen and see a beautiful hibiscus with brilliant red flowers. Across the street several native girls with long dresses and shawls covering their heads are walking slowly by. What a contrast to Japan in winter. It seems to me that the Japanese paper screened house would be ideal for this climate. A cool breeze has made things more livable and hopefully it will keep up. Yesterday was spent in walking through the downtown section, talking with the Hackett friends and eating two small meals at the grills’ boarding house and with ice tea galore. In the afternoon we drove out about three miles to the Polo Club and there enjoyed a fast polo match along with a bottle of root beer and a gorgeous sunset. The Polo Club is the meeting place for Americans. Everyone takes tea on the beautiful lawn with colored lanterns above. On Sunday evening dancing is in order from five to eight. The dancing between sips is down in a large pavilion. The clubhouse with thatched roof and sliding screens is just one big country club for the wives. However, I don’t think we could enjoy it for long. Two weeks would do it. Ted and I wee shocked to hear about Stanford’s bad luck in basketball. We don’t understand it. We hope they have pulled through by now and will look forward to wearing bout the games in Hong Kong. Well, I’ll have to sign off now. This letter is going out on the Clipper so Bruce can get the stamps. I’m afraid the weather does not encourage literary inspiration. Hope you get something out of it. Ted and I realize that from the time it has taken to write letters this far, we will not be able to keep up the pace. I hope shorter letters will do. I think we will have to keep our impressions more general-sort of survey at best. PS Mr. Lockwood came by this morning and will direct our stay here. He was swell. We haven’t yet decided what we will ask of Rotary D March 14-15 Suwa Maru I am now sitting and writing in the lounge of the Suwa Maru, a half a day out of Hong Kong. Ted is around somewhere also writing, and across the room who do you suppose is reclining on the davenport but Paulette Goddard with Charlie Chaplin next to her. She looks charming and he worn. I’ll bet they are regular fellars. Perhaps we will make their acquaintances. We were thrilled to find your letters waiting for us on our return from Canton. By the time this letter arrives I hope Bruce’s team has cleaned up in the tournament and Stanford has landed on top. We enjoy scanning the clippings you send. Hank seems to be coming up to expectations and Howie is right there too. We received your books in good order, including Mr. Shield’s. We should get good material out of them. The Tuckers sent the candy to the boat. We’re writing Mrs. Gause, among 1000 others. We hope everyone received the handkerchiefs. Our last few days’ stay in Hong Kong and Canton were delightfully filled with new experiences. Hong Kong has a population of 850,000 an is situated along the northern shore on five miles of Hong Kong Island. The city’s true name is Victoria, but is known as Hong Kong to American geography students. The city fronts on a beautiful bay surrounded by scenic beauty. Victoria Peak rises some 1800 feet behind the city and one’s social rank is determined by the height at which one lives. The Governor lives on the very top and joys a 10 degree lower temperature on the sweltering days in the city. However, there is a price because the he is wrapped in fog that did not leave during our stay. The city itself is much like that seen in Compton’s Encyclopedia. Along the waterfront you may see the strange pillared buildings rising tier upon tier and almost the same in appearance. Sidewalks are protected from the flooding downpours of rain by this tier-like arrangement. It is the strangest type of architecture you can imagine and makes Hong Kong distinctive for this reason. There is little or no traffic on the city’s broad modern streets that make up the foreign section, because the this section is almost entirely English and is so small that one can walk around the block to do his business and cars are not needed. Tram cars, double-decker busses, taxis, modern rubber-tired rickshas and sedan chairs answer everyone’s needs. For 10 cents you can ride anywhere. The native city in which 821,999 of the 850,000 live is quite a different story. With the exception of the main thoroughfare, the streets are narrow and dirty with smokey walled typical Hong Kongish buildings of a few stories all decorated with the day’s wash. In the narrow alleyways vendors set up their transportable shops, selling everything from a full meal to fountain pens. Food is for sale everywhere. Whenever buyers congregate, beggars are there to ply their trade. Children follow us everywhere repeating over and over again pleas we can’t understand. This alms business in China is a flourishing profession. Along the waterfront the seeker can certainly find the romance of the East. The wharves and banks are littered with native crafts of every description, Sampans are always on hand to ferry one almost anyplace for a ridiculously small price. A constant flow of activity goes on between the larger junks and shore. Men, women, and children all are busy loading the boats with supplies and cargo. Portage in China is done by suspending equal weights or measures of material from the ends of a pliable bamboo bar supported on the shoulders. By moving with a light jog the pairs of coolies are able to move in rhythm with the bouncing motion of the poles. Tremendous weights are carried in this manner, usually accompanied by a weird chanting, either to aid the rhythm or ease the pain. We couldn’t guess which. Great Britain owns a number of the islands in this region including Hong Kong. Four square miles of the peninsula opposite the island jutting out from the mainland are also under British control, ceded to her by China in 1861. On this point is located part of the city of Kowloon which serves as the docking space for large sea going ships. A number of long wharves extend out into the bay, sheltered by the jutting Kowloon headland. It was at one of these wharves that our excursions in Hong Kong have begun and ended. It is very difficult during bad weather and during certain tides to bring the ships in because these large vessels must make a complete turn to come alongside, a maneuver accomplished safely under only normal conditions. The currency here is the Hong Kong dollar and it equals 100 cents. The ratio in value to gold is now 1 to 3, so that the dollar is the equivalent of 33 1/2 cents in our money. Living is therefore very cheap. Ted and I seldom change our money with the changers who come on board unless we know the exact value and what we should receive. The barred window of a money exchange can be found in almost every block of a Chinese city. It is a thriving business. The harbor of Hong Kong, or Victoria, is one of the most picturesque we can hope to see. It is crowded with craft of every sort and description. Great drab battleships lie quietly at anchor, while tiny native junks and sampans scud by on the breeze that seems to blow across the water constantly. Speeding motor launches and swift passenger ferries run their courses, always giving the right of way to the billowy sailing vessels. Such activity! We can easily sit for hours watching the ever moving story of life in the East before us. When the wind dies, men, women, and children all lend a hand on the quaint sailing oar, supplying raw had power characteristic of the East. It is impossible for me to do justice to the remarkable life on a Chinese waterway. The sooner you get here to see China as it has been for centuries, the better it will be, for China is slowly changing, and although the taste of the ancient will not be lost for years, it will change and you should come now to see a civilization almost untouched by the rest of the world’s social, and economic advances. Unfortunately, since during our entire stay here a heavy fog has hidden the Peak, so that we are unable to enjoy the view we might have had from there. Our stay in Canton is also unrecorded, due to a mistake I made in loading, for the film did not roll through. Nothing new about such mistakes, but we will do better, for these scenes are there just once. Now a little about the facts of our stay here. Arriving here on Monday from Manila, we put up at the Kowloon “Y”. Tuesday was spent writing letters. At one o’clock, Mr.Kinsey, Rotarian and assistant passenger agent for NYK, from Long beach, took us to the Rotary lunch. There we enjoyed a tasty meal with seconds, preceded by drinks for all but us teetotalers, and topped off by an extremely interesting and enlightening discussion by Dr. Rushbrook on “Dictatorship vs Democracy”. We would like to have talked with him but other engagements kept him busy. We have much to tell you of the different concepts of Rotary encountered thus far. In Honk Kong Rotary is not taken seriously by most, and such an article as “The Real Rotarian” you mailed us would get the horselaugh. They claim they are “too busy”. Incidentally, I asked the wrong question. “Why are there not Chinese members?” Out of the group, one man came forward offering his time and advice in the matter of entertainment for us. He was Mr. Kay, Security of the local C. of C and anxious to help us out. His suggestion of motoring around the island was happily accepted. This trip so famous for its scenery was spoiled for us by the dense fog and mist covering everything in the higher altitudes. We were interested in the method they had devised and were carrying out to provide the city’s water supply. As it is now, city water is turned off every day from 11 AM to 5 PM because of the shortage. Over 100 inches of rain fall every year, but it comes all at once and is lost into the sea. By constructing troughs along the hillsides that empty into reservoirs, it is hoped water will soon be plentiful year round. At Repulse Bay on the southern side of the island we enjoyed tea and cakes, five cups to be exact, and every cake in sight. You see, this is the way we can get along without dinner. Economy! After this delightful repast, we went completely around the island, arriving at the Y about nightfall. Then we had a quiet evening getting ready for Canton. We had wired Bill Lange, Carl’s close friend, to meet us at the station, so it was with a sinking sensation that we looked in vain for him in the crowded mass off humanity at Canton station after the three hour ride from Kowloon. But sure enough, a few minutes later we spotted our blonde friend striding toward us. I think he was just as glad to see us as we were to find him. At least that is what we gathered from his greeting. We put ourselves entirely in his hands for the duration. We started off in rickshas to see the sights I will describe; As evening drew near we went to the Lingnan dock and took the launch upriver three miles to the University. The Lingnan Campus is a delightful place on Honan Island in the Pearl River. The buildings are all done in a combination of European and Chinese style. Carved Chinese tiled roofs finished in reds, greens, and blues give the colorful touch. New buildings are being added all of the time as the college expands. Every student has his own bicycle, and the many campus walks are scenes of constant streams of bikes moving between classes. For 10 cents, Canton, one may take the boat to Canton, while many prefer to make the trip by bike. The students live in dormitories much like Stanford, but not as comfortable. The exchange students from America are scattered through the halls, each with a Chinese roommate. They get along well together. Bill, along with the other “exchangers”, has at his command enough of a Chinese vocabulary to secure any of his needs. Through Wong’s aid in this difficult language, Bill could speak quite well by the time his year ended. Chinese is a terribly difficult language to master because there are so many meanings to a word and they have hardly audible differences in pronunciation. Bill may say a word and it will be perfectly understood but if he turns around and says the same thing to someone else it might convey nothing. Lingnan is blessed with twenty-three students from America, one of the finest most companionable and hospitable groups I have ever met. Of the 23, four are girls who have entered into the spirit of everything with the energy of boys. I believe that this group is governed by a finer and more complete understanding than any fraternity in America. Everyone is having the time of life studying China and its culture, and enjoying the companionship of Chinese friends. Many of the fellows wear Chinese dress much of the time. The native clothing is so comfortable and suited to the climate. Bill has outfitted himself completely in silk robes and jackets that he wears most of the time. However his blonde hair fools no one. Baxter House is the fountainhead of the group’s activities. This building with its three cheery Chinese “amas” to wait on the guys is maintained by the American Foundation at Lingnan and administered by Dr. Henry who was on his way to America during our visit, much to our disappointment. Here at the Baxter House everyone enjoys an American breakfast.The other two meals, usually Chinese, are taken at meeting places on the campus. In the evenings, usually a large group gathers around the fire to “:chew the fat” or on moonlight nights, a sampan trip on the river will fill the bill. No one seems to study very hard. The excuse given is that the Chinese students as a whole are slower to learn than the Americans who thus keep up with classes with very little trouble. The Exchangers are drawn from universities all over the U.S.A., from Harvard to Occidental. Some have been picked through grades, others by general qualifications, which seems the most sensible . The group coming over has grown larger each year and should approach 50 or so next fall. It is a wonderful opportunity to learn and Bill is a lucky fellow. As I have said, the bunch opened their arms to us and we felt as if we were studying with them. From arrival to departure every minute was full of something new and exciting. Our first evening we spent as guests with the group of Mr. Lin, head of the Bureau of Sericulture, who treated us all to a delicious dinner, or should I say “feast”, of chinese chow. We consumed about eight or ten tasty dishes helped by as many toasts with the strongest most distasteful wine I can imagine. But it was all part of the game and everyone entered in with enthusiasm, even if the stuff did scorch your throat. By the time the evening was over, Mr. Lin, Mr. Fung the honored guest from Peking University and I were bosom friends and any information I wish in the future they will be happy to supply. We were told that we had hit the group on one of “their” nights, so in a riotous mood everyone piled into a bus that would take us to see “Grandma”. Who this was we had no idea, but trouped along with the rest for some fun. After walking down the middle of a dark street for severa;l blocks beyond the last bus stop, the leaders turned into a narrow lighted doorway and whooped up two flights of stairs to a typical Canton dive. There, Grandma, a harsh blond of forty or so with a boyish bob and a couple of buck teeth greeted us, not exactly with open arms, but almost. For an hour or so we enjoyed some dancing and the cake of a birthday party going on in one corner. But the most important event of the day I have neglected to mention. Ted, Bill, Phil Morse and I had a refreshing basketball workout on one of Lingnan’s outdoor courts in the afternoon. Strangely enough, since arriving in Japan, so much has been going on that the idea of playing some basketball has offered small inducement. On Thursday afternoon we enjoyed a real workout, this time playing against the Exchanger’s team that has high hopes for Canton championships. The $800 cup would be theirs if only we would forget our trip and stay and play with them. We’ll be anxious to hear how everything turns out. Each Thursday night the Americans gather in Baxter House for dinner with some leading person of affairs in South China. We were very fortunate to be present at such an occasion on our last evening. By this time we felt as though we had been at Lingnan for months and were really a part of the group. Mr. Kn, Canton Minister of Foreign Affairs from Nanking, was the honored guest. After dinner we enjoyed his complete and straightforward discussion of the struggle going on with Japan--really struggle between conservative business and radical militarism. We were told by friends that he had given us the inside dope because reporters and spies were not present. It was with regret that the next day we had to be on our way, leaving them the invitation to say hello to us in California. We will always be indebted to them for their kindness and especially indebted to Bill Lange. After thoughts and pick ups: The Stanford Exchangers were Margaret Woolverton, Hal Fulkerson, and Bill Lange. Hal is from Ukiah and is doing fine at Lingnan, in full bloom, red hair and all, and is the basketballer of the group. Hal really knows his buckets because of his study under Mr. Bunn. Through him we hope to meet the bunch in Europe and return with them to America. We will contact him in Berlin and Bill in Heidelberg. We purchased for ourselves in Canton one black silk padded short coat for $2.33 American apiece. We got them because they are so practical to study in during winter at Stanford and because they will be handy for fancy dress affairs. They of course are tailor made. On our arrival at Kowloon at 4 PM Friday we immediately crossed the bay to call at NYK for final instructions. We had understood that the Suwa was to leave Saturday afternoon, so we felt there was plenty of time to get last minute things done. But can you imagine our surprise when Mr. Kinsey informed us that the ship was sailing at 6 AM Saturday, and that left us an hour to complete transactions. We thanked our lucky star that we had not waited until 4PM to take the Canton train. We have no pictures of Canton because I made a mistake in loading the Contax-tough luck, but we are still living and thus learning. We did make our boat. In order to land at Marseilles we had to pay $6 gold head tax and our fares were $6 from Naples to Marseilles, since the ship dos not stop at Naples. Our tickets and cabin were all secured and we were all set. The next few hours were spent making our last purchases, enjoying a filling dinner at Jimmy’s and seeing Will Rogers in “Steamboat Round the Bend” at a local theater with Mr. Key. These purchases consisted ot two Chinese hats((0 cents gold), one dozen more handkerchiefs and the bargaining we did would make your heart sing, Dad. We spent a full half hour making one purchase, running back and forth between shops, finally bringing the price down 15 %, and perhaps getting the best of the best shop in town. Oh yea? It’s the great Oriental sport and we are in good shape for bickering in Europe. Dad you would have the time of your life over here being “"Sco†chy". Ivory lions, teak lions, brass lions, jade lions, and every shopkeeper anxious to bargain, thinking that anyone who buys an object with less than a half hour’s bargaining is a fool. These Chinese are clever business men and appreciate sagacity in dealings with them. A little about our ship and traveling companions. The Suwa Maru is one of the older ships of the “Maru Line”, as Mom likes to say. We are again fortunate in being quartered in a first class cabin and taking meals in “second”. Everything about the liner is comfortable and homey, well suited for the next few weeks’ sailing. Our fellow passengers, both first and second classes, are a lively and companionable group. We are looking forward to many good times in their company. For table mates we have a young man of 25 traveling around the world and writing travelogues on his most interesting experiences; a young Russian business man going to Singapore; the Japanese assistant purser with whom we are on the best of terms; and a lovely English couple enroute to London on leave. I must tell you about them. They are a white haired pair, parents of six grown children, and have lived in Tientsin for many years, this being their first visit to London since 1917. Mr. Shellem is a railroad engineer and student of psychology if there ever was one. We enjoy greatly his comments on people and hs jovial manner. Everyone represents a book to him and he studies each as if he were writing the book. We hope to learn much from him as he reads us. Another traveling companion is Charlie Chaplin. He is on board with Paulette Goddard, his fiancee, en route to Singapore and Bali. Our first acquaintance with him came when we found ourselves to be in the same lifeboat during the drill. Of course under such trying conditions we immediately felt something in common, resulting in an exchange of ideas. The ultimate result was a discussion of various national and international problems, lasting all morning and much of the afternoon. We feel like old friends now. Charlie is a short, medium built man, with a lithe athletic frame. In his youth he was a marathon runner and now plays tennis for exercise. And he plays it well. His graying hair makes him look older than his 46 years while his agility and youthful good humor subtract years. Charlie is an actor through and through. Gesticulations with his hands, expressions on his face, and modulation of his voice, dramatize every description or add force to any statement. He is an unaffected, unpretentious soft spoken man who seems to enjoy the companionship of others and whose interest in others makes him immediately acceptable. We hope to know him better before his departure. Ted and I are discussing the possibility of leaving the Suwa at Suez, getting our refund, and taking a steamer from Alexandria to Naples. In this way we will have time to see Cairo and possibly Luxor of which Major Overton speaks at such length. This move would eliminate having to travel down to Rome and back up again, and eliminate also the extra passage fee from Naples to Marseilles. We will see about it at Singapore and write you later. We may finally go by train from Singapore to Penang and take advantage of Mr.Lee’s invitation. We received a swell letter from Wins and I will write him again now. The reason that I didn’t do that before leaving Japan is that I wanted to wait and really have something to tell him. I know he’ll understand. We are happy to receive your first pictures, Bruce. The trouble with them is that you’ve given them too much light, necessitating too quick a removal from the developer. Half that much light would be plenty and to give them a shiny finish, polish up the ferrotyping plates by cleaning them with hot water and then rolling the pictures down with a blotter. You know how. Or you can first roll them between the blotters and get the water out, and then lay them down between dry portions of the blotter under weight. Send us some more. Since your set us some we will return the complement. We are shipping our duffel bag from Singapore filled with things we won’t need now. We will let you know the ship it is coming on and the contents-a number of “620” negatives, One roll of negatives has moisture spots on it and whether I can do anything with it is doubtful. You can have them printed by Virgil if you wish. The pictures will be tiny but cheap, and I will, enlarge them on our return. These pictures are our first attempt with the Contax and must be discounted as such. We have been a handicapped by absence of a filter and sunshade which we will try and get in Singapore. I will catalogue all of the photos so you will know the score. Our next letter will probably be from Colombo, and we will have oodles more to tell. We can hardly wait to arrive in Singapore to see and feel the romance of the “Melting Pot of the East”, but more important to hear from you. I hope Miss Eschbacher has been able to decipher my scribbling. My fountain pen collapsed and I am lost without it. These letters are really horrible examples of English, but we have so much to write and so little time to write it for we always seem to b rushing. We hope Elizabeth received her handkerchief safely. Tell her that it is prettier than practical and would look good in a frame...D March 16...Suwa Maru Just one month from today I will be eighteen years old. and I know the trip so far has rounded out my first ten and eight years that give much satisfaction, thanks to you. On Wednesday, the tenth, after a short stay in Hong Kong Dick and I boarded the early morning train in Kowloon for Canton. At the station before we left we had a great time with the coolie who was carrying our bag. The coolie always gives you a price for carrying the luggage and when it comes to the payoff they demand more, so you must show them the door. It’s some business but the coolie’s live so poorly you can hardly blame them for wanting something extra. Leaving Kowloon, the railway heads into the interior. It runs through miles and miles of rice and vegetable paddies and here and there is a village with stone stable-like dwellings and adobe thatched roof houses. Near the coast and standing high on the hills above are a few dignified European homes of the well to do of that vicinity. It is a fact that the poor Chinese who must work in the fields or carry heavy loads all day eat but twice during that day, in the middle of morning and early evening. And as it was almost breakfast time, smoke was pouring from doors and windows, or perhaps curling up through a hole in a roof. The old concrete highway next to the railroad was dotted with men, women,, and children on the way to the fields or neighboring villages. As it was raining some had on straw raincoats over their dirty dark blue clothes and many wore the wide brimmed straw hat to keep the mist from their eyes. We were surprised to see stone graves of a peculiar circular shape set into the side of the low hills that dot the landscape. At first we thought they were sort of a water system, but as the rain let up and vision cleared, we could make out rows and rows of small barrel-like urns around these odd looking graves. These laces for the dead, we understand, are built in certain spots that tradition says will be best for those who have died. Of course these burial structures are those of the well-to-do Chinese, but around them and far outnumbering them are the grave mounds of the poor. In China these mounds are a great problem for they are sacred and the people will not allow them to be moved. Thus a tremendous area of arable land goes untouched by the plow. A common scene along the way is that of a farmer, bare footed and with straw hat, guiding his plow through the water soaked yellow soil behind his faithful water buffalo or caribou. In all of the few stations we stopped at there were porters waiting to carry luggage, but contrary to the foreign standard, these were poorly dressed women wearing straw hats and carrying a bamboo pole about five feet long. We watched them tie up someone’s suitcase and boxes, half on each end of the pole, and then start off with the pole on their shoulders. A thing of this kind, women doing such hard work, is hard to understand, but there are many customs here in the Orient that one must get accustomed to. About noon the train pulled into Canton. We had wired Bill Lang, Dick’s Stanford chum of our arrival and he waiting for us there in the busy station. With him we ricksha through the outskirts of Canton to the river where we boarded the launch to Lingnan University. The one full day that we spent in Canton was an eventful one. In the morning, Bill Lang, Chuck, Dick, and I started the three mile trip on bicycles. It was fun riding along the red earth roads between the rice and vegetable paddies of bright green. We stopped to examine a stone grave like the ones seen from the train, Further on were the first stores bordering the road. Chinese eating shops and open kitchens dominated the area, but it was disappointing to see the filth in which they existed. Nothing is wasted here. That which isn’t consumed by humans is gorges on by, sloppy hogs, or “skin and bone” dogs and cats. Soon we entered the city proper and were conscious of tremendous human traffic. Intermingled were the slaps of bare feet and clatter of footwear on the dirty wet pavement, along with the cries of ambitious peddlers, and blares of bus horns. Canton, the central city of South China and situated on the Pearl River has a population of about one million, one eighth of which live on boats on the busy river. We expected to find winding narrow streets and were surprised to find ourselves riding on wide well paved streets. Our first experience was to walk through Shameen, the foreign quarter of the city. We then crossed town to see the municipal buildings which greatly resembled those of the new civic center in Shanghai with their blue, green, and red roofs and modern light colored walls. We climbed the 650 steps to the memorial to Sun Yat Sen, famed military leader and popular Cantonese hero. It was a shame that the weather was poor for this tall tower-like structure can command a view of the city and surrounding country. Not far away stood the flower pagoda which marked the old wall that surrounded the city centuries past. By this time we all were hungry, so our student friends invited us to lunch and we were soon seated at a table in one of the more modern restaurants. The menu was in Chinese, and as our friends could not make much out of it, they simply drew a line through one of the rows of characters. And then the fun began. Plate after plate arrived and disappeared empty, until we were fairly bursting. As our friends paid the surprisingly reasonable bill Dick and I managed to wash our hands and faces with the steaming hot towel brought by the waitress. Directly, we were back on the street, tooting our tiny horns are the people in front of us and weaving through the mass of humanity. Canton is noted for its streets more or less assigned to the various crafts. It was our host’s intention that we see them and we did. We saw pieces of ivory being transformed into small figures by use of a revolving metal bit turned by pumping feet. And along the ivory street we entered shops with precious carvings representing years and years of careful workmanship. Further along was the Jade Street with its smaller shops and intriguing displays. And then we turned off the crowded thoroughfare and were led down a dark stone paved alley. Soon on either side appeared shops containing black teakwood furniture ornamented with intricate carvings of dragons and Chinese conceptions of wild life. For quite a while we meandered down the maze of narrow filthy streets trying to create as much of a mental picture as possible. And when we finally turned back we realized how easily would we could have gotten lost in such a place where alleys go on forever. We returned to the main street, then made for the Brass Street where there was great industry, pounding and polishing the shiny metal objects. Nearby were the embroidery shops so we stepped in and examined the finest from expensive mandarin coats to exquisite wall hangings cut from ancient royal dress. When we finished acting our part as tourists, we set out to do a little shopping. We looked all over Canton for Chinese slippers large enough for our almost twelve's, but none were to be found. The Chinese topknot hats are also too small. We would go from shop to shop in vain, with a crowd of inquisitive locals at our heels. The shop owners had great fun joking among themselves about our “:gunboat” feet ad “fatheads”. But we could take it. As it was getting late in the afternoon we decided to take one more look at Canton and then head for Lingnan. We passed the bird market where the shop widows were filled with bird cages. Up and down the main streets rolled huge loads p of stone on roughly hewn carts pulled by five or six men or women who strained at their ropes with every possible ounce of strength. It ws not uncommon to pass a funeral with its band and banners. Beggars combed the streets and gutters, dressed in gunny sacks and coated with dirt. Every now and then we would pass a “walking kitchen”. Strung from each end of a bamboo pole were cases of steaming food and the peddler would stride along balancing this load on his shoulder. Above all of this fascinating show are the two or three story buildings with their advertisements in brightly painted banners and signs hanging from above. Dick and I were captivated by the feeling of adventure we experienced as new sights unfolded. On our way back to the University we stopped a one of the villages. We entered it through a large hole in a deteriorating wall and found ourselves among bare one storied buildings built with stones or adobe and bamboo. We hadn’t expected a brass band but there was a reception committee consisting of all of the little kids in this community. We were sorry to see our inquisitive reception committee turn into a group of fugitives so Dick snapped their picture. We wandered down the dirt alleys along an open sewer, looking into the dwellings of a different world. Outside the village were the green fields dotted with men and women bent over at work. And off to one side was the village shrine, neglected and run down, giving the indication that piety and worship is passing. It was getting dark so we hurried back to school. A part of Canton that must not be left out is the river and its thousands of sampans and junks. Along the shore are the sampans in which much of Canton life is centered. It is remarkable how so many thousands have lived and will live in their floating slums. Anchored out on the muddy river are the junks, and docked to one side are the “flower boat” of ill repute. And of course to top it all off is the Chinese Navy-a few obsolete tubs anchored out in the stream and surrounded by the swarm of daily life. The following noon when we boarded the train for Hong Kong we had one idea in mind, and that was that some day we would hope to return and spend both time and money in Canton. The return trip was uneventful, and we didn’t miss anything we went by. We are becoming expert in keeping our yes open. When the train stopped in Kowloon, Dick and I carried out our usual plan for disembarkation. As we were in a hurry, Dick would be the first to alight from the car. I would be ready to shove the suitcase out of the window onto his shoulder, and when that was done I get the easy job of the light boxes or coats. I am writing all of this trash from the Suwa and it is getting hot. And when it gets hot the mind slows and when the mind slows the pen goes raggedly, but don’t ne alarmed. We have had an invaluable experience in the Orient and yet we have hardly scratched the surface. Dick and I agree that China is indescribable. There is so much and words are so few that it makes the task of writing more difficult. But we realize we will profit from it, and are enjoying the whole show. Dick has written of our shipmates and of our interest in them. Our next port is Singapore and we are anticipating being there. We were delighted to receive your letter in Hong Kong and they gave us a great deal of happiness, for we appreciate them more the farther we distance ourselves from home. Dick and I hope that everything is fine with you and that “Let Lyon Guard Your Goods” s booming, and that there is no worry about the two boys traveling safely across the world. And a final thought- there is nothing like the connections based on friendship that Rotary is providing, It has made the difference. T March 19 Suwa It was just two months ago that we started from home and what a glorious time it has been! But along with all the fun and sight seeing I believe that I have learned more in the last two months by just talking to people, and people are so willing to talk with us. This of course is in the field of general knowledge, but there has been and will be much for us to learn along specific lines. Of course we had several long talks with Charlie Chaplin and others on the ship, and since everyone has a personal opinion, it is hard to judge correctly. The other evening we had an interesting discussion with a Dr. Blackburn, an Englishman, concerning our future vocations. First of all it was decided to choose one from medicine, law, engineering, or business. It was not long before he found out we are not bookworms which in his mind eliminated us from medicine and law. Of course Dick and I, and especially Dick, like to argue and that is a requisite for the law. And then we began talking of future fields in the way of Dad’s business, transportation, and engineering. And Dr. Blackburn expressed the feeling that one of the great fields to be in is transportation by air from either the business or engineering standpoint. Of course these are just thoughts and one of the many viewpoints we will encounter. Since we left Hong Kong where it was foggy and cool, we have missed the hot weather because of the rains but there will be plenty of heat ahead. We are now on our way to Penang where we will spend one night in port, a disappointment for we had hoped to see a bit of that country. Nevertheless we have just spent a marvelous day in Singapore with Mr. Raper, the President of the Rotary Club. It is a long story and we surely packed the twenty-five hour visit by doing and seeing everything possible. After disembarking at 4 o’clock we were taken by Mr. Raper to the Adolphi Hotel for tea and then out for a little shopping and required business. At American Express we found letters from Sally Ammen and Dorothy Shields but were sorry not to hear from you. Since Prince Pura Chotra was ill, we were unable to see him, but Mr. Raper had us well in hand. His invitation to stay at his home for the night was enthusiastically accepted, and we found his home to be one of beauty with extensive grounds around it. That evening we enjoyed dinner at the Seaview Hotel and then went to a permanent carnival called the New World. What we enjoyed most were the Malayan and Chinese dramas taking place in open theaters. The Malayans were dressed in fantastic costumes and they did their acting to the accompaniment of cymbals monotonously clanging. The stage manager would walk about the stage among the players while the show was going on, changing the sets and all the while smoking cigarettes. Every now and then he would sit down on one of the stage chairs and watch the drama. It seemed a bit crazy to us. We slept well and got up at 6:30 to walk through the famous botanical gardens which were opposite our lodging. There was an extensive variety of trees and plants typical of the area. They were the most beautiful and well kept gardens we have ever seen and deserve their fame in Singapore. When breakfast was over we drove into the country through fields of rubber trees to a rubber factory. Since our guide could speak little English we had to show him around in order to see anything, but the process was interesting because we have studied it in school and knew what we were seeing. We were then taken to lunch at the famous Raffles Hotel, and then taken to the Raffles Museum. Sir Thomas Raffles was the founder of Singapore and because of his late prominence and catchy name, he has been honored by the extensive use of the name. Soon our time for departure rolled around, and after thanking Mr. Raper, we boarded our ship. Native Malayans in their slender dugout canoes came alongside and dived for coins. Since the passengers had a lot of left over change not worth anything anywhere else, the natives had a thriving business. I was surprised see one old gray haired fellow smoking a small cigar, but every thing was explained when he dived from his canoe for while in the air he would reverse the cigar in his mouth with the lighted end inside. The trip through the Straits was made on our way out of the harbor and we could see part of the heavy fortifications the British are constructing so as to impregnable from the air. The British are going after it in a big way. In Singapore we saw Mr. Chaplin and his party several times and had fun insisting that he was following us around. While we were in Mr. Raper’s home, Dick and I consumed a lot of liquid as lemonade. During the 24 hours we had five glasses at different times, but in such a climate a high fluid intake is demanded. The Raffles Museum is a fine building, and its collections are standard for the area. They had the skeleton of a whale and beside it were its arms, or fins, very much like a human’s. Mr. Raper said that the correct name of the Malay peninsula is not Malay alone but Malaya. The countryside is full of fascination with its pineapple fields, groves of rubber trees, and native huts. When we arrived in Singapore I had the notion that it is a city of evil and dangerous characters, and that the life was centered around boats in a harbor. On the contrary, it is truly lovely with such a green surrounding and warm atmosphere. The buildings are modern and dignified, so my mind has changed. MARCH 21 It is now 8 AM and we have just left Penang in the distance. We arrived last night in the harbor about 10 o’clock and by eleven the launch was ferrying us shoreward. For the first time in my life I saw phosphorescent water, and it was grand. As the boat would plow through the sea, the foam seemed to ignite and folds of silver would form, break, and recede to be left behind. The darker the night,the brighter the glow. In Penang everything was quiet because of the late hour so we were driven to the amusement park and there saw a Malayan drama, similar to the one in Singapore. We returned to the ship about 1 AM and at 6 AM awoke in time to get a last glimpse of the harbor. The sunrise was special as it blended one color with another until the clouds and sky were full of silver. For the first time we got a glimpse of the entire island of Penang. And it was green everywhere. It is hilly in the center, the highest point at 2700 feet, and the town of Penang lies at the northeast corner of the island facing the western coast of Malaya two miles in the distance. The pilot has left our ship in his launch and we are now under full steam. T March 21 Suwa This marks the fourth day since Penang. The weather is perfect. White luminous clouds are scattered above from a sky where the sun beats down unmercifully. However, cool salt sea breezes temper the heat to the point that it is enjoyable. Each day Ted and I go through an organized conditioning. We start out by taking a nap after lunch, then a sunbath for gradually extending times, topped by exercises and a refreshing cold shower. The rest of the day is spent reading and writing, broken by short deck games. We are enjoying the books you send us and we study them diligently to get ready for the sights ahead. Because of exorbitant prices from Alexandria to Naples, we will continue on to Marseilles. We will buy our bikes there, ride to Genoa, and then go the rest of the way in Italy by train. We are told that it is possible to get a rate reduction if a circuit is made. It will be safe to send letters to Genoa arriving there up to May 20 or so. The next batch should go to Munich. We hope we did not miss any letters in Singapore, and if we have, they will be forwarded to Geneva. Perhaps some still await us in Colombo. As to whether to go to Cairo or not between Suez and Port Said, we will decide in Colombo. The thing is that we are not going to pay $20 in gold for the visa. The final outcome rests on this. I believe some type of transit visa is available. We have quite a varied group of travelers aboard. There are a number of French, Dutch, Japanese, English, and Americans. The French are a very nice but sensitive race, at least from first impressions. The Dutch are very likable. The Japanese keep to themselves, giving us little chance to become aquatinted. The English are jovial and potbellied and we get along with them easily, as we get the worst in most arguments. The Suwa is much slower than was the Hiye. In perfect weather the best we can do is 354 miles a day, while the Hiya managed 400 in rough weather. We’ll get there, I expect. Ted and I have agreed that that writing the long and detailed letters, as from Japan, is a bunch of “hooey”. The letters take so much time and energy along with letters of thanks and others to friends, that we feel we must be more sensible. As for writing a book about our travels in the East, that is absurd. We would be like babes, knowing so little of what we speak. As for “Bikes in Europe” the prospect is more promising. However, please do not expect letters in detail. The best we can do will be to sketch, elaborating at special times. The time is short in Europe and we must make the most of it. I hope also that friends will not expect long letters. We’ve written so many we are “blue in the face”-something like eighty so far not including half as many post cards. The sea bag will be sent home from Singapore They will let you know when it arrives. I neglected to put in the rest of the films which are catalogued inside. We will take them with us and send them home if opportunity presents. We’re anxious to know how Bruce’s team did in the tournament. He might also be interested to know that there is a fourteen-year old girl on board whom he could really go for. She’s making a play for Ted right now since nothing better is likely to turn up. I’ll try and keep everything under control. Anything you hear about fellows or girls coming to Germany we would like to know. We will be in southern Germany and the Rhine Valley from June first to July. We will probably miss the Olympics unless we make a quick trip from Holland. Right now England and Bavaria invite us the most, and that is where are time will be spent. We have gained tremendous admiration for the German people and look forward to knowing them. D March 28 Suwa Today is our second at sea since leaving Colombo en route to Aden four days away. Our memories of Colombo and the wonderful day we spent there will always be fresh. We left Ceylon with a sweet taste in our mouths because of the kindness shown us by Rotary President Nathanielez, who represents the finest type of Indian. He treated us to real hospitality just because we were sons of a brother Rotarian. Our day in Ceylon will be remembered as one of the pleasantest of our trip. It was six o’clock in the morning when we awakened to receive our first glimpse of tropical Ceylon of which we had heard so much. The ship was moving slowly inside the great breakwater which extends a mile out to sea, forming a great calm bay, the Port of Colombo. Nature had not favored the city with even a semblance of a harbor so it was necessary for man to construct walls of concrete to hold back the tides. However, the two entrances are so narrow that entering in anything but good weather must be almost impossible. We had imagined that Colombo would present the same appearance as beautiful Hong Kong-a white walled city extending along the skirts of rugged verdant peaks and crags, but our first view discouraged such allusions. The city is laid out along a level waterfront with only blue sky and white clouds hazy with distance for a background. We were told, however, that on clear days one may discern a majestic cone shape peak behind Colombo. The city itself is constructed in the usual tropical style so prominent in Hong Kong and Singapore, with white two and three storied buildings rising in tiers of arches and colonnades. Many of the newest are built in a more modern western style, presenting a more pleasant appearance to our eyes. Broad clean streets, seldom found in American cities, radiate to every part of the port. Traffic congestion is practically unknown, due the efficiency of the native khaki clad police who carry out their duties in the shade of extensive umbrellas. Their job is no cinch either, for they have every imaginable type of vehicle to deal with. Since Colombo is Ceylon’s only outlet for its rubber, tin, fruits, and tea, these products are transported right through the city’s heart by primitive native drawn conveyances, all roughly hewn as Singhalese covered wagons drawn by bulls in yokes. Such a cart might easily have been found in the “Days of 49”, differing only in its coverage of canvas from the thatched Singhalese wagon roof. Strange as it may seem, jinrickshas are an institution in this city as well as in the rest of temperate Orient, but if anyone wishes to cover any distance in a short time, new Diesel busses run on regular schedules throughout the city. For such plutocrats as Rotarians and ourselves small imported autos from abroad with dark skinned chauffeurs are the rule. Any uncertain ideas as to how we would spend our day in Ceylon were quickly dispelled as we anchored. It was the presence of the Reverend Nathanielez who made the difference as he took everything into his own hands, much to our relief. His being a native and leading man in civic affairs insured for us an instructive and interesting day in Colombo. That we could not have been in better hands we realized as the day went on. After completing the necessary passport examinations on board we clambered down the gangway to a waiting launch that then wound its way through the usual native water traffic of the orient. The boats were of ordinary design but were propelled with oars having large cups for blades. Perhaps this type of locomotion is the latest thing in Colombo, but these men worked awfully hard to budge their sluggish crafts. Our first usual duties of the day ashore was changing money, looking for the America Express, and purchasing a copy of Mark Twain’s “Innocent Abroad”, were quickly taken care of. We then climbed into the Reverend's ten-year old Austin. He told us he wouldn’t part with it for love or money, It hasn’t yet let him down. From the way it ran there remains another ten years in store. I might speak of the Reverend and his place in Colombo society. He holds the office of Charity Commissioner of the city and claims to be the poorest member of the Rotary Club. However, from our observation of his charming family, he is by far the richest man in town. He is fifty years young and doesn’t look a day older than 49 1/2, and he is a real boy at heart. He was flat broke when he went to Yale in his teens, graduated “cum laude” and returned with a wife, a child, and $10,000. His features are strong and distinctive; his skin is dark from ages in the sun. He wears his collar backward, is crazy about football, and has a rich sense of humor. Ted and I are surely fortunate in making our trip when a man his caliber is in the Rotary office of honor. The morning was spent cruising about the city and the countryside, visiting a number of Colombo’s points of interest. Even the narrow dirt roads on which we drove through rural neighborhoods were neat and well kept. Green tropical trees and foliage covered every foot of ground. Stately coconut palms curving symmetrically this way and that; shorter jack fruits trees with their enormous green shelled fruit; rows upon rows of rubber trees not as yet tapped for their precious juice; bougainvillea and many species of hibiscus-these are only a few of the trees and shrubs which give Ceylon its mantle of green throughout the year. Along the river banks, half dressed men and women were completing the day’s washing. They first soaked the clothes in the questionably clean water, then beat them on rocks worn smooth by years of such treatment, followed by a final rinsing and drying on lines strung between palms leaning over the water’s edge. Both sides of the road are lined with dark-skinned natives carrying all sorts of bundles or baskets on their heads. They stand as straight as the Washington Monument and with an uncommon majesty as they balance their burdens. Many different nationalities are represented in this steady stream of human traffic. Singhalese, the natives of Ceylon, and Tamils and Moors from India make up the population. A Singhalese can always be detected by his long hair done up in a roll behind his head, while a Moor wears his unmatchable fez. Few wear shoes Their feet look to be as tough as alligator skin, and most men go bare from the waste up. Instead of pants, multicolored skirts are worn, while in a few cases a G string fills the bill. This is certainly the ideal clothing for such a blistering hot climate. In order that we might see a little of the religious life, our host took us to the places of worship of the three leading sects, Buddhism, Mohammadism, and Hinduism. The Hindu shrine is now falling slowly into decay, but even in that crumpling condition the delicately wrought images and pillars of stone give mute testimony to the temple’s former beauty, and to the now passing greatness of Hinduism in Ceylon. Buddhism's shrine was a disappointment. The building itself was unimposing while the shiny new paste image of Buddha entirely unappreciated by our eyes after seeing Nikko and Nara. A small cheaply constructed mosque with its traditional pool for believers to bathe in before praying was the Mohammedan contribution to our education. However, from the looks of the pool with its slimy bottom on which rested cans and dead fish, a believer would be much cleaner if he took a mud bath. The Galle Face Hotel was the next object of interest for us. Here we received a long uninterrupted view of the gorgeous shoreline to the south of Colombo, with native outrigger boats resting on the white beach and small grass roofed huts adding to the uniqueness of the scene. I could easily picture the Bounty mutineers dragging their long boats on just such a palm lined beach as this. The next hour we spent pleasantly at Reverend Nathanielez’ home midst the palms where we enjoyed a real Singhalese lunch with his family. The meal, composed mostly of rice and curried chicken was a little too hot for us, but refreshingly cool orange juice and ice water made it tasty. The main difficulty here was that for every glass of liquid we drank, the same amount appeared as perspiration. As for the Reverend's family, we had hardly expected to find such a charming group in a real Singhalese home, especially to an occidental’s eyes. Mrs. Nathanielez is a fine looking woman. Her six daughters happily have inherited her beauty combined with the strong features of their father and the color of all is surprisingly light. Scholarships are waiting for all of them at Yale anytime they wish to go, due to their father’s remarkable record here. We will look back with pleasure always on these so few hours spent in the hospitable atmosphere of a genuine Singhalese home. After securing photos of all we bade them “aloha’, not goodbye and drove back to the city to complete purchases and calls before boarding the ship at 4 o’clock. The Reverend insisted we meet the American Consul with whom we had a pleasant chat. He is greatly admired and a Rotarian of course, Since time was short we took hurried looks at the carvings in ebony and ivory in in colorful shops for which Ceylon is famous. They are so delicate in workmanship and texture. Through the ages of experience in staining and polishing the Singhalese produce unsurpassed pieces. It was with great difficulty that we refrained from spending precious dollars. But we were not to leave Ceylon empty handed, for the Reverend saw to that. As we stood waiting for our launch he presented each of us with a tiny beautiful ebony elephant and a handful of even tinier elephant charms. Here was a Rotarian and a man we will never forget. Those tiny elephants will always bring back memories of his kindness to us. As I write, Ted and Dick Jrs. with full shiny black hides, and big ears are gazing at me from the shelf above. The sounds they utter are not audible to the ear, only to the heart, a message of friendship and good cheer from Ceylon. As the Island of Ceylon faded into the distance we stood on the after deck in silence, hoping to return some day. Every evening we have seen beautiful sunsets. However, due to the low altitudes of cloud banks the colored rays of the sun do not touch their lower visible sides, and the brilliant effects are lost. We keep hoping that the he clouds will lift to expose the real sunset colors to be then photographed. The weather has been highly enjoyable so far. There is always a cool sea breeze that tempers the heat to the point that we are experiencing California weather. Yesterday Tad and I lay out in the sun of noonday, and boy did we get red! The water is as calm as Lake Merritt. During the night the red turned to tan and we are sporting such. Our shipmates think we are crazy to lie in the sun. Many of them are from Java and do their best to keep out of the sun. Several of the Dutch kids are as brown as natives. Ted and I are now the only Americans in second class. All; the rest are English seaman and the officers, Dutch, French, and Indian. We have an exceptionally fine group at our table. Mr. and Mrs. Shellam have been most enjoyed. Mrs. Hill is from Ceylon, and a charming Indian woman from Calcutta is a Mrs. Day who is on her way to London to study. The officer at our table is Isamu Ikeda, 2nd Purser. In our on-deck tournaments, he is second best and has already given us a present, a Daruma, a Japanese good luck face mounted on board backing. He is also going to send some Japanese records home for us. He is so anxious to make friends and we fill that bill exactly. Our ship will stop at Aden in the middle of the night, so we won’t have time to see much. We will send both of our suitcases to London by NYK and will probably have to have the American Express take charge of them there. As to whether we will buy bikes in Marseilles, we still don’t know. The plan is to go along the Riviera to Genoa, and then by train the rest of the way in Italy. All will depend on train fares. We are doing our studying every day. I am still trying to decipher “Pictorial Composition” for the second time. You can tell Virgil that he must think I want to be a master of art right off the bat. Richard Halliburton is the biggest liar in history and “So You Are Going to Italy” is for the birds. It would take us a year to see all that he describes in Rome alone. This letter will be mailed in Marsailles as our boat will arrive there sooner than the next mail boat. If there is anyone we have missed writing to please let us know. So far we have sent a paltry 100 letters and the same number of postcards. I don’t know whom we can have missed. Hope all still well D APRIL 2 SUWA...Aden It has been a good voyage from Hong Kong to our present position in the Red Sea. Perfect weather and affable companions of course make for the best trip. it has been quite wonderful with breezes preventing real heat. The sunsets have been very effective, but nothing like what we had expected. Lately the moonlight nights have been special and Dick and I have been tempted to just lie on the outside and look up at the stars. It is fortunate that no one is around to take offense. Today we had a race with some big porpoises evidently playing hooky from their schools. When there are movies on the afterdeck, we sit on the top deck and take it all in. We have seen a few good pictures among the majority of mediocers. The only thing that detracts from the entertainment is an occasional falling star or phosphorescent flashes in the sea. Although we do a lot of reading and writing, we find time for the deck games. Swimming is done on a small scale because in the canvas pool one can’t dive from one end without taking a chance of hitting the other end. It seems to be an odd English custom to daily have sweepstakes as chances on the races in England. Dick and i took a chance on the Grand National but our horses must have taken headers over the first hurdle. Meal time is a happy time and at our table of 6 or 7 depending on the fancies of the Second Purser Isamu Ikeda, who comes when he wishes. Mrs. Hill from Kandy on Ceylon, the Shellams, and Mrs. Day from Calcutta are our tablemates. We seemed to have created a fad when we ask for iced tea. It was new at first and is now asked for by all. Our table steward is excellent with only two words in his vocabulary. The are, “Yes Sir” and “Sorry”. But what he lacks in vocabulary he makes up for in exercise, for he is ever on the move. We have had many discussions about Rotary with Mr. Shellam and Mr. Blackburn who argue that for years such a thing as Rotary has been existing in the form of the ACAB. or Ancient Order of Buffaloes. It sounds silly, and maybe it is. I have learned a great deal from Mr. Shellam and will learn more. Dick has read five or six books and I have read four. It is easy to read about what lies ahead for us. In order to male things clear I shall describe a day on board the ship. At 7 AM there is tea and toast, with breakfast at 7:45 after a few turns on deck. We write or read to 10;30 when we go out for a sun bath. Lunch is at 11:45 followed by a game of deck golf until 1 PM, and then we take an hour’s nap. another sun bath, a swim and a shower. We write or read until sunset, and then have dinner, after which are movies, dancing, deck games, or just sitting in deck chairs enjoying the breezes. There is nothing dressy about second class, though all are neat. Every now and then Dick and I may be dragged off to a corner to look at photos by one of the Japanese photo enthusiasts. Every snapshot is of himself, alone or with a relative-kind of boring at best. The reason seems to be that that the Japanese want to build up their confidence , but whatever it is, it will never seem normal to us. There are ten different nationalities in tourist class. They are Belgian, American, Dutch, Japanese, Chinese, Siamese, Indian,, French, German, and Singhalese. And we get along well. English is the universal language as well. One short midnight excursion into a suburb of Aden was rewarding. Late in the afternoon land was sighted and about ten we steamed into the Aden harbor. Two battleships were holding target practice out in the ocean and it looked like the Fourth of July. We finally dropped anchor opposite a British cruiser but all we could see on shore was the dim outline of hills in the moonlight and the tinkling of lights in clusters below. After landing by launch we walked into the small community about five miles this side of Aden. Taxi drivers in new Fords harassed us continually with offers to take us riding for prices we were not prepared to pay. None rode, much to the disappointment of the impolite drivers. Because there is a tariff only on alcohol and ammunition it is considered a Free Port. Thus, many curios were bought by the passengers. Nothing enticed us so with Mr. Blackburn we decided to explore, first going down a narrow street to glimpse the inhabitants still awake. The only illumination was an occasional gas lamp on an outside table. Goats were sleeping against the dirty walls and crude beds lined the street, seeming to be occupied by someone beneath a yellow sheet. The whitewashed and dusty buildings were one story. We walked up the street just wide enough for the ever-0present taxi to follow. On one corner that seemed to be the center of the community, eight Arabs were sitting around a table lit by a gas lamp and covered with cups and saucers. They are for coffee, we learned, for it is the custom to drink coffee no matter the hours. At the end of this street was the marketplace, surrounded by a high wall, and beyond this was the city well powered by human effort all through the days and nights. Water is extremely scarce for it rains just once in seven years in this dreary place. Food ws being sold nearby. On one table we saw a variety of foods that appeared anything but appetizing. All of this time we were followed by an Arab. Was he a guard or a guide? Maybe he expected a fee, but we didn’t try to find out. A refreshing drink at one of the hotels, a brisk walk along the seashore in the moonlight, with the ships riding at anchor in the distance and then the short trip by launch to our ship ended the evening’s explorations. We are going to Cairo from Suez and know exactly what we wish to see, hoping that some one at Suez will meet us and make such a trip possible. T . April 7 Suwa Maru We happily received Dad’s letter in Port Said through Mr. Allen the Rotary President. It was the first news since Hong Kong, so we read and reread. It is great that you are all well and Stanford is coming through. As Dick explained the trip to Cairo seemed so impractical that we shall save it for a future time. The Suez Canal was interesting, and we arrived in Port Said at midnight on the 5th, Palm Sunday. We had gone to bed early anticipating the coming day but about three AM we were awakened by loud yelling and a commotion outside. Curiosity aroused I went outside. Our boat is a coal burner and were taking on coal but in such a primitive manner. It reminded me of a beehive. Everything was businesslike. The strong Arab workers would have their baskets heaped full with coal, then lift the heavy load to their shoulders and take their places in line on the gangplank leading into the ship’s hold. When the basket was emptied, down the second gangplank they would hurry, all of the time yelling in high voices, possibly believing that in this way their burdens were lightened. From the coal barge a few gas lamps added to the effect by making the workers stand out in contrast to their own deep shadows. The rest of the night was pleasantly spent dreaming about it. Before breakfast Dick and I went ashore and had our first look at the Middle East. The Quay is the name of the waterfront street facing the Canal. At the north end stands the statue of Ferdinand de Lessups, builder of the Canal and the man who struck the first blow with his pick April 23rd, 1889. Thus was begun the town of Port Said. It was named in honor of Mohammed Said, then Viceroy of Egypt. Beyond the statue is a breakwater that runs more than three miles. And along the breakwater are the fishing boats and as fascinating a group of fisherman as one cold hope to see. One group was landing a cargo of freshly caught crabs. Some were laying out there nets to dry. Others mended nets in the early sunshine. One boat was hoisting sail in preparation for the day’s work. Everything was peaceful and after a few shots we hurried back to breakfast on the ship. Mr. Allen came in after breakfast and we hustled into his car for a look at the town. Port Said is the gateway between East and West, with a population of 100,000. The town is raised above sea level to prevent damage from floods, and during the last five years improvements have been many. Along the main street are the banks, shops, and open aired cafes bordered by broad sidewalks. A French atmosphere prevails as the formally dressed waiters try to drag you into their cafes. We drove outside the city and along the Canal for several miles. We were show the broad body of water to the east of the Canal which was formed by the Allies in the Great War to keep the Turks from attacking with a land force. Along the Canal were heavily loaded Egyptian boats that were being dragged along by men on the banks. From a distance the tall white sails towered above the reeds along the shore, which hid the squat flat boat itself from view. Back to the city then and a short ride through Arab quarters. Filth was the word that every glimpse conveyed to us. The women dressed in long black dresses, veiled and with a black cloth around their heads. If there is a gold bar or pin on the forehead, the woman is married. The man’s garb consisted of a couple of nightshirts, on over the other, with a fez or turban above. A belt or band around the waist was common, and feet were bare. After you've seen a main street you have seen all of them, so we hurried on to the Mosque where we alighted and entered with a guide. Instead of removing shoes, we were given a woven reed cone to step feet into. It was awkward but served the purpose. The exterior was not impressive, but the inside was colorful and ornate. The paneled ceiling painted in gaudy colors was supported by marble pillars that rose from the stone floor. Geometric designs cover floor and walls in a decorative manner and on the side against the wall facing Mecca, stood a wooden throne used by the priest for his sermons. On either side were Mohammedans kneeling in prayer and facing Mecca. In one corner was a staircase leading up to a platform for the ladies to pray on. In an adjoining building believers were washing hands and faces from water taps on the wall. This is the procedure before worship. The priest-guide showed us the Koran written in three languages We were soon out and on our way to Mr.Allen’s office and home. It is as large three story building with offices on the first two floors, and home on top, and he and Mrs. Allen showed us there beautifully appointed home. In the garden, Mr.Allen cultivates roses as a hobby and there are always roses to beautify his home. What he does with the roses is this. The Egyptian rose is poor, so he buys English and French varieties and when the bush has reached a certain stage of development, he extracts only a bud from the foreign species and after splitting the side of the local shoot, he grafts as he ties the bud tightly in the shoot. In this way he has a rose of quality that otherwise could not have made it. We were served a grand lunch by Abdul, and then walked through the town and window- shopped. Kodak stores were everywhere and since there is no duty on imports, many of the passengers bought cameras at fine prices. Tea at the Allens was very informal as Mrs.Allen was having a tennis party and everyone was having a good time. We thanked the Allens and then returned to the ship for dinner. Then we walked into town, had a beer in a sidewalk cafe, a lesson in perfumes in one shop, and we were back on board and leaving as the lights of Post Said dimmed in the distance. This morning we are passing the Island of Crete and it is hard to realize that we are in the Mediterranean. We shall land either on Easter or the day after. This would allow us to perhaps attend Easter Service in the Notre Dame Cathedral in Marseilles. We have many problems that will be solved when we get there. There are questions as to clothes, bikes, money, hotel accommodations, etc. In any case we shall plan to get started early on this first day of our journey abroad. We have written to American Express in Naples asking them to forward mail to Rome. A good deal of time has been spent writing letters to those who have been so hospitable to us. It is getting cooler all the time, but the weather should be good for the rest of the trip T April 13 Marseilles on Ship` Yesterday, Easter Sunday, was a very busy day. We awoke early and went on deck to find Marseilles awakening under a slowly rising sun. To our left, as we approached, was the main harbor, a barren promontory suggesting the African arid coastlines. Halfway down to the shore a train crawled over Roman arched bridges and through short tunnels. Further on were factories, quiet on this holiday, and then came the outskirts of the city and we could hear the bells ringing clear in the distance, welcoming the Easter morn. We crossed to the other side of the ship and there in the the distance was the little island of note, Monte Christo, with the Chateau d’IF perched on top. Directly eastward lay the city of Marseilles. A light blue haze hung over it, veiling its buildings and streets. But high on the hill to the north stands the Cathedral de la Garde, or Sailors’ Cathedral, with early morning sunshine bathing its bell tower. As we drew near to the protective breakwater, small fishing boats around us were drawing in their nets. The air was crimpy, and a north wind intensified it, to an uncomfortable degree. Our ship finally docked and we were expecting the American Consul to meet us. There was a man standing on the dock and Dick and another traveler were standing at the rail. The man waved and Dick waved back, and so did the Doctor. The man motioned that he was coming aboard so Dick and I went forward to meet him. thinking it the American Consul. But then the doctor put in that he thought this was his friend, whom he was expecting though had never before seen. We decided to go forward together and wait at the gangway, and the one he went for would be the person he had come to meet. We stood there with such blank looks on our faces I am sure, if he had been the Consul he wouldn’t have recognized us. But instead he shook hands with the doctor, and we had a good laugh over the predicament and its outcome. We had our passports OK’d by the French officials in the smoking room, and as we were walking out, one fellow said to us, “Have you gotten your money changed?” “We haven’t any money” we replied and we both had to laugh. Not five steps further, a travel agency man inquired ”Have you purchased your railroad tickets yet?”: “No, we’re riding bicycles” we replied and left him without any business. We had breakfast and waited for the Consul who had wired the ship that he would meet it. At ten, a man arrived and said he had been sent to see that we were fixed up, but he appeared to be such a poor means of information and such a poor representative of any Consul that we thanked for his trouble and started to look over the city with our Japanese friend, the Second Purser. During he next five hours or so in Marseilles, we walked and saw a great deal. We climbed to the Cathedral Notre Dame de La Garde, which provides a magnificent view of the city and all about it. The clouds were wonderful and the ocean stretched out to the horizon a rich deep blue. The Isle of Monte Christo and a larger island adjoining it seemed very near to shore from our point of vantage, and the city itself was a solid mass of streets and roofs. We were taking in all of this beauty when 12 o’clock arrived and from all of the city the bells chimed. Yes, it was thrilling. Our Cathedral bells rang loudest of all, like a father church dominating all blow. We stepped out of the wind into the shelter of an elaborate chapel just take a breath and let the beauties we were seeing sink in. From the Cathedral we descended through cobbled ureters to the “Old Port” which is the inner body of water that shelters only the small boats, but which in the past was the main port. Guarding it is the historical Fort St. Jean erected on the site of a house which in the twelfth century was the rest house for pilgrims to the Holy Land. We walked up through the city by way of the main street and the spot where Alexander of Yugoslavia and Barthou of France were shot, to the Palais Longchamp. On the way we stopped at a patisserie which had an enticing window display of Easter candy, and purchased some rolls for lunch. The pretty waitress spoke so fast in French, and not sympathetic to our plight, made us wonder what our two years of high school french had produced. Finally, we just talked in numbers and prices and got what we needed. The Palais Longchamp dates from 1860 and contains a museum and art gallery of note. From there we visited the “Porte d’Aix”, a triumphal arch inaugurated in 1883. We visited the Cathedral said to be the most beautiful building constructed in the city since the sixteenth century. Services were going on so we stayed for a few minutes in he restful atmosphere. Outside, men and boys were playing a game where brass balls are rolled along the ground just as we play marbles. On the side of the buildings are the words in small letters ”Defense d’Afficher” which means “No Bills”, so we are picking up our language capabilities. The women unmercifully paint their lips and they seem to drag their male escorts by the arm, all the time talking a blue streak. The men wear berets, and we have seen some very effeminate males. Returning to the boat for dinner we stayed on board for the night. This morning we got up, had tea. and said “Goodbye” and watched the ship pull away, our friends waving from the stern. From our Hand Me Down we found this small hotel and it seems to be a good choice, because the price is 35 francs plus tax and tips, 40 francs inclusive, for room and board. The exchange rate is 15 francs per dollar, and the bill runs per person about $2.66 per day. This is probably a standard price. One problem is that since Monday is also a holiday banks are closed so we had to borrow from our good friend Mr. Shellam who was only too glad to help us, Dad, because you are a Mason. Tomorrow we receive letter when American Express opens. Also, we shall buy our bikes and equipment, and we’ll probably start riding on Wednesday, about noon, for Toulon and our first day on the road. We have just had our first French lunch and it was delightfully prepared and delicious, especially the fluffy French bread which comes in rolls a yard long. Today is dreary because of the poor weather, such a contrast to sunny yesterday. Dick will write tomorrow. Yesterday we were a bit discouraged, perhaps homesick, but today we feel better..Ted April 15 Marseilles.. Today is our fourth in Marseilles as we prepare for our pedal trip A little sunshine and a few friends make a difference in these times of change. For the first time since leaving home, we were depressed. We were so alone on Easter holidays in a foreign land where communication is a struggle, especially when banks are closed and pockets empty. Having arrived on Sunday, we stayed on board, most of the time in our room, writing letters. An overcast day did not beckon. The Consulate representative sent to meet us was so odious that we said, “Thank you. We will get along”. We gathered that the man assigned to meet us did it grudgingly. We therefore chose to go it alone and wait for Tuesday when the holidays were over. We hoped Rotary would take us on board. And it did, of course After several calls, we found the Rotary Corresponding Secretary, a charming French girl who got in touch with a few Rotarians conversant in English. And we had our first chance to speak our high school French to someone who courteously helped us. We improved with each phrase. She then took us to the American Consulate. It was refreshing to be heartily greeted by the Consul General. And, there, with our needs clearly defined in English, our plans were formed and stores found where we could purchase bikes and knapsacks. We wished to be on our way tomorrow to Toulon. We missed the Rotary meeting. It was probably just as well, for coats and ties are terribly expensive, and I doubt our sweaters would have been warmly accepted. And as for bikes- they are very expensive at $30 apiece, as compared to England and Germany. They are light racing style, with turned down bars, gears, and hand brakes which we will have to master after being raised on coaster brakes. It was sure great to receive your many ureters yesterday, including some from Miss Maiden, Midge Roth, and Dorothy Shields. We are so happy to know that all is well at home We had no idea our letters would cause such a stir. As to the future, we will do our best to daily keep up, but our letters will have to be more concise. We are saddened about Everett Brown’s illness. What a wonderful neighbor, and so young. As you suggest, in many of the larger cities we will contact the club president, if only to say hello. Please send us copies of the letters to the Presidents so we know what to do in each city. Please contact them at Zurich, Nurenburg, Munich. Berlin, Cologne, Copenhagen and Amsterdam. We will be happy to stop over with the Glovers in Chicago as we come home. As for moving and storing methods like Lyon, today we will wander through the waterfront warehouses to see what goes. I will send a can of six or eight films home today. They are catalogued. I suggest that you print in strips. It is best to have Eastman do it. Don’t expect to see much detail in the small prints. I will blow them up on our return. If prints are made, please keep the rolls intact so as not to disturb the sequences. Our suitcases are going on to London on the ship, to await us there. Did you receive our airmail letter about documents referring to the suitcases? That’s super about Bruce becoming a Patrol leader. As for Stanford winning the title, it is as expected. As for the Olympics- if they are going to allow the semi-pos to take over, the truly great amateur players such as Hank are unlikely to make the team. So sad. If any friends feel slighted on not receiving letters, please see what you can do with our letters to you. We’ve done our best to thank everyone, even Mrs. Andrews who sent $10, bless her. As of now we have sent at least a hindered cards and letters - a real workout to try and please everybody. Bruce, your pictures are coming along well. However I think you are giving them too much light and forcing you to take them out od the developer too soon. Or you may be leaving them in the developer too long, making them smudgy and brown. Use the printer, red light on all of the time, and give the negative about one second of light. Be careful not to get acid on the negatives. If this happens, wash them off immediately and hang them up to dry with a clothes pin. Wash all prints afterward, about six changes per hour. Keep all of the negatives together. We love seeing your pictures. keep at it and send them and I will criticize. We will be anxious to hear from all of you in Rome and Geneva. You can send Air Mail to Zurich now. The bubbling city of Marseilles is our introduction to France, and to Europe, with so much still ahead. It was not until yesterday that we caught the elevating spirit of activity going on all about us, announced by voice, engine, signboard, horn, and even chains on wheels rattling over damp cobblestones after a night’s rain . Early in the morning, men bend to their tasks, and only evening allows them to return home to their wine and bread, an institution here. Our pension is four streets away from the waterfront, looking out over a narrow dark cobblestone street to the base of a steep hill to the south on which is the seaman’s cathedral, Notre Dame de la Garde. It is filled with votive offerings from thankful sailors and fishermen. As I open our shutters each morning and let Old Man Sunshine in, I am reminded of the musical street and Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette McDonald where all was rhythm as each vendor added horn, voice, or hammer to the song. Great trucks loaded to the gunwale speed by with open mufflers. Horses’ hooves, clickity- clacking on the rounded stones give us a glimpse into a disappearing age. The squeaking of horns and the ringing of church bells gives a musical, if not always harmonious, touch to the street opera below. As the working hour of nine approaches, groups of plainly dressed girls and beret-topped men move jauntily down the street, and more briskly as as the hour grows late. On the corner below, the neighborhood flower woman sets up her stand to show her brightly colored and cheery wares. Green shutters to the right, red shutters to the left and brown shutters in front of us are open to welcome the warming sun. As we look over the numberless tiled roofs and chimneys of the closely packed buildings, Notre De La Garde strands out in stark beauty, appearing as a great hand with its index finger, gold tipped and shining brightly against the blue sky, pointing ever up at the guiding way to a great beyond. At 7:15 when everything is in full swing and we can no longer sleep, Ted and I go town to a breakfast of tea and buns-French bread of course. There we discuss our intentions for the day and make plans. Lunch and dinner are always accompanied by plates of French bread, which we consume by the yard, a little Vichy water to wash it down. We make the best of questions put to us by our waitress in rapid French and we attempt to give answers. We receive a smile for our efforts. From the Piedmont blackboard to conversation is a big step and we are getting there. Just give us a few years in France and we will make it. Out on the street we pause to comment on what is going on about us. One of the first things to strike our attention is the painted faces going by on all sides. Ruby red lips are the rule here, while makeup is used to such a degree that one might take the ladies to be wax models from a department store window. All of the “jeune fillies” hang on their escorts arms and rattle sweet nothings into their boy friend's ears. In some cases we had a difficult time determining which was the boy, because of the foppish dress, feminine appearance and actions of the supposed male. Lame and legless men pass by by all day. Certainly France has not forgotten 1914 with these reminders. The beret seems to be the national hat here and we must admit that it is apropos, for the windy weather on the hilltops, as at Notre Dame de La Garde. is best served by a hat that will stay in place. Pastry shops(patisserie) line every street, their windows filled with tantalizing goodies, great chocolate Easter eggs, and guess what, French bread. How strange. Flower shops on the corners, wIth their buxom women vendors, add color and beauty to each street. for a French street is bare without these touches of nature’s jewels. While we stand and admire the scenes around us, traffic whizzes by at a terrific rate. Low, underslung autos with mufflers wide open drive down the streets as if all were one-way, passing street cars and trucks on the wrong side. Cyclists zip about like blood hounds, their noses to the ground, all racers bent low to grab their handlebars. If we were to travel in this manner, our observations would be limited to descriptions of the the pavements below. Everything is priced exorbitantly here. We must drink bottled water. It is dangerous to walk narrow streets at night. What a contrast are we. We are two flagpoles covered with red and blue sweaters. All speak French faster than I could speak English. We ask them to “Parley vous lentament”, but with a few more words. things are again out of control. Marseilles is a city of hustle and bustle, far more so than any place we have known. We find the people temperamental and quick to act, perhaps accounting for some of their troubles in Europe. This experience of a few days is only an introduction to a different way of life, as we scratch the surface, Tomorrow we hope that we will be on our bikes and we will be on our way along the Riviera to Italy. We are not going to hurry. Our friends and adventures in the East have taught us this lesson We must now be off on our way to the Consulate and to purchase bikes. Tomorrow we will be on the open road. Our next note will be from Toulon. 1936 Letter 2 TED Grand Rubie Hotel, Marseilles, April 15,1936. We were very happy to get your letters at American Express with welcome news from home. Things seem to fine with all of you, and we are so glad. Yesterday, after reading the precious letters, we decided to make the short trip to the Chateau D’If. For five francs(50 cents) we boarded a large tugboat that moved slowly to the “old fort” . It was a beautiful afternoon, with white billowy clouds overhead and with enough sun shining through, ”to make a man a pair of pants”, in Mom’s words. First we passed the old Town Hall that marks the edge of the t Old City; then small sailing sloops, and finally the historic Fort St. Jean which stands at the port’s entrance. Because the structure has no military importance, it is simply of historic interest to visitors to Marseilles. The Cathedral Notre Dame de la Garde is impressive as it stands out against the white clouds. Our gaze always starts from there as the foreground changes, sometimes framing it, but ever to increase its inspiring effects. The Chateau is about a mile from shore. As we plunged through a fairly rough sea, a wave hit directly and the people in the bow took a bath or two. One lady went aft to try and shake the water out of her furs, hat, and shoes. She was drenched. A proud sailing yacht passed us as we neared the rough rock landing. then to climb the rough stairs to the prison. The structures on the island were built in 1534 for the defense of Marseilles against the Spaniards. Afterwards it was used as a state prison and it became notorious throughout the world in Alexander Dumas’ novel, The “Count of Monte Cristo”. The prison stands on the highest point of the island and appeared square and solid as we approached from the front. We passed over the old wooden bridge and through a battered wooden door to the ticket office. Just beyond was a small courtyard with the inevitable well in its center. Our gaze next was caught by the small white signs over each doorway. These designated the various cells and their prisoners. A guide, candle in hand and speaking in rapid French. led the way to the cell of Edmund Dantes. It was tiny and dark. Sure enough, there was the hole in the wall, just large enough to let a man slide through. It was worn smooth by adventurous tourists, who, through the centuries, had wormed their way through. We then entered the Abbey’s room, still following the candlelight that made for us this experience unique. The stone walls had no writing on them, for they had been plastered and the floors tiled. Thus, what we saw was not there when Edmund Dantes was the prisoner. The room was still damp, and cold-just plain miserable. We could only wonder how anyone could have survived in such an environment. As we climbed the stairway to the second floor, we examined the walls more closely. Although surfaced by pieces of brick and stone here and there, they were solid with sandstone, limestone, and a conglomeration of fossilized sea matter. On the second floor were the cells of the more influential prisoners, much larger than those of Dantes and the Abbey. Instead of a low doorway and steps leading down into the cell, entryways were large and the cell large enough to suggest some comfort. The white sign over the first cell read, “Premier Prison Abbe Perette, Abbe Demarares”. The second doorway read “Deuxieme Prison, Marquis de Lavalette”. The next cell was the prison of “L’homme en Masque de Fer”, The man in the iron mask, of course. Louis Phillipe de Orleans and others, equally prominent as suggested by their door signs and implying a little comfort. The cells were on the whole the same, with cold sandstone floors, windows barred with iron, and domed stone ceilings. In some were crude chimneys evidently for fire places. Around all were wooden prongs in the walls jutting out at six feet above the floor. Chains and small crude tables hung from some and we imagined that they their as constant reminders that they would be restraints for beatings and torture, perhaps at the whim of a guard. Sunshine, as it passed through a barred window, made a square of light on the stone floors. It was easy to to imagine the figure of a man, silhouetted, as he grasped the bars and hopelessly looked at the barren yard outside. A winding staircase then took us to the top and to the uppermost parapet where a colorful panorama of sea and city unfolded. Just below us was likely the point d from which Dantes was thrown as a corpse into the sea, only to recover and swim to an adjoining island. We went back down along dark corridors and past many more cells with gruesome histories and finally through the dungeon threshold to he outside, and what must have been a blessed freedom to some. We moved quickly, for the launch was whistling for our escape. Soon we were chugging back to the City, Edmund Dantes deeply tugging at our imaginations. We sailed close off shore by the famous Promenade de la Corniche. It is bordered by sumptuous villas, gorgeous ordered gardens, and miniature forts, leading to the Old Port. What a day of surprises and perhaps just the beginning of unforgettable experiences ahead, Today, we hope to purchase bicycles. A Rotarian will helps us. The prices will be dear, but we will likely satisfy our perceived needs. We are still getting our bearings and clearing our minds for what lies ahead. Each decision will be guided by the wisdom you have bequeathed to us. The next letter will likely be from Toulon of the16th., my first birthday away from home. On this first day out on the road, may it be a fine one. Riviera, here we come. With lots of love to all. Ted # 3 April 19 Hotel Bristol Toulon After many days of preparation and anticipation, we started our bicycle trip. We left Marseilles at 8;50 after a breakfast of French bread and Ceylon tea. Our bikes, as you see in the pictures, are well loaded with baggage and contraptions. We left Marseilles on cobblestone streets, cars and busses tooting horns to announce that they were behind or passing us. The gears worked smoothly and the bikes fairly hummed. If it weren’t for those blessed cobblestones, everything would be hunkey-dorey. My fanny has not yet toughened up-should I say “adjusted” and is sore at this moment. The fields on either side of the roads remind us of pictures we have seen of the French countryside. In the distance and standing high on the crest of a hill and partially surrounded by tall trees was a magnificent chateau, towers in the sky. It was just a fleeting glimpse at best as we moved along. After passing through a small town, Aubagne, we turned toward the coast and started climbing the low range of hills which shelter the valley we had just traversed. Climbing was tough, and several times we had to dismount and push. But on reaching the top, we felt or first pride as we passed our first test, legs just beginning to adjust. At the summit we had our first roadside meal- the French bread left over from breakfast. The ride down was great. How we loved it! We zipped along in racing position. The road smooth and well engineered so that curves could be a joy to speed around. At the bottom, we had our first real look at a Riviera village. The shore was very beautiful with its rugged points of land and low waves pounding over invisible reefs. Alpng the coast we pedaled over meandering hills and dales and saw our first cypress trees hanging over the ocean as at home in Carmel. Soon we were among pines, elms, and canyon live oaks. There seemed to be a great deal of house construction, apparently summer homes for the affluent. Every so often, we stopped to examine our map to be sure we were on course, or snap a picture or two for the countryside was green green. We passed quite a few cyclers, and had fun trying out our French by asking directions from farmers as they leaned over their fences. At about one o’clock, we coasted along the narrow main street of a seaside village, stopping at the pastry shop before quaffing a beer at a roadside table. It was a real thrill to revel in what our first day portended as we absorb the quaintness of this other world. Sure wish you could be here too, for there is plenty of new beauty to go around. Take it away Dick....Love Ted, April 16 Marseilles dick The trip from Port Said was particularly interesting for several reasons. Early on the morning of the eleventh our ship approached Stromboli, great volcano, looming up out of the sea. We were fortunate in that our Captain took the ship closer to the volcano than it had ever been before, giving us a marvelous view of the white and blue smoke issuing forth, accompanied by a deep rumbling which is heard for miles With field glasses we could see sheets of flame. The strange thing about all this is that we couldn’t smell the sulfurous gases always found near Stromboli. Along the bases of the slopes are petite white-walled fishing towns nestled several miles along each side of the gigantic lava flow that runs from the foaming mouth to the sea. This volcano is the type that does not explode. Its crater is always open and a slow movement of lava constantly issues over the lower side of the vent. People living in the fishing villages are safe. Auto traffic is unknown. Our view of Stomboli we will always treasure for it is seldom that one sails so close and on the crater’s open As sunset approached we passed through the straits of Bonifcio between Corsica and Sardinia. Here we had a thrill. At one [point in the passage we passed the Suwa's sister ship, the Kashima Maru wish much whistling and flag flying. A few minutes a m medium sized orange amphibian flying between Sardinia and Marseilles swooped d low to salute us it winged its way to France, all climaxed by a gorgeous sunset in the west. THURSDAY APRIL 16 Much to our disappointment, for we had planned to leave this morning for Toulon, the day turned stormy wet, water showering and turning cobblestones into rivers of slippery rocks rounded by wagon wheels. It was too wet to venture out so we spent most of Le Matin in our room writing cards and letters to friends in the Orient. At 11:30 we sneaked out between showers and hurried down to the American Express to change some of our accumulated money into the more practical travelers cheques. We figure it is safer to pay a few francs more for the insurance that cash does not provide. On our return, rain again began to fall -two red and blue sweatered kids hurrying along through the crowds of the smaller French shoppers. The truth really is that these are not French at all. They’re Italians and Spaniards for the most part. Marseilles is the Chicago of France. over run with foreigners. There are only 20 or so Americans in this city of 660,000, and I’ll bet they all ride in taxis rather than risk their lives trying to drive in this hair raising traffic with no regulations whatsoever. Just try to outguess the other fellow and if it’s a tie. tough luck. In our ambling we pass hundreds of patisseries, their windows loaded with delicious pastries and with the equally delicious scent of freshly baked goodies and french bread wafting out over the street. Marseilles should also be famous for its neat modern “boucheries”, with their wares so tastefully displayed that they look edable in the raw. As we walked through one of the city’s many green mantled squares, shaded by immense poplars old man sun finally managed a peak from above, turning the dripping water globules into strings of glistening light, Cafe proprietors were hurriedly setting up their open air restaurants beneath arched tree limbs, with small round tables with its bottle of carbonated water. At the corner of the parks, magazine stands did a brisk business as tradesmen rushed out to get the news before another downpour. FRIDAY APRIL 17 Back at the Rubi Hotel once more we sat down in the Salle a Manger and consumed everything in sight, including plates of french bread washed down with a mixture of water and Vin Ordinare, given us by a French aqauintance sitting with us. Since business closes from 12 to 2 each day, we always have a few minutes to make use of and that means writing letters, of course. Two o’clock found us striding down to the “Cycles Farer” where our bikes were waiting, ready for us to pedal off, which we really did after making certain adjustments and plunking down 652 francs. This is $43 for the two bikes, complete, and we feel we have good metal under us. Each “push bike” is equipped with two hand brakes, gears with three speeds, a baggage rack, racing handles reversed and turned up, tire pump, wrenches, and racing wheels. They are technically not “racers” but are made for touring and are as light as our bikes at home. We are happy with them. Both are black with fenders trimmed, brakes on both wheels, toe clamps on pedals. and an extra inner tube. In order to try out our machines which will have to take us thousands of miles, we pedaled for several miles along the Promenade de Corniche known to the world-over for its beauty and its winds. It runs along the rugged shore, roaring billowing waves on one side and magnificent gardens on the other. The roadway here, as in the rest of Marseilles, is constructed of rough irregular cobblestones, making riding difficult, especially when one is bucking a fierce headwind, as was our luck. We don’t see how these narrow rimmed small-tired wheels can stand the continuous jolting on such roadways without warping and cracking. It is for this reason that the wheels have metal rims They can warp all they want but had better not break. The ever changing shore line views from the Corniche are spectacular. Monterey might offer some competition, but I doubt if we ever may see any shore more beautiful. Precipitous cliffs topped with magnificent villas continue for the entire length of the Promenade. As we visited it, a gale was blowing, building up great waves which crash with vigor on the rugged rock-strewn beach below us. To the southwest Chateau d’If stood silhouetted, a black angular mediaeval fortress rising from brilliant sun lit water. I am sure our visit to the Corniche came at the finest time, when the sea raged with all its fury, leaving no doubt in our minds how the shoreline gained its ruggedness. A late afternoon sun turned the turbulent waves into sheets of gold, silhouetting jutting headlands, island strongholds, and hilltop villages in the distance, all against the cloud blown blue sky. If our photos turn out as we would hope these words will be frightfully inadequate. Promenade de Corniche is our introduction to the French Riviera, and they say “You ain't seen nothin yet”. Returning to the Rubi along the beautiful broad tree arbored Prade Boulevard before dark we found plenty to do, while making plans for the next few days on the Riviera. But we we could not start for another day , though, because Ted complained of a little fever(100 degrees) which we promptly got after. A light dinner of soup, Evian water, and string beans were followed by a warm bed and two more bottles of Evian with an aspirin before going to sleep. Today everything is honkey dorey again. He will spend the morning in bed, drinking more water, reading, and will get up this afternoon. We had our usual petite dejeuner ce matin of tea and rolls and will eat lightly today. We had planned to start yesterday but just as well to delay. Tomorow we hope will dawn bright and clear so that we finally will start. These four days in Marseilles have been good for us. They have given us time to become acclimated and to get the feel of the European and French atmosphere. Two months in the Orient has taught us not to hurry. Today is clear and sunny but the air is still cool from the days of rain. We hope things will warm up for our long delayed venture tomorrow. Probably Hyeres, Toulon, or Le Lavendu will be our first night’s stop. We understand that we can get an $11 ticket through Italy from Genoa to Rome to Florence to Venice to Milan, and to Switzerland. Looks like a gook buy. We will put our bikes on the trains; Yesterday we cashed out Letter of Credit for $92 and took out a Letter of Credit in the Italian Transit Bureau for 15000 lira, giving us 17 lira to the dollar rather than the 13 which regular exchange gives. Luckily we hit it on the right day and received the best exchange. We hope to make the money last through Italy. That extra $200 will take care of bikes and equipment and any clothes or presents we would buy in England. Things are terribly cheap there and very good. Yesterday we sent a tin container with rolls of Contax film registered to you. Sure hope they get through and will send in smaller batches as we go. Right now we are carrying a dozen rolls purchased in Port Said duty free, and these should take us to Germany where films are again cheap. Ted just took his temperature and it is sub normal but he is breathing. He will stay in bed this morning and have lunch downstairs. We will purchase some books of Italian grammar and Gothic architecture. You see, it’s the extra little things like this that cost money but are necessary for us to appreciate to the fullest what we see. In Milan we will try to find the underground chime-ringer whom you love to talk about, Dad. Thank you for the clippings. We love to read about what the boys are doing. What were the results of the A.C.A.L Bruce? We are pleased, Mom, that you like the cloisone-so beautiful!, and more so than other more expensive ones. Mr. Ando was very kind to us. Perhaps it is better that we did not land at Naples. Yesterday we met a man in American Express who had just come from there and Rome, and told us it was rain all the way. Please take a picture of the house from Caperton and send it to us with several prints. People constantly ask about our home. A strange thing happened. A report of us in the Tokyo Rotary Weekly was sent to Missouri and then because we are Stanfords, the note reached Midge Roth. Funny how the word gets around. (Drawing) This gives you an idea of how we look riding about, sitting up with heads high and in the clouds. We have to turn our bars up for being tall we practically have to stand on our heads to reach the turned down bars in standard racing position. 6PM Ted’s temp has been normal all day and he feels fine, so we will pray for good weather and personal top condition, and we will be on our way. We spent most of the afternoon catching up on our writing, and hope no one has been missed. At about 3 PM I ambled down Rue Pardis to La Carrahiere, Marseilles’ main drag, to inquire for mail at American Express and make some purchases. The sun was shining brightly and all of the big department stores had their displays on the sidewalks. All attempts to purchase a safety chain and combination lock for our bikes failed. We will try again in Toulon. Everything is all set to leave. Our bill for bottled water will be probably high in francs, but that is all part of the gae. We will probably be in Genoa about the 30th next month, so please write accordingly. Our plans are so fluid that guessing ahead is pretty futile, but keep trying. # 4 TED Sunday, April 20 at Le Lavendu This, our second day on bicycles has been an eventful one. This morning, before leaving, we washed clothes, mended some, cleaned bikes, and wrote a bit. Dick went down to the corner bar and got a refund on our beer bottles. We have been clearly warned to stick to beer when in any doubt about the local water. Thank goodness for our Asahi beer christening in Tokyo. Breakfast of hot chocolate and buns was enjoyed at the food counter of Les Dames de France, a big department store in Toulon. Pardon the intrusion into our saga, but as I sit here on the beach veranda of our lovely pension, night is closing fast and just this moment several fishing boat are putting out to sea. By the look of things, summer has made for an unusual catch, and there is a rush to take advantage of it. It is cooling off. but the sun has been with us for quite a time. It is 7”30 PM and back to the story. As i was saying, we enjoyed our breakfast in Toulon and were soon pedaling for Le Lavendu. We left town through a district of large homes, or villas, perhaps the Piedmont of this area. In the distance were the picturesque ruins of some old homes and even a church. All were buried in vineyards, so colorful in the early morning glow. In passing a farmhouse, we became more and more aware of the brightly multicolored shutters which stand out even more than window box flowers. A few tall trees border the vineyards. The road was busy with horses and wagons, and every now and then a motorcycle or bus would toot its horn and pass. As we approached the shore we noticed that the hillsides rising from the beaches, were terraced for vegetables and flowering plants There were many large homes overlooking the sea surrounded by vineyards or expansive grounds. Each farm has some source of water. There are many wells where the water is delivered by a revolving gear turned by farm circling animals At the moment the wells are still for recent rains have left the soil still moist. After passing though several villages, we reached Hyeres, the oldest of the famed Riviera winter resorts, and well known for its flowers and early fruit. We stopped at a beer parlor, for we are finding that thirst is a byproduct of our cycling efforts. Behind the town and above the War memorial slightly higher are perched the centuries old ruins of the original town. This quiet scene reminded us of the European villages fabricated for the Chicago Exposition we boys saw with Dad. A small shopping street, entered beneath an arch off to the left. French soldiers in their light blue uniforms stood in twos ant threes, or in larger groups enjoying a beer. A policeman was directing traffic which consisted almost entirely of tourists. And soon we were on our way again, always pumping. The next steep help was conquered as we rode in low gear for we are making strides as muscles tone up. The coast down to Le Lavendu was our reward. We are becoming seasoned cyclists. The ride down, a long glide, ended in our destination, Le Lavendu. As we approached the town we overtook many people walking towards Le Lavendu in their Sunday best. Evidently something special would take place that afternoon. We hurried to a restaurant to have a quick lunch and not miss anything. Then we riding again along narrow streets to the city square that was bounded by a beach on one side, and beer verandahs on the other three. No sooner had we arrived than from a side street emerged the town band, blowing lustily. Behind were several old cars decked with flowers. Then came the floats. in one, six pretty girls tossed lilies and carnations to bystanders. This obviously was a day dedicated to flowers, lilies in particular. An old wagon was decked out in spring colors and even the old dray horse had colorful headpieces. This happening was the last thing we expected to stumble on in a small French town. When “The Tournament of Lilies” ended, the square was filled as prizes were awarded and the band played for the dancers. Taking part as best we could, we paid too many of our few francs for ice cream cones, and then climbed to a vantage point to gain a better view of the town and take a photo or two, The hills were covered with Scotch Broom and an unfamiliar purple flower. In small gardens a everywhere were beds of lilies, roses, and carnations Back to the pension. A room was finally secured as we macerated the French language from the French point of view. We must have been understood, for our room faced the sea as we would have wished and breezes take us back to Coronado. The bikes had to cleaned and overhauled, a daily routine. Dinner consisted of some French pastry and a bar of chocolate, for our late expensive lunch had taken the edge from an appetite. We are lucky in our choice of pension, for hosts husband and wife are warm, and charming. With sea air wafting in, sleep came quick and sound.#5..LeLavend u..Ted April; 21, 1936 Its raining again. But as Dick keeps saying “It looks like it will clear up”. I hope so. Dick is writing at the other end of the table in his red sweater and with pen going like an express train. A delicious breakfast of tea, french bread, and two fried eggs was “tres bon”. We don’t exactly know what to do about the weather and biking. It is a choice between bus or bikes but this rests solely with the weather. There ia a very efficient train and bus service here. If the rain continues we will test that efficiency. I have just been out in the hall, conversing in my elementary French with the lady of the house. She has a son in England who is doing well as a painter. The dining room walls are covered with oils of colorful small boats either under sail or resting on the beach. We talked about the weather and the possibility of taking the train up the coast. I had quite a time understanding what “legerment” means when describing the drizzle outside. People pronounce their language without consistency, and I find understanding difficult. Our means ot finding our way this far has been a road map by the Michelin Tire Company. We cannot get along without it And our small dictionary is handy when we are stuck on a word. Dick already has had three tire blowouts. Last night we found out why. It is a tiny nail that had penetrated the outer tire and had escaped our discovery as it perforated the tubes. But patching is fairly easy. We are becoming proficient as we go along. Dick keeps the expense account up to date very efficiently, and says he enjoys doing it. Prices are apt to decrease from here on so we can spend a little more on each item and still stay within our limit. Love Ted 3 5 AP RIL 20..DICK It is great to at last be on the road and away after five days of delay. However, rain is again pouring down, dampening everything except our spirits. We are writing in our spacious oceanside room at Pension Louise in Le Lavendu, as the rain comes down outside on the veranda and the sun pecks peacefully at its base. As the wind has sprung up, we hope it will blow our clouds of gloom away and send us to a new day of adventure. On Saturday, our first day of riding, we pedaled some 80 kilometers,.taking it easy and enjoying the new and ever changing views of rustic peasant life, and, of course, nature’s beauties. Gears are great aids, making ascending moderate grades a pleasure. We are continually shifting from one gear to another of our three speeds so as to ride with the least exertion. Ted has told you of our morning ride over the great(as it seems to us as we pushed)granite divide between Aubgne and the sea. As we left the main highway to Toulon and turned off and up this mountain road, vineyards stretched out on both sides-just small parcels of green sprouting from neatly trimmed branches. As we climbed, though, the fertile soil became rocks, then boulders, and finally solid masses of weather beaten granite with long-needled pines and oaks springing through the cracks. A terrific gale of wind whistled through these trees with the powerful noise of a freight train. Several times Ted yelled "timber"”, meaning a car is coming, as a new gust roared. He thought a train was approaching. Small quarries dot the hills, while wild flowers common also to California and familiar foliage girded streams. We might have been in Amador County, needing only a Silver Lake and Dad on a horse coming down the road to make the comparison complete. At several turns in the road we met the full force of the wind as it tore down a canyon, for the moment making riding impossible. At other times, blasts would come from behind, sending us ap a grade at breakneck speed. On the other hand riding up a hill was real work, but we intoned the old saying that ”Everything that goes up must come down”. The long coast down was ample reward. We would put the gears on high, forget our brakes and “move”. What sport! Below us, terraced land stretched for miles up sloping valleys, and then down to the sea. Olive trees and picturesque sandstone walls lined both sides of the roads we whipped down the last few kilometers into La Ciotat and our first real view of the Riviera. At this moment we cannot say we are thrilled at its beauty, for here before us was a coast not nearly as picturesque as familiar Monterey. Solid banks of clouds did their best to keep “Old Sol” hidden. Our first view of the sea was not in the best light. However we are told that this is only an introduction to what is to follow from Toulon to Monte Carlo. It is probably true that overcast limited the beauty of our first views. Whistling winds turned the peaceful coves of azure water into plains of white caps, great rollers crashing on rock bound shores, throwing great plumes sky ward. Beauty lay in the hills, not the sea, for they are covered with the yellows of Scotch Broom , the whites of of daisies, the reds of berries and wild tulips(that’s what they look like to us), and the blues of shooting stars. We could easily imagine ourselves on Cadaverous slopes, for all of these flowers are common to our Golden State. I have named only a few of the varieties. Our knowledge of wildflowers is not great despite Ted and I achieving the botany merit badge in scouting. We are pressing buds of the most beautiful and strange flowers. We must learn the name of this prolific tulip-like flower. Charming new beach homes, modern and simple, line the entire coast, sheltered from stormy winds by spreading cypress and majestic elms. Every home has its wall of masonry, and its terraced garden, and, of course, some quaint name such as “Viile a Azur”, “Villa de Faix”, or “Villa de la Plage”. Great trucks, speeding busses and new low four cylinder autos, roaring by, are the only sounds to break the quiet and peace of this tree-protected haven. Each coastal town is laid out on the sea coves sheltered slopes. Narrow streets climb through the villages from broad beaches lined with sidewalk cafes. How full of life’s vigor must be these water fronts be in summer when beaches are packed and vacationers fill the cafes, serving those who relish a snifter or two. It was at just such a place that we sat and guzzled a demi-bier, with some pastry from the patisserie nearby. I suspect we will miss these shops when traveling in Italy, but perhaps spaghetti and ravioli will do the same. The ride, or should i say perpetual bounce from Le Seyne to Toulon can be indexed in our travelogue as “torture #1”. The freres Lyon were pretty darned tired after riding so far on the first day, and repairing to flats. The cobblestone road of seven kms. loosened everything inside and outside. In order that you can appreciate the circumstance, just try riding off and on a curb for 45 minutes and you will get the idea. What one needs for this type of travel are rubber wrists . If the cobblestones continue we expect to turn into latex any moment. Toulon is the San Diego of France, its bay is filled with “men of war” and its streets filled with blue and white sailors, all in uniforms. Traffic seems to be confined to the cobblestone streets. One walks through narrow colorful side streets to shop. Toulon is a classic French city, though it is much cleaner with a more fraternal atmosphere than Marseilles. Everyone walks briskly. As in Marseilles, the streets are active. Shops close and open on time, not unlike the American scene. Our Holland-America “Hand Me Down” recommended the Hotel Bristol, it in the low price range we can afford. No bath was available at our price level, we took a ”not even a squirt bath” with a wet rag and soap. It ws still refreshing after the day’s ride. While Ted sewed up a rip in his pants, I shaved off my verdant growth with cold water. ”Chaud” our landlady said. Presentable, we ambled down the street and happened on a petite and delightful restaurant, the “Chez Bernard”. It was homey with tulips on each table and motherly advice from our hostess. We devoured the bread and a little vin rouge did its part . We waddled out with that truly satisfied feeling that “Chesterfield” talks so much about. Then, a short walk to the hotel, a snack of hydration from our beer bottle, and a welcome bed topped off the first day of the Frere’s Lyon as bikers through Europe We are weary but content boys, looking forward. Lots of love..Dick PS We are having fun talking with our French acquaintances. We understand most everything said and can get what we wish. That little dictionary is the trick of it.# 6..Ted..Frejus April 21 The whole day has been rainy and, altogether, just dismal. But the Lyon brothers keep driving ahead. Morning was spent writing and reading in the hope that the storm would let up. At noon there was still no sign of sunshine. Thus, we had lunch at the pension, and then caught the train at the station nearby. The short visit in Le Lavendu has been very pleasant. The train is a modern, two-car diesel powered affair and runs on narrow-gauge rails. We must have looked quite spiffy as we shot over the ground and along the seashore. Rain was continuos but we did get occasional glimpses of the famous scenery outside. The shadings in blue of the shallow waters along with rocky points and sheltered beaches gave us a little idea of the beauty we were perhaps missing. However, the famous Riviera is still below our expectations. Perhaps it has been oversold. Perhaps we are seeing it at its far from best. Perhaps we are spoiled by knowledge of our own Monterey coastline beauty. But the best may yet to come. We do love the the rustic landscape, green and brown with vineyards and farm houses. We conversed in French with a fellow passenger who did his best to help us with such simple phrases as “Bon Jour" and French for “the rain is bad”. also, “We Americans are touring Europe on bicycles when it doesn’t rain”, and so on. Late in the afternoon we alighted at our destination, recovered our bilks from the baggage car, and started for Frejus, a small town noted for its Roman ruins. Or first ruin was a tower, half of its walls standing, with a few windows that would allow sentries and legionaries a view or a bow shot. Nearby is the aqueduct, one of many we hope to see. It lies in ruins too. We took a closer look, passing several artists, recreating what is or once was. We were soon on a cobblestone promenade. On the rocks of the stream below were fishermen with long bamboo poles. Things were picking up in this our first real brush with the ancient world. What next? Part of the narrow thoroughfare was tunneled and children played contentedly in the street. For once, there was no fear of automobiles. As we looked up at the shuttered windows, so appealing, an occasional one was open as a shadowed face looked down at us. At the church, three priests were studying its walls, as though making plans for repairs. And then came the town market. Here Dick purchased some oranges, and snapped photos of a few of the villagers in conversation. Then, off again and bumpty-bump over these “blamed” cobbles to the small harbor, and with a single visiting New York yacht tied up. Across the harbor in the setting of blue sea and white clouds is Fort Carre where Napoleon was imprisoned for a time. A late breakfast of oranges was had under its battlements. Now for the first time we could see Nice ahead. Clouds were gathering again, so we got quickly under way. We covered the 15 miles to Nice against a stiff wind. For the first time, on the level we had to use “low gear” to make headway On our left was the tiny town of Cagnes, with its castle topping the hill. On reaching Nice, our first need was food. The “Hand Me Down” suggested ‘Du Boef A La Mode’ with a highly recommended menu and “prix fixe” of 9.50 francs. Our budget could stand it. In we went. It was obviously a poplar place. The first surprise came when Dick read on the menu “1/2 dos. escargots”. Thinking this must asparagus, we ordered them. Were our faces red when i/2 dozen snails appeared. With straight and serious faces, we ate the lot. To our surprise whey were tasty, surely different from what we see in the garden, and the sauce made the discovery delicious. Yes, we are mastering the language also by mastication. How about desert? The menu says “pommes de terre”. Our limited French designated these as apples, and perhaps even a pie. Potatoes, of course! With serious faces still, the potatoes were devoured. The final revelation, or should i say “blow” came when I ordered “apricot” something. A little helping of jam appeared. But our ability to make the most of french bread at every meal let us spread on the jam. Did we “save face”? I doubt it but we had gotten our money’s worth. Where to stay? A newsman from new York suggested this hotel and so be it. To become oriented, we went first to the Consulate and then made a vain attempt to reach the Rotary President,, and then to American Express, with a final stop at the Italian Tourist Bureau(C.I.T.). Another cloud burst was no help, as we dodged rain drops and rushed to our hotel. Nothing new about this. First things first. We cleaned up the bikes and then purchased a huge loaf of French bread at the patisserie. Then to the Grocerie for “a petite balle of vin rose veux”, a small bottle of red wine, just old and not vintage. These two additions to our paper cup of honey purchased in Frejus, coupled with a bar of chocolate from Cagnes, made a delightful supper. The walk up the main street, ogling the brightly decorated shop windows had its effect. Sleep was sound and refreshing.# 7 April 21...Dick Ted and I went to bed last night hoping for as sunny day tomorrow. Our wishes were fulfilled. We could not be favored by a more perfect morning to enjoy our first glimpse of the real Riviera, running from St.Raphael to Cannes, the Newport of French vacation land. Here we are spending the afternoon as the guest of Monsieur Le President, Le Docteur Gimbert. It was with quaking hearts and shaking hands that we opened the shutters in Frejus to find what weather awaited us outside. There was great rejoicing as the sun streamed in, foretelling a glorious day on the Riviera. Quickly we dressed and ran across the street to our discovery of the night before-a patisserie serving tea and pastry which cost little but would be filling. It is a real event when this occurs for the French “petite dejeuners” barely tickle our palates. A cup of tea and two rolls just serve as appetizers and whet out palates for more that never comes. By dinner time we are ravenous. Within a few minutes we were packed and away, first hiking up the street to gain some views of the roman ruins which we had visited in the fading light the night before. Frejus awakens and is immediately busy in the early “matin”. Shopkeepers were m making ready for the day’s transactions. The street market was in full swing as we pedaled up the narrow main thoroughfare and out of the town on its eastern side by a crumbling brick tower, a grass mantled amphitheater, and an aqueduct arch, all reminders of Roman times, I since have had an odd thought. As we see these vestiges of what were Roman walls and aqueducts, and think of the still permanent monuments still intact in Egypt, how did they do it all without machinery we take so for granted. Here after almost 2000 years, only a mound of bricks would be left if visionary citizens did not bolster crumbling foundations to preserve a monument to a colossal empire. Yet in Luxor and Karnak, temples, sphinx, and pyramids still stand after 5000 years of abrasion by flying sand. I wonder what we will leave to a civilization 1000 years hence. The Cathedral of Notre Dame at St Etinne gave us our first view an an early church, built with great stone blocks topped by a gilt belfry which can be seen for miles rising above the surrounding steep tile roofs. We could almost hear the clanking of armor as “knights of yore” drew back the church’s great timber door, it adorned with Renascence carving, and entered to pray before one of the several alters set in dark recesses beneath low domed ceilings. A few photos of early morning street scenes and we were off again down the road which led out of the ancient hill town into the world below with its scenic beauty. The few kilometers between Frejus and St.Raphael went by quickly. The day was still young as were are our legs. After passing along the waterfront lined solidly with hotels and pensions, our road left the city and struck out over a rolling terrain which would continuum all of the way to Cannes. At times we would climb several hundred feet or so, gaining fine perspectives of the now ragged pine-hung shore, then be rewarded with a long coast to some quiet bay or inlet. Each promontory is decked out with with modest homes and terraced gardens sloping to the sea. A sumptuous villa would appear, shaded by groves of pines. To the land ward, reddish bare peaks rise to great heights, casting their reflections on mirror-like waters of sheltered bays. We had many a long pull as the road rose and twisted, before it rewarded us with the swift ride down. For the very first time we doffed our sweaters and enjoyed the morning sun filtering through our polo shirts. As we rounded the point above Theorile, we gained our first view of the Golfe de la Napoule, with Cannes lying lazily on its farther side. Along the coast approaching La Napoule, magnificent villas, almost mediaeval, with great stone turreted walls rose in silhouette. It was beneath just such a one of these castles that we sat on the rocks and enjoyed the delicious flow of oranges, some of them from Spain. Then a ride along the beach for several miles to the outskirts of Cannes and the beginning of its famous beach. Cannes is said to be the ideal summer resort of the entire Riviera. What held the most interest for us, however, was the “old port”, filled with fishing craft. Some were resting on the beach or in dry dock Lines of magnificent yachts are tied up along the great quay. We have never before seen such a concentration of floating castles, truly large and bedecked with flying banners. What a contrast to the tiny fishing boats whose owners sit on the beach as they mend their nets. And their nets are precious, I had never realized how delicate they are, and the exquisite unremitting care they require They were drying on the walls-strands as fine as thread and unbroken. A beautiful tree lined avenue, in fact several avenues with shaded squares border the waterfront. An ancient stone church stands on the summit of the highest hill and there we were given a splendid view of all below. We were fascinated by the activity and beauty below us. and spent a good part of the afternoon just looking. It took a good deal of riding before we found a restaurant suited to our pocketbook. Our final discovery was a gem-lunch with wine for 10 francs at a sidewalk table fronting on the “Old port”. As we ate, an aged couple played for us on mandolin and guitar, but the final result was marred as their “pooch” insisted on howling in harmony. With a few donations gained, they hobbled done the street, presumably to a cafe with more affluent customers. A hotel or pension we must find for the night. Following the Hand Me Down we have learned is the privilege of those with a little more to spend than we. We rode along the Rue Clemenceau to “Dos granges”. Again, too dear. But “Pension des Alpes” across the street fitted answered our needs, with twin beds, an enormous sea view room, and hot and cold water- all for 18 francs. As yet we have not found a Hostel, for apparently that modern convenience has not been accepted in France. So for the present, hotels and pensions must fill our needs. Traveling as we are, we must know the language, or a bit ot it to get along. Few proprietors speak English. If one travels in “class”, language is not a problem. However, as we buy delicatessen and patisserie meals we must converse in French. What about Italy ahead? Guess we can make do there too. Our Rotary contact said that the meeting would be that evening. We called on the President, Monsieur Le Doctor Gimbert, who lived just a few blocks away. He received us graciously and invited us to the meeting as his guest. He is a fine looking man who speaks excellent English and might easily be picture in one of the Fleischman Yeast ads, manicured whiskers and all. A very quick dip in the cold sea served as our bath, and it was free instead of an 8 franc warm bath at the pension. We had a little time but walked the town until *8 PM and the Rotary meeting. And what did we see? Row after row od magnificent hotels along the waterfront. They all are prosperous, being full in both summer and winter, we are told. Glittering lights sparkle through the glass of the sea view windows. Our interest beaconed us down the beach just long enough for us to have to make run back to the Hotel Victoria in time. Dr. Gimbert immediately grabbed us and introduced us to each off the thirty members, only a few able to converse in English. At eight o’clock we walked into the main dining room, the Rotary table at the far end. Everything was informal and hotel guests examined us with curiosity as we took our seats, red and blue sweaters and all. Mr. Bidelli, sitting next to me, is the manager of Italian Lines in Cannes and gave me valuable advice about his country. White wines with soup and fish. Red wines the entree. That is the correct order that we must learn. Everyone took his time, joking and laughing, and thoroughly enjoying themselves and the meal. A plate of asparagus, not escargots, is served after the fish. The meeting was called to order after two hours of eating. Everyone speaks rapidly and at once. Dr. Gimbert every tried to bring order with a bang on the bell. We later found out that plans were being made for French Rotary Convention in Cannes, and everyone was making sure his job was in order. At ten o’clock drew nigh, the Lyons’ eye lids began to droop., The meting soon ended. We thanked all and bid goodbye to hurry through a drizzle to our pension. Time seems to get scarcer and scarcer, so I have just whipped this letter out in short order. Today we prepare for our journey into Italy, so must off and away. APRIL 22 # 8 TED NICE We are finally in Nice on the Riviera. One are staying in a reasonably priced hotel. After last evening’s Rotary meeting in Cannes, we slept too soundly and the morning was well under way before we awakened to find the sun a jump ahead. Quickly we packed our knapsacks and strapped them on the bikes. From our pension window we could enjoy a small colorful garden below and the picturesque Golfe de la Napoule flanked on each side by the mainland low snow-like clouds. And adjoining are the islands St. Maguerite and St. Homert. It was for sure the lovely day we had so wished for. Down through the city of Cannes we rode, then along the sandy coast, around the Golfe Juan, through Jaun l Les p Pins to the town of Antibes. In full view of Nice, we cycled happily. All along the road were summer resorts and year-around hotels, looking inactive because of the disagreeable weather. As we rounded a point, Antibes came suddenly into view, modern and ancient, and with Roman arches standing dilated as they lay scattered over the land. Vines climb over the old stones as momentous of Rome when in full glory. And to one side, camouflaged by pine trees which have grown through cracks in its foundation is an amphitheater, probably built in the second century. Because the the rain was so depressing we decided to go back to our lodging and make the trip again the next morning . On our way, we stopped at a small shop to get some oranges. There on the counter was Libby’s fruit salad and canned asparagus. All of the shops have Nestle’s chocolate, and American fruit is here as well For dinner, or supper as it turned out to be, we had tea and cakes at a patisserie across from the hotel., and then to bed for a good sleep. We plan to get to Nice on Wednesday and to take care of steamship and railway tickets, and other business as well. We still hope for good weather tomorrow.April 23 Monaco about Nice Ted I am sitting on my bed and writing on a bed-table while Dick is doubled over on the other bed, desperately trying to patch the seat of his only pair of pants(top grade gray flannel they were). He has very ingeniously cut out some cloth from inside the pant leg and has pinned it to the inside of the hole with safety pins. Quite a sight. But I really am not despairing of Dick’s seamstress abilities-yet. It is great fun finding hotels at a moderate price. Dick takes one side and I the other of the street. We say to each proprietor, “Avez vous une chanbre avec lits pour deux? Combien? “ And if his price is too high, we say “trop cher” in sad voices. Then he usually comes down and we take a look at a room. Last night the single bed “pour deux” was uncomfortably small for the two of us, so now we shall ask from here on for “deux lits” instead of “un grands lit”. This morning we awake to find the sun shining. We got the cramps out of our backs from the small double bed, for to 6’3’s are measurements that can’t fit these half- pint beds. After dressing in our ”Oh,what shall I wear this morning, Dick?” “well” says Dick, “I think I will try my new riding habit or perhaps just a breakfast suit”. “Well, I’m not particular. I think I will put on tweed sporties or my green gabardine afternoon coat”, I chime in. So we both climbed into our utility suits and rode down the street on our trusty steeds to a patisserie for some tea and some of those “hot from the oven” breakfast buns. The first thing for the day was the Russian Cathedral. Its green tiled domes and minarets rise above the red tiled roofs of the city and seem be very out of place. However, by itself it is an impressive structure. Across the city over the half cobblestone half paved busy streets, we rode to the ruins of a Roman arena, now nothing more than piles of stones in the form of a circle with two large entrances at each end. Near it was a huge hotel with a magnificent backdoor view of Nice. Then down into the old section of the city where the buildings are tall and the streets narrow and winding. And along these alleys, as one might call them, are the small quaint shops. Butcher shops have their sausages lined in front of the windows. Bakeries also displayed similarly their sticks of bread. And the streets were filled with housewives shopping, children playing, and curious people just staring at the tall Americans in red and blue sweaters pushing bicycles. Of course the town church was there on the public square, and the Prefecture not far away. But we soon left the bartering and the buying behind to climb the irregular slope of the hill that divides Nice into two parts, the Old Port and surrounding buildings and the new and much larger section. The day was unusually clear and many were on top of the hill to enjoy the view. Snow covered mountains lie behind the range of hills in back of the city. Antibes and the shoreline stretch our into the distance, and Nice and its huge casino and shaded boulevards between large hotels, lay below us. Just a sea of red tiled roofs. To the east on the other side is the picturesque “Old Port”: which is sheltering expensive yachts and one or two small freighters. A boat under full white canvas sail was rounding the point, to complete the picture. Down the hill past an inspiring war memorial. so common in French cities, lies the main boulevard. The street itself is a grand one divided by green planting. And along the shore in front of us stretches an extensive walk lined with blue and white parasols and crowded with folks in their Thursday best. Poodles and hounds alike were being given their noon walks and in the public beach chairs everywhere are fashionably dressed men and women thoroughly enjoying themselves. But lunch us was calling, so back to the hotel to pack and then to lunch again at the restaurant of yesterday’s appearance. It seems incredible that we are now in Monte Carlo on the Riviera. Tonight the Casino was illuminated brightly and a every corner we found a new picture to photo just in our minds. On April 13th they had an automobile race through the city. Too bad we couldn’t have had the experience of seeing it. At any rate, we sure are having the time of our lives and wishing that you could be here too...Ted# 9 Monte Carlo Ted April 24 Tonight will be our second here. We are not far from the Casino. Our reason for staying the extra night is not to break the bank. We have been unable to obtain pemican to get in until tomorrow morning. We aren’t properly dressed. We are students. We are under age. The man at the desk was curt in his answers, so we forfeited a traveling day to see another world. But, mind you, our day was well spent. Breakfast of yesterday’s biscuits and hot tea was “it” as usual, but improved is our “dunking” technique. After a visit to American Express and another refusal of admittance to the Casino, we started he long steep climb to the Grande Corniche, the Riviera’s highest road of three( there is the Middle and the Lower) pushing bikes all of the way up the 1800 feet. As we climbed we walked awhile and rode awhile and vocalized in harmony. We’re getting so that we manage songs quite handily, and it speeds the time. The unique Grande Corniche possesses possibly the tiniest village in the world, Le Turbie. It is a survey point for the entire Riviera panorama. # 10 0 Ted Monaco April 25 It’s a glorious morning. We have just been to the Casino. We were admitted and put in the charge of a guide who spoke machine-gun French. I won’t attempt to describe the fine points, for time and vocabulary are limited The Casino is a large long building composed of six large ornate rooms.The first objects to catch our eyes were the gaming tables, lighted with low lamps and with large chandeliers above. We learned that there are many kinds of games designed to provide fun while taking away your money. There was an American roulette section, and a game where toy airplanes revolve about a disc. There are games where money is exchanged faster or slower as one would wish. On either end of the building is a large quite beautiful room, a private salon for special gamblers. Another section is the theater. Adjoining is a bar and along the sea front are smaller rooms with sweeping views of the harbor. And here are a few personal observations. The walls and ceilings are embellished with striking paintings and frescoes. Gold lief surfacing extends about the rooms in a multitude of patterns. Crystal chandeliers and mirrors are abundant. Covering the floors is a soft blue velvet carpet. Tall doors with embroidered curtains open out on to terraces and balconies. This was quite enough ostentation for us, but then the guide took us to the theater. Boy, what an overwhelming sight! Why look at the stage at all, for decoration is blinding. Figures and scenes cover every inch of the walls and ce[ling, and tall glass doors open to the promenade on the outside. The theater holds only 600. The several boxes at the back and corners dominate the room, The guide finally conceded that the box in the middle was for the only the Prince of Monaco. The mayor and the theater owner would sit in the remaining two boxes. High above the stage in the right corner was the opera master’s seat, and opposite him, the opera director. How about a picture? As Dick hit the button, the guide cried “Defender, defender”. Only when we opened the dictionary back at the hotel did we discover the meaning as “Prohibited”, a word we expect to hear again. But we escaped with the camera as the guide did his duty. Well, we have seen Monte Carlo, and our patience and effort was well rewarded. Of course the players in tuxedos were not sitting for their pictures, but a wheel turner with a sense of humor smiled for a take. Ted are not in our picuthearprs/. awuu overhe;oro Dick put on his shorts for the first time. Shorts are not in style here. He creates quite a stir as well as mirth from spectators, but in the day’s warmth he is comfortable. . I have never seen the sea quite so blue as it appeared today as we looked down from the heights directly above Monaco. From our point of vantage at La Turbie, famous for its Tower of Augustis, we could see the Riviera from French Cannes on the right, to Italy’s Ventimiglia on the left, and the Italian coastline, our next destination, faded into the distance. Far off to the north are the Esterl Mountains, their winter snow caps still fresh and glistening. And it was there. at La Turbie with its ruined tower that again we feasted on delicious French bread and honey, as the azure blue sea of the Rivera spread out before us. I doubt we will ever forget this day. A bar of chocolate added to our enjoyment as we left the mountain top and sped down the winding narrow road, past the quaint village of Rosenbrunn and its midlevel castle. We dropped the 1800 feet to ride again on the streets of Monaco. and walk on the promenade. Our ride took us past the Old Fort and the harbor with magnificent yachts at anchor, and to the Peninsula with the Casino, Palace, the gardens, and to the narrow quaint streets of The Old City. its personality is preserved while its sanitation, thanks to the Prince, meets modern standards. As we approached the Palace at the right time, the colorful “Changing of the Guard” was in motion, so our panoply was complete as new blended with the old. To the hotel, to clean up for dinner on the Boulevard de Condo....looking over the Old Fort was pleasant-again with bread a nd red wine weakened with H20.. Its beginning to rain again, but hope proves eternal;... Much love..Ted #11..,.Ted April 24-25 Monte Carlo Here we are in Monte Carlo as our Riviera ride draws to a close. It’s hard to believe that we are not dreaming. We pinch our selves in true H.B.Lyon style.The first view of the Casino last night, radiant in lights and with its stream of chaufered limousines driving up to the entrance, is one we won’t forget. Monte Carlo in all its glory is a grand sight. What a day! What a ride! That should desribe our day’s journey over Mayanne Corniche from Nice to Monaco. We started this memorable day with a bang by putting away a great meal at Boef a al Mode and at the time almost caused a national catastrophe. As Ted told you, we purchased a bottle of “vinn de pays” and found it too much to consume at one sitting. We had a half- bottle left from yesterday. I remembered seeing French gentlemen at Le Boef pouring wine into their glasses from a small bottle concealed in their coats, so I suggested that we do the same with our half bottle. We wrapped it in a scarf and walked boldly into Le Boef, bottle unde arm. Everything seeemed OK until we sat down and our waitress said “Voulez-vous du vin?”, whereupon Ted placed our bottle on the table. “Nous avons le notre” we replied, with a look of triumph. Our waitress spoke to the headwaiter who suddenly glowered. Elderly folks arounf us smiled . At or with? Hostility saturated the air waiting to condense in big globules on us. We manfully maintained our stance, smiled back to all and started eating our bread. As the storm clouds dissappated, we Lyon Brothers set about to quietly enjoy our meal. But the fun was not yet over. When the the bill came we found “sans vin: 1.80 francs”. So we were being charged for not buying their wine and drinking our own. Things were becoming complicated when our waitress pointed to a sign on the menu which said “sans baisson: .60” . So that is what “:baisson” meant-just drink. We were now completely deflated. Bottle under arm once more, now empty, for we could receive a refund of 36 centimes from the wine store, the Lyon freres managed to reach the street in almost a single stride, yet nonethe worse for wear. We did not mean to strain American-French relations while being educated. We had just committed a boner, I suspect not or first or last, and without trying to hide our intentions or ignorance.This episode should be titled “:One little bottle a sitting on the table, thankfull to be seen and enjoyed by just th two of us”. A brisk few minutes walk, bottle under arm, and we were back at our “Hotel Britainique”. Twenty minutes later we were on our bikes, pedaling on the “La Promenade des Anglais’ to the Old Fort and the Mayonne Corniche, the beautiful mountain road to take us along the Corte d’Angust, aptly named stetch of shoreline between Nice and Monaco. We stopped at the Italian Tourist Bureau and purchased two railway tickets from the French brder to Naples, Venice, Milan and over the Simplon Pass to Switzerland. The price was equivalent to $20, American. This is just slightly more than two tickets only to Rome. It is a bargain as well as it buys valuable time for our travels. We can get off the train and ride for stretches along the way. Everything we spend in Italy will be paid with out 1500 Letter of Credit giving a us a 30% better excnage rate. Sure can use it, As we rounded “Denjen de Chateau”, the peak providing expansive morning views, we could see for miles from the ocean-front promenade (Quais des Etas Unis and Promenade des Anglais, now in afternoon sunlight, both lined with blue and white umbrellas sheltering the crowds enjoying the first summer weather. The ocean roared at it lapped lapped on the gravel geaches, draggibng pebbles back and forth with a clatter. A khaki-shirted painter stood in the shade of the Charteau, catching on his canvas the spirit and personality of a Nice waterfront. There were three routes open to us from Nice to Monaco, L’Inferior Corniche, La Mayanne Corniche, and La Grande Corniche, the highest and most spectacular of the three. These percipitous roads are engineering triumphs, having been chisled out of and through what appears ro be solid rock, thus many tunnels. Because we were advised to take the Mayanne Corniche, not as difficul a climb, and and yet not giving up anything in its views, we agreed to test its merits. Our climb started some 10 blocks beyond the Old Port and wound back for and forth for the 8 1/2 kilometers to Monaco. At a point just i50 feet above the city, we had a view of the entire ride ahead. The Bay of Naples, a solid sheet of shimmering gold below wastrimmed with the red-tiled roofs of dwellings on the shores. The climb was stiff all of the way. At first, we could not begin to enjoy the beauty below for heads looked down as we pumped. Thus we chose to walk and push and thus “see”. Everything, was in oiur favor-a fine road, a perfect sunny day and with just a few clouds that enhance our photos As we climbed higher we looked down upon a sea of azure blue in the depths, turning to a light blue-green in the shallows pircing the rugged shore. Each jutting promentory along the road had its villa and terrraced grdens. Each bay below had its red-roofed town nestling in hollows. Cape Ferrat, a long knotty arm sticking out into the blue-green constanly catches the eye. La Mayanne Corniche is busy without respit, beginning with our bikes, but more concerned with a stream of crs from rattle-traps to chauferred limousines,all whipping buy us at high speeds, But there were a few who, like us, drove carefully and stopped freqauently at turnouts, to enjoy views. They certainly do things in a big way here.,One dashing sport phaeton, in chromiun, orange and black whipped by with a chauffer in livery matching the car. Do we envy their luxury? No in the least. What king wouldn’t give his best pair of pajamas to be pedaling with us, roughing through Europe and having the time of our young lives. The quaint tiny town of Eze offered a charming break in our uphill journey, for here we found the real thing-a mideavil hamlet seen only here, or perhaps in a copy at a World’s Fair. Eze is on the steep slope of a tiny peak jutting out from our highway. It must have taken lots of chewing gumo keep their out-house from slipping down into the sea during a blowy night. Narrow cobblestone streets, with arches, tiny stone houses and just above all, a crumbling ancient Temple of Isis is relally there. It seems that in the fourth century BC, the Phoenecians climbed the height to build this temple to the goddess. and the town was later built below, inaccessable to maurading bands.The name of the Egyptian God has been gradually modified to a unique and appealing Eze.Whatr a photographer’s paaradise! I wish I knew more about the science and art of photography, or were an artist with my water colors to take full advanatage of such moments and scenes. A refreshing demi-bier and strength was gained fort the last few kms. climb. Yes,we were still going up to the crest. And soon we were there. The next moment we were zipping down to Monaco and Mont Carlo. What a ride! Brakes were forgotten. We hunched low over the bars, leaning steply around turns and whipping by our slower companions on the road-the gas-guzzlers, until with some screming rubber we came to a grinding stop in the heart of Monaco. Our first real view of The Principality came as we rounded a turn high above the city and saw for the first time the hanging gardens. arbors, flowers, and walks seming to hang over the sea. More red roofs and stupendous hotels covered the steep mountainside. Photos will have to replace words. After just a few minutes of searching we found the Rex Hotel, comfortable in the less afluent part of town Twin beds for 11 francs. Not all bad. We quiclkly cleaned up and supped at a nearby patisserie, and were able to leave the table with that “satisfied feeling”. Lots of tea and day old pastry bread made the meal. We have learned that “day old” is just as good as fresh bread and costs half as much. We dunk it in the tea, so that the stomach is full and the pocketbook(should I say “Money Belt”) not ravaged. I supppose we will have to learn the tricks of the trade all over again in Italy. On our first few days, we will stay in pensions and see how thing go while we get the feel of things. One of or pleasantets evenings followed supper. We promenaded about on he shore walks and observed the beautifully lit Casino alive with fur coats and toxes as limousines drove up to deposit their glitttetinmg loads at the glittering entrance.All of our observations were made from a park bench at the border of tiny park just a block away. I could sit for hours watching the endless show and wonderinmg just what it is all about-stars instead of chandoliers, grass as rugs, a park bench as a Chesterfield, and were twice as much conmtentment. A brisk walk up then hill to our suptious villa made us ptomptly hit the hay in preparation for another full day. Today our expenses were exactly $3, just 2$ less than each day in Marseilles. Tomorrow, Sarturday the 26th, we begin with our scheduled Casino visit/Then we will ride to Ventimiglia. There we will either take the train to Genoa, or instead, make the short bike ride to San Remo. New thrills ahaed in Italy. Hope al well at 306, and a pat for Ching(our chow). `.April 25 Menton-San Reamo Today we are in Genoa. seeing the town and will be off once more along the Riviera, taking the train there tomorrow morning. April 25 What a day! This has been twelve hours we will never forget. It took us 7 1/2 hours to cross the border from France into Italy, and all because we were on bicycles. Great busloads of tourists flashed by as we, the lonely bikers, underwent every kind of examination these guys could trump up. Here is the summary, and to the point. 1,We came to the French border above Menton after riding up a mile and half grade. One and a half hours were required for them to prepare certain papers allowing us to bring our bikes back into France, and costing us 25 francs. If it had not been for an Englishman interpreter hired by the French governenrt, we would still be there. tangled in the coils of frowning Frenchmen whose job it is to make things as tough as possible. 2.We then climbed up the grade to the Italian Police Station, showed passports and passed. 3.Another i/3 mile and still up, Italian Customs appeared where we were informed that 230 lira were necessary for a deposit on each bike. American Express had told us the fifteen lira was the fee and we were prepared for that. 4. It was Saturday and 12:15 noon, so I rushed down to town trying to make the bank, leaving Ted with our packs at the top. 5. Back through the French customs and their bickering, went to Menton. All banks were closed. But perhaps Cooks would open at 2 PM. 6. I sat around chewing french bread and worrying about Ted up at the top. 7. At 2 I went to Cooks and was told that the exchange would be much better at an italian company. 8. I went to Transit Co. and was told the boss would not return until 2:30. Ted was still at the top. 9. I returned to Cooks and cashed $32 on our Letter of Cedit for 480 francs. I returned at 2;30 to Transit Co and was told I couldn’t have money until 4Pm. They were sending for it. 11. I rode back up the grade to French customs and found that Ted had gone down to look for me. After certain formalities, I returned to Menton to wait until 4 PM when we received lira at 100 to 103 francs, excellent exchange and saving us many dollars. Ted found me. 12. We returned through French and italian customs, all again up the grade, and paid out 400 lira, after filling out a long unintelligible paper. 13. At 5:19 we rode on up the grade, believing all problems were settled. 14. At one and a half miles if further up the grade, we were told to go back by a passing tourist. 15. Back down, we again showed our papers and received stamps on our bikes, and then rode away again at 5;30, and finally. You can see that this was just another test, I guess, and we passed. We must have learned something from it. We’ll see for we have many more borders to cross. At last we are in the ‘Land of the tenors”, and flowers. Our first impressions, as we circled rocky shores and passed through Italian towns, the first being Ventimiglia, are as follows 1. Smiles, lending new warmth and hospitality to our atmosphere. We immediately felt at home They seemed to laugh with, not at us as was our experience in France as we string beans rode in shorts and polo shirts. 2. Color; Kids in alpine green uniforms, with plumes in their hats; officers in natty uniforms, with clinking sabers and red-lipped damsels on their arms; flowers-carnations, roses, geraniums. Terrace upon terrace of them. Gorgeous flower markets. Groups of school children picking armfuls beside the road. 3. Dust on some parts of the road, but fine highways; horse and wagons trotting along; and a decided lack ot automobiles. 4. Neat well kept homes. clean. and walled with real tile roofs and blue and green shutters. 5. Everyone walks here, laughing and enjoying it. They -seem to have joy in just living. When we ride by and they see just one of us, they look. When they see the two of us, they stare. Shorts are evidently something new here but obviously needed for our riding. The journey from the border, some fifteen miles, was covered in one hour.and we entered San Remo., famous winter resort, especially for the English. However, England is not loved here now due to her action on sanctions. So few of the English are sojourning here. We say that we are Americans every chance we get, so as to make things as easy as possible. As we rode into San Remo everyone ws promenading along the gardened waterfront and on the main street cobblestones. Cops in snappy uniforms smiled at us, helping us as best they could to understand their actions.The only traffic seemed to be a few bicyclers.Evidently cars are abandoned on Saturday night. We sopped at a lovely Pensione Swizzera where 35 lira we had a beautiful room and two meals, ample reward for our “day of days”. After a big dinner, we too promenaded on the streets of the city. In our quarter, gay flags, bright lights, and ringing bells seemed a natural. A great bonfire glowed in the main square, where many stood in line to pray at the tiny mission on one side. Evidently, Italy has had another Ethiopian victory. Our plans are this. It is expensive for us to take our bikes on the train to Rome at about $2 apiece, so we will decide tomorrow what to do. We will probably ride south about 20 miles to Rapelle, sleep there, and then take the train to Pisa, stopping over for a few hours, and then on to Rome for a week. Naples and Sorrento, then Rome again, Florence, Venice, and then the bike ride over the Simplon Pass to Geneva. We are allowing one month for Italy so that we will probably be in Geneva by the 25th of May, Zurich about the 30th, and Munich around the 11th of June. You can write accordingly. We intensely look forward to your letters, as we are now doing. If you could have some at each city, it would be wonderful And, by the way, guess what we had at our first two dinners in Italy? Spaghetti! Every town or city’s name seems to end in “etti”, always suggesting that spaghetti is there waiting for us. A few more notes-All of the towns along the Italian Riviera are protected from winds by an amphitheater of mountains to the north. The “Riviera Ligure” extends from the border to La Spezia. The western Riviera over which we have traveled is called the “Riviera di Ponenti” while the “Riviera di Levante’ “ extends to the east. In France the “Cote d’or” extends from Toulon to Nice, supplemented by the more beautiful “Cote d’Azur” from Nice to Mentone. This western Riviera does a great trade in flowers. its hills are covered with masonry supported terraces, looking like great steps. Olive trees for olive oil is the other great industry. This is just a hurried summary of events, but will have to do. We rush to finish seeing Genoa today and then be off again to the south . Rome calls. We think constantly of you and wonder how things are at home, expecting all to be well. We’re anxious to hear how Bruce’s team came out in the tournament, and if you are playing golf each weekend DickApril 26 San Remo-Genoa- The end of another busy day. This morning in San Remo we awoke, dressed, had breakfast in our Pensione dining room of bread, jam, and tea, a fine combination. Then we walked around and up behind the town to see the panorama of houses and hills. Back of the city are small farms, with vineyards -small and few they are exceptionally clean looking. Today, Sunday, soldiers were all decked out in gay uniforms with white gloves and people are out walking in their best clothes saying “Buon giorn to each other as they pass. We were soon above the city and looking down upon the roofs and farmhouses of the old section of town. It wasn’t grand but tremendously interesting. We are intrigued by the appearances of low doorways and tunneled streets so that we carried our bicycles down some steep steps to get a better look These houses and streets were aged and dirty and not the least inviting. Big austere lamps now unused and cob webbed might have been very grand What struck us most was the number of arches and connecting rafters from house to house above narrow dark cobbled streetss. Being on the steps were steep and winding, and it was if we were in a moving picture as we too wound down. The elderly women were all dressed in plain black clothes while the men wore every possible style. As we descended, the steps widened and the houses seemed cleaner. All along the streets were pipes and wires giving evidence of new sanitation, running water, and electricity. It seemed likely that a poor neighborhood was being renovated. Those that didn’t yet have electricity were doing their work sitting in the doorway. At the bottom is the public square, the church, shops, and the flower market All the while we had walked, but now as we left the old for the new we rode along quickly to get our belongings and be on our way. After boarding the train we were soon speeding toward Genoa by way of Alassio and Savona, popular winter and summer resorts. Between the countless short tunnels we caught glimpses of the small Italian towns nestled at the heads of valleys with snow capped sharp peaks beyond./ Several old battlement and castles went by. The coastal scenes were attractive with small offshore islands, although nothing to compare with our recent Riviera experiences in Nice and Monaco. Olive and orange trees are plentiful among the scores of small vineyards. Backyard fences and gardens are covered with flowers. Fancily dressed policeman of the King and called Carbinieres promenade in the wayside stations, their walls covered with splashy advertisements The minutes flew by as we scrutinized fellow passengers. As we stood at the right side-the compartments are all on the left-and looked out the windows, we conversed with several people in English and French.. After making sure we are Americans they were congenial.Three women.evidently on a holiday, promptly took possession of our compartment. Overbearing and talkative they created plenty of sound for the little compartment. Two Spaniards got off at Alessio where Lindbergh and his family are planning to make their home. Soon we were in the outskirts of Genoa, the shore lined with boatyards. With bicycles secured from the baggage room, we rode out to find a hotel. While looking for the American Express agent Dick struck up a conversation with a gentleman who offered a place at a reasonable price. It was not far away and looked good. We were soon to learn that we weren’t in the desirable part of town, as a short walk from our lodging proved. The Plazza Aqueverde contains the large monument to Christopher Columbus. Chris stands on top with one hand on the anchor and the other on a kneeling Indian. The story of his exploits is portrayed around the foundation with sculptured figures. A mediocre dinner was had.As is the custom, we had spaghetti, but the meat was tough and dry, the house wine passable and the bread tough. We didn’t touch the lettuce for we haven’t yet learned the rules with greens. After dinner the town was calling so we wandered down the old streets, pushing bikes. It was still light and after being bawled out by a policeman for braking some regulation we hadn’t understood, and still don’t, we made out above the city to get a general idea of its layout. This has become a habit for us in each new location where such is possible. The huge Italian liner, The Rex, was in the harbor. Genoa with all of its churches and multitude of gray buildings forms an amphitheater for the busy port. The day was hazy and poor for pictures, so back down to the main streets we went to examine one or two of the offices housed in seventieth century palaces. We entered the Municipale, or government office, for a brief visit. As it was getting late we bought a bar of chocolate and a whip cream cone from small shop and returned to our lodging for a good sleep Just few more words as i close. Tomorrow we plan to see a bit of Genoa and then head off towards Pisa, on bikes as far as Rappello. In Pisa we will see the Tower and then take off to Rome. We have been presented with the problem of bicycle as freight which comes to 10 to 15 dollars whenever we travel by train, and understand this is a one time charge. We feel we should have the bikes in Naples to ride to Sorrento, Pompeii, and Amalfi, so are paying up for the privilege. 12..AP[RIL 27...DICK IN ITALY Genoa, writing on arriving in Rome WE ARE REALLY IN ITALY NOW., and are getting a taste of the romantic side, perhaps in a more “true to life” manor than we have expected. It is 8 o’clock in the evening as we write after a full day and before a visit to a “dog house” or singing cafe this evening with a new Anmerican aqaintance, Don Wasson, of whom I will tell you more .Below our window from the narrow alley below we are receiving the romantic touch or flavor saver in the form of rollicking music by a trio of street singers accompanying themselves with violin and guitar. They are possibly advertising a lottery, or some such Italian institution, of course government controlled, but their music is quite real, full of harmony and life. What a background to regroup our thoughts. Cries of the “banana woman” as she adverises her tropical fruit are interjected into the harmony This is our first day in Genoa and it is a revelationWe have seen things we never imagined except perhaps in our perception of Vatican treasures and even fairy tales. We have enjoyed an honest to goodness hot shower in a spic and span tile bathroom below Piazza Aquivardini in one of Italy’s many Docias, or public baths. What a glorious feeling to be really shining new after a day of pedaling. Four lira for shower, soap, and towel is the charge. No quesrtion that we got our money’s worth with just one limitation. They passed a counterfeit 80 lira piece as change, not revealed until we tried to pay for lunch. These Italians are apparently adept at this trade, so we intend to learn quickly and be careful from here on. I suppose the game is that over the next month we will have the opportunityh to pass, in Italina style, our 8 iira note to someone else who then will keeep the cycle going. Ted has told you of our “wonderful” hotel.., so I won’t elaborate. Our stupendous breakfast of tea was stowed away in no time at all. We are ready to get going this morning. Unfortunately, the day dawned cloudy and stayed that way, dooming fine photos. American Express was our first stop as usual. where we made inquiries and reduced our Letter of Credit by $10 Outside, the newspapers are making a great deal of an affair in Abbysinia, still not clear to us. It was at American Express that Bob Bssom offered to help us with our erands. He is from Clevland, studying the language at the univwersity on a schlorship and is in his ewigth month. He seemed just as glad to speak with someone from home as we are to receive his guidance.which, to begin, promised a fine day ahead of sight seeing. Since coming here he has talked to few Americans for his desite to perfect his IItalian has restricted conversation to Italian friends. Our next call was the American Consulate on Via Balbi, narrow and busy with busses, street cars, and crowds of pedestrians. Very few cars are seen because gasoline starts at $2 a gallon and even the wealthy can afford only 4 cylinder Fiats. Our journey took us down even darker Via Caerelli, followed by Via Garibaldi, leading into Piazza Corridoni and the Consulate. After registering our passport, our steps took us to Piazza Ferrari, the town center. A few more steps and we were on Via Vente Setembre, a date similar to our Fourth of July. It is the finest street in Genoa. At CIT we cashed 350 mlira from our Letter of Credit, and then were ready to see the sughts. Don had a class at 11:30 so we arranged to meet him again in an hour, giving us time to to get the wondrous shower at the Doccia. Don took us to a quaint restaurant , small and warm, its walls covered with works of art, and each table had its standard bottle of red and white wine. We thoroughly enjoyed a delicious lunch of macaroni, meat, spinach, fruit, and bread. The wine completed the Genoese atmosphere. Just say “macaroni” and roll the “r’s” and you will experince a bit of the joy of a meal here. With the new feeling of something solid beneath our belts, it was time for sight seeing. Our greatest wish was to see the birthplace of Columbus. It lay just a few blocks away at one picturesque entrance to the “Old Town”. As we crossed Piazza Ferrari, officers and their men strutted by, all in dashing colorful uniforms. Their white gloves and equally white ”bobby” hats identified them as Carbonieri. They are the city police whot directs traffic with the flick of a finger. exuding confidence and authority. They must have practiced before mirrors in order toi sustain such compusure with minmal effort as wild traffic responds to their motions. At one corner of the square, a crowd gazed admiringly at a one-man tank, exhibiteed as a part of the Ethiopian Campagne. It seems as if a victory is taking place every day, for “extras” art the curb side constantly headline success. Don jibed, “I bet you will pass Columbus’ home and not notice it”. He was right when this did happen as Donn led us on. A single square two-storied stone structure, almost entirely covered with vines, was all we could see. But any doubts we had were quickly dispelled on approaching closer. A plaque in Latin establishes this as his home. It stands starkly all alone on the street corner, adjacent structures having been removed. We were surprised that the Genoa governament had not done more to glorify this monument, especially on hearing from Don that his Genoese classmates take great pride that Columbus is of their blood. When the going gets tough for Don, as his classmates rib him with debt the Ameicans owe the Genoese, he turns the argument around with a few words as he points out that it took the Spanish to make his success a reality. Occasionally, flushed faces and slight flashes of Italian anbger result. The Old City is one of Genoa’s most intriguing sights, and one of the few left in large cities.The midieval wall and battlements are now being rebuilt, for they completely surround the original city. Smart shops with stunning ultra modern window displays seem out of place in †he narrow dark alleys of the “Old Town”. Everyday is wash day here, for clothes lines fly thir drying colorful garments like pennants from five and six story windows in otherwise plain buildings packed tightly together. Almost no light filters through to the streets or alleys below. We jostled back and forth through slowly moving crowds, stepping aside now and then as a giant wine barrel, surely empty, is rolled by as it takes up almost the entire passage way. It was in the center of such a section that we came upon the Cathedral, largest and finest of Genoese churches. It was our introduction to the masterpieces we expect to see throuout all of Italy. What struck us most about this architecture is the use of broad stripes on the facade in black and white marble, and used as well, inside.This is more like what we would expect in the Near East as a probable hang-over from the Byzantines at the time whwn Constantine was gaining a foothold in Ravenna. Columns, also of Byzantine origin, seem out of harmony as they stand between the stately Roman pillars. Frescoed ceilings, and walls barocquelly trimmed with gold, towered above us as we stood on the expansive main floor, aghast at at the immensity and richness of everything. Ornate alters are set in small alcove that line the nave. One characteristic of all these great churches is that all the seating is in small chairs easily moved. They thus may be cleared for processions so often demanded on special days. How tiny these seats and the people sitting in them appear in the great hall. In order to see a little of the grandeur that once was Genoa, we visited two of the many palaces scattered through the city. Today they are primarily rented to banks where 20th Century business affairs are the rule, hard and practical, and perhaps softened by still fresh remindes of a turbulent past. It’s hard to believe, but there are still palaces everywhere, constructed with beautiful many-colored marbles from nearby Carrara at the foot of the Alps. Even these semi-precious stones are frescoed from top to bottom. The artists, even in that early times, were masters of perspective. Flat exteriors give the appearance of rows of ornate collonades, pillars standing out in relief, these masterpices of art as commonplace as nearby modern lastered surfaces. A fresco, you know, is a painting done on wet cement The dyes are given time to . In this way they will last. Great skill is necessary to do this work, for a single slip utterly ruins the work. Just imagine three and four stories covered with this workmanship! Each great palace has its main entrance through forbidding steel doors. Just inside is the courtyard with the ever present ornamental and active fountain. Only the privileged wealthy could have a fountain in those days because the water had to come by aqueduct and then piped in to each palace.The court is usally square and fully enclosed by the palace. Today, the residences looking down on the courtyard appear plain and just dreary from the outside, but their truly gorgeous well-preserved interiors in so many cases give full testimony to the pagentry once a norm in the old world. You can’t possibly understand what it must have been like without just standing and gawking at these monuments of the past. In Palazzo Tussi, now the Palazzo Municipale, we were shown the through room after room , frescoed, with worn tapestries, and finely wrought furnisshings. These rooms once belonged to the great Doria family, whose maritime influence was felt throughout not only Italy but the world. Great wooden doors swing on massive hinges, the lower one always the larger and stronger, so that the doors swing in at an angle as though opening upwards too. Priceless paintings cover every wall. Baroque ceiling frescoes look down on gilded objects of art. It is in such a room that govenment officers today meet to discuss weighty problems. If one lived in such a place very long, and appreciated the surroiundings, jus t tooking up should produce a perenial stiff neck. Paganini’s violin is just one of the treasures, kept under lock an key behind glass on a royal red and gold stand. Manicured gardens lie on each side of this palace, perhaps a little stiff and formal to our eyes, but appreciated if only for the stories they tell. What color, gaity, joys and tragedies of life must have been the lots for the few privileged in such surroundings when Genoa was in its hayday, its fleets competing with those of Genoa, Pisa, and Venice, and bringing treasures from east and west. Genoa was a and perhaps the center for great art in the 17th century as it attracted the works of artist such as Rubens, Van Dyke, and Rembrandt, for all worked here at times as they created the masterpices to adorn walls and halls of a Doria, Gataldi, or a Podesta palace. In Palazzo (pronounded Palatzo) Roseo, one of the finest preserved palaces, we walked reverantly over marble floors and though sumtious rooms, admiring the art of Van Dyke, his colors still fresh while those of Ruberns are darkening with age. But for the most part the northern artists were not able to make their colors last as long as those of the Italian masters. Draperies, porcelain, and exotic wood carvings are everwhere here. Quite a contrast was the view from the third story window of the palace. A sea of house tops engulfed us. This is the tenemant district. Each almost unattractive structure is topped by a penthouse. something New York is just iscovering. Every house top also has a vegetbale garden, wash on the clothes line, cats roaming about, and plain dull gray slate roof without the pleasant tiles common to the French Riviera. Genoa is noted for this grayness. Sate quarries are nearby and the material cheap. Of course the inevitable old man frequents many of these penthouse gardens, and is puttering around there. In the distance, glistening domes and majestic spires rise above the drabness. With these clashing views of wealth and poverty in our minds, we left the Red Palace and contemplatively walked beneath shadows of departed glory along the Palace-lined Via Garibaldi. “Departd gory” included our hotel room, which Ted is writing about. ”:Marie” in a high shrill voice will ring in our ears for daysa to come. We are thinking of compiling a “Slap Me Down”-places recommended to be avoided, our Genoa abode reserving first position. This Genoa story is finally completed, four days behind schedule. I can now go to sleep. Tomorrow we visit St. Peters and surely it will be a great reat thrill to then be desribed to you, are loved ones at home. We hope a our thoughhts, feelings, in words majke this rreal for you too, Mom, Dad, and Bruce, and hope Ching is listening as well. Love Dick. Ted12..AP[RIL 27...DICK IN ITALY Genoa, writing on arriving in Rome WE ARE REALLY IN ITALY NOW., and are getting a taste of the romantic side, perhaps in a more “true to life” manor than we have expected. It is 8 o’clock in the evening as we write after a full day and before a visit to a “dog house” or singing cafe this evening with a new American acquaintance, Don Wasson, of whom I will tell you more .Below our window from the narrow alley below we are receiving the romantic touch or flavor saver in the form of rollicking music by a trio of street singers accompanying themselves with violin and guitar. They are possibly advertising a lottery, or some such Italian institution, of course government controlled, but their music is quite real, full of harmony and life. What a background to regroup our thoughts. Cries of the “banana woman” as she adverises her tropical fruit are interjected into the harmony This is our first day in Genoa and it is a revelation. We have seen things we never imagined except perhaps in our perception of Vatican treasures and even fairy tales. We have enjoyed an honest to goodness hot shower in a spic and span tile bathroom below Piazza Aquivardini in one of Italy’s many Docias, or public baths. What a glorious feeling to be really shining new after a day of pedaling. Four lira for shower, soap, and towel is the charge. No question that we got our money’s worth with just one limitation. They passed a counterfeit 80 lira piece as change, not revealed until we tried to pay for lunch. These Italians are apparently adept at this trade, so we intend to learn quickly and be careful from here on. I suppose the game is that over the next month we will have the opportunity to pass, in Italina style, our 8 iira note to someone else who then will keep the cycle going. Ted has told you of our “wonderful” hotel.., so I won’t elaborate. Our stupendous breakfast of tea was stowed away in no time at all. We are ready to get going this morning. Unfortunately, the day dawned cloudy and stayed that way, dooming fine photos. American Express was our first stop as usual. where we made inquiries and reduced our Letter of Credit by $10 Outside, the newspapers are making a great deal of an affair in Abbysinia, still not clear to us. It was at American Express that Bob Bssom offered to help us with our erands. He is from Clevland, studying the language at the univwersity on a schlorship and is in his eighth month. He seemed just as glad to speak with someone from home as we are to receive his guidance.which, to begin, promised a fine day ahead of sight seeing. Since coming here he has talked to few Americans for his desire to perfect his Italian has restricted conversation to Italian friends. Our next call was the American Consulate on Via Balbi, narrow and busy with busses, street cars, and crowds of pedestrians. Very few cars are seen because gasoline starts at $2 a gallon and even the wealthy can afford only 4 cylinder Fiats. Our journey took us down even darker Via Caerelli, followed by Via Garibaldi, leading into Piazza Corridoni and the Consulate. After registering our passport, our steps took us to Piazza Ferrari, the town center. A few more steps and we were on Via Vente Setembre, a date similar to our Fourth of July. It is the finest street in Genoa. At CIT we cashed 350 mlira from our Letter of Credit, and then were ready to see the sights. Don had a class at 11:30 so we arranged to meet him again in an hour, giving us time to to get the wondrous shower at the Doccia. Don took us to a quaint restaurant , small and warm, its walls covered with works of art, and each table had its standard bottle of red and white wine. We thoroughly enjoyed a delicious lunch of macaroni, meat, spinach, fruit, and bread. The wine completed the Genoese atmosphere. Just say “macaroni” and roll the “r’s” and you will experience a bit of the joy of a meal here. With the new feeling of something solid beneath our belts, it was time for sight seeing. Our greatest wish was to see the birthplace of Columbus. It lay just a few blocks away at one picturesque entrance to the “Old Town”. As we crossed Piazza Ferrari, officers and their men strutted by, all in dashing colorful uniforms. Their white gloves and equally white ”bobby” hats identified them as Carbonieri. They are the city police who direct traffic with the flick of a finger. exuding confidence and authority. They must have practiced before mirrors in order to sustain such composure with minimal effort as wild traffic responds to their motions. At one corner of the square, a crowd gazed admiringly at a one-man tank, exhibited as a part of the Ethiopian Campagne. It seems as if a victory is taking place every day, for “extras” art the curb side constantly headline success. Don jibed, “I bet you will pass Columbus’ home and not notice it”. He was right when this did happen as Donn led us on. A single square two-storied stone structure, almost entirely covered with vines, was all we could see. But any doubts we had were quickly dispelled on approaching closer. A plaque in Latin establishes this as his home. It stands starkly all alone on the street corner, adjacent structures having been removed. We were surprised that the Genoa government had not done more to glorify this monument, especially on hearing from Don that his Genoese classmates take great pride that Columbus is of their blood. When the going gets tough for Don, as his classmates rib him with debt the Americans owe the Genoese, he turns the argument around with a few words as he points out that it took the Spanish to make his success a reality. Occasionally, flushed faces and slight flashes of Italian anbger result. The Old City is one of Genoa’s most intriguing sights, and one of the few left in large cities. The medieval wall and battlements are now being rebuilt, for they completely surround the original city. Smart shops with stunning ultra modern window displays seem out of place in †he narrow dark alleys of the “Old Town”. Everyday is wash day here, for clothes lines fly their drying colorful garments like pennants from five and six story windows in otherwise plain buildings packed tightly together. Almost no light filters through to the streets or alleys below. We jostled back and forth through slowly moving crowds, stepping aside now and then as a giant wine barrel, surely empty, is rolled by as it takes up almost the entire passage way. It was in the center of such a section that we came upon the Cathedral, largest and finest of Genoese churches. It was our introduction to the masterpieces we expect to see throw-out all of Italy. What struck us most about this architecture is the use of broad stripes on the facade in black and white marble, and used as well, inside. This is more like what we would expect in the Near East as a probable hang-over from the Byzantines at the time when Constantine was gaining a foothold in Ravenna. Columns, also of Byzantine origin, seem out of harmony as they stand between the stately Roman pillars. Frescoed ceilings, and walls barocquelly trimmed with gold, towered above us as we stood on the expansive main floor, aghast at at the immensity and richness of everything. Ornate alters are set in small alcove that line the nave. One characteristic of all these great churches is that all the seating is in small chairs easily moved. They thus may be cleared for processions so often demanded on special days. How tiny these seats and the people sitting in them appear in the great hall. In order to see a little of the grandeur that once was Genoa, we visited two of the many palaces scattered through the city. Today they are primarily rented to banks where 20th Century business affairs are the rule, hard and practical, and perhaps softened by still fresh reminds of a turbulent past. It’s hard to believe, but there are still palaces everywhere, constructed with beautiful many-colored marbles from nearby Carrara at the foot of the Alps. Even these semi-precious stones are frescoed from top to bottom. The artists, even in that early times, were masters of perspective. Flat exteriors give the appearance of rows of ornate colonnades, pillars standing out in relief, these masterpieces of art as commonplace as nearby modern lastered surfaces. A fresco, you know, is a painting done on wet cement The dyes are given time to . In this way they will last. Great skill is necessary to do this work, for a single slip utterly ruins the work. Just imagine three and four stories covered with this workmanship! Each great palace has its main entrance through forbidding steel doors. Just inside is the courtyard with the ever present ornamental and active fountain. Only the privileged wealthy could have a fountain in those days because the water had to come by aqueduct and then piped in to each palace. The court is usually square and fully enclosed by the palace. Today, the residences looking down on the courtyard appear plain and just dreary from the outside, but their truly gorgeous well-preserved interiors in so many cases give full testimony to the pageantry once a norm in the old world. You can’t possibly understand what it must have been like without just standing and gawking at these monuments of the past. In Palazzo Tussi, now the Palazzo Municipale, we were shown the through room after room , frescoed, with worn tapestries, and finely wrought furnishings. These rooms once belonged to the great Doria family, whose maritime influence was felt throughout not only Italy but the world. Great wooden doors swing on massive hinges, the lower one always the larger and stronger, so that the doors swing in at an angle as though opening upwards too. Priceless paintings cover every wall. Baroque ceiling frescoes look down on gilded objects of art. It is in such a room that government officers today meet to discuss weighty problems. If one lived in such a place very long, and appreciated the surroundings, just looking up should produce a perennial stiff neck. Paganini’s violin is just one of the treasures, kept under lock an key behind glass on a royal red and gold stand. Manicured gardens lie on each side of this palace, perhaps a little stiff and formal to our eyes, but appreciated if only for the stories they tell. What color, gaity, joys and tragedies of life must have been the lots for the few privileged in such surroundings when Genoa was in its hayday, its fleets competing with those of Genoa, Pisa, and Venice, and bringing treasures from east and west. Genoa was a and perhaps the center for great art in the 17th century as it attracted the works of artist such as Rubens, Van Dyke, and Rembrandt, for all worked here at times as they created the masterpieces to adorn walls and halls of a Doria, Gataldi, or a Podesta palace. In Palazzo (pronounced Palatzo) Roseo, one of the finest preserved palaces, we walked reverently over marble floors and though sumptuous rooms, admiring the art of Van Dyke, his colors still fresh while those of Ruberns are darkening with age. But for the most part the northern artists were not able to make their colors last as long as those of the Italian masters. Draperies, porcelain, and exotic wood carvings are everywhere here. Quite a contrast was the view from the third story window of the palace. A sea of house tops engulfed us. This is the tenement district. Each almost unattractive structure is topped by a penthouse. something New York is just discovering. Every house top also has a vegetable garden, wash on the clothes line, cats roaming about, and plain dull gray slate roof without the pleasant tiles common to the French Riviera. Genoa is noted for this grayness. Sate quarries are nearby and the material cheap. Of course the inevitable old man frequents many of these penthouse gardens, and is puttering around there. In the distance, glistening domes and majestic spires rise above the drabness. With these clashing views of wealth and poverty in our minds, we left the Red Palace and contemplatively walked beneath shadows of departed glory along the Palace-lined Via Garibaldi. “Departd gory” included our hotel room, which Ted is writing about. ”:Marie” in a high shrill voice will ring in our ears for daysa to come. We are thinking of compiling a “Slap Me Down”-places recommended to be avoided, our Genoa abode reserving first position. This Genoa story is finally completed, four days behind schedule. I can now go to sleep. Tomorrow we visit St. Peters and surely it will be a great reat thrill to then be described to you, are loved ones at home. We hope a our thoughts, feelings, in words make this real for you too, Mom, Dad, and Bruce, and hope Ching is listening as well. Love Dick.# 14..Pisa April 28..Ted Just a few words about Genoa. I must tell you about our hotel. As we were told later by our friend Bob Bassom, we are poor hotel-pickers for our lodging was in the worst part of town. It was near the station. and reasonable, and for the moment looked all right. The first annoying incident was the taking of our passports to fill out the forms for the police, but the proprietors manner of doing so was odd. We were becoming nervous and wary. The people who run the restaurant and rooms where we slept are a very unhappy pair, always yelling at each other. The wife, much too heavy, would scream at the waitress, “Muriel, Muriel” and then followed a string words with a nasty tone. Our room seemed clean and large but on our first day the maid kept busting through our door, always looking for someone in the household. We never found who she was looking for. At 6: 30 AM the ringing of loud bells in the church next door was anything but welcome. Potentially, the view could have been quite wonderful, but the unkept street below with inhabitants equally shabby left a bad taste in our mouths. Dinner and breakfast were no better. Dick said he had never before tasted undercooked horsehide. And I couldn’t argue. The bread was the shattering sort that easily takes away one’s appetite. That’s enough of a description of our first living lesson in Italy. Our plan ws to see the famous city cemetery and the ride to Rapello along the coast. The cemetery was quite a way out but well worth our while. The tomb of Mazzini is accompanied by many magnificent mausoleums. It was like walking in a sea of marble homes. Family coats of arms adorn each doorway. And some of the tombs are miniatures of the Milan Cathedral. By this time it was, of course, beginning to rain so we stopped at a Lattoria and had a cup of chocolate, two fried eggs, and a loaf of fluffy bread. It was refreshing. It really was raining by this time so we decided that the train must be taken, although we would miss the remarkable coast line. This morning we arose with a sigh of relief to be on our way gain. Genoa has been much more of a positive experience, thanks to Bob Bossom, than we had counted on. It was beginning to rain again so we stopped at a milk shop or “lateria” and had a cup of chocolate, two fried eggs, accompanied by a loaf of wor fluffy bread. Things were picking up as our needed diet came within range of our budget. It was really pouring as we stepped out. It was clear that today the train was the only way to go. Our bicycles were safely tagged for Rome. We would not need them in small Pisa, and had confidence in a railroad system seeming equal to the quality of Doccas. This man Mussolini seems to be in firm control, and yet not oppressive to the people or to visitors such a two American boys far from home. Yet for anyone who hopes to see the country, even on a sunny day, the train is not the way to go. Tunnels are so numerous that the trip is spoiled. However, an electric train has its plusses, for traversing the many tunnels is smokeless. Views of small towns such as Nervi, Rappello, and Portofino, most famous of Italian Riviera resorts, were much too short and the rain dimmed the views between tunnels. Thus we will never know what we have missed, but I am sure it was our loss. The coast is very irregular, and on a good day just a glimpse of these fishing towns must be a joy, but from that point on he coast was dull, finally becoming almost bare. Then the tunnels suddenly ceased, and we were skirting the Apuan Alps with huge marble quarries appearing as snow drifts in the mountains. A bit further, in the town of Avensa, we had a fine view of a colossal fourteenth century chateau wherein is supposed to be a huge bust of the artist Mazzini. Vineyards, almost always rectangular, were bounded with vegetable gardens outlined with arbors supporting more vines. Yellow lilies and red poppies seemed to be growing freely along the side of the tracks. Two natives were our companions in our four person compartment typical of continental trains. They had the window seats, never looked out, and just consumed tempting lunches under our noses. The two others were a couple, either German of Swiss, evidently tourists going to Rome When it was time Dick and I got knapsacks ready and could stand in the vestibule where we had the thrill of seeing the Tower we had seen so often in postcards. It seemed to take hours before the train finally stopped, and quickly we were at a hotel to deposit our baggage. Quickly we were on the way to the Tower of Pisa, the Cathedral, the Baptistry and the Compesante, all in a group at the northeast side of the city. Pisa has 75,000 residents and it is divided into equal parts by the legendary river Arno. All through the city are run down palaces, last vestiges of powerful days. Pisa is the birthplace of perhaps the most renowned man in Italian history, Galilee Galali. astronomer without peer, and Nicolo Pisano, tutor of Leonardo Da Vinci. Pisa as with so many Italian cities has a glorious history. Probably first settled by the Greeks, it underwent domination by first the Ligurians, then the Etruscans , and much later the Romans. During the Middle Ages it was a maritime power, along with Genoa and Venice. It must then have been much closer to the sea. The Republic of Pisa fought against the a saracens, and for a time was mistress of Sardinia, a part of Corsica, and the Balearic Isles. In fact the Pisan fleet was defeated by the Genoese, thus beginning the city’s decline. The downward trend continued until 1509 and despite the heroism of the citizens, Pisa became subservient to Florence. Now all she has is her history, frescoes and human ureters of names off a few famous sons. As I said we were anxious to get to the Tower. And when we did come in sight of it , we weren't the least disappointed. It is breathtaking. The Cathedral stands close by, and just beyond is the Baptistry. We started with the Baptistry, built in the 12th century, circular and imposing. We entered through the main door and found ourselves in a single room the shape of a dome. In the center is the basin for total immersion, inlaid with colorful marble. The pulpit by Nicole Pisano is quite wonderful, also of course in marble. While we were admiring the pulpit, two men and a guide entered, the guide evidently a friend of the two, for he began to chant, one note after another in a harmonic chord. The first note ws loud and clear, the second a bit softer, and the third just enough to be audible and round out the full and beautiful full chord it then echoing and reechoing around us. The construction of the dome was so articulate as to make this musical rendering possible. Wonder of wonders? Across the lawn and through the drizzle we walked to the Cathedral. Our interest focused on the bronze lamp that is so famous as the Lamp off Galilee, for it was the oscillations of this lamp that formed the basis for Galilee's discovery of the pendulum and its relation to the earth’s motion and gravity. It hangs centrally in the nave. After a look around at the rest of the interior with its supply of great artists’ work, we went to the Tower, paid a small admission fee, and started the climb to the top. This was just plain fun for on the lower, or hanging side, the climbing was easy, while on the other side the steps seemed to be three feet high, all due to the angle of the lean. After five minutes of climbing we were at the top and looking over the lower rim to the ground below. It was there that I asked myself why suicides are so plentiful in New York when on could get some real publicity here and not even have to jump, just lean. Vision through the rain was poor, so we didn’t have the joy of seeing a countryside so pictured in art and postcards. It was getting late so so retuned to our hotel-pension for a tasty dinner before bed. APRIL 30 IN ROME This is our first day in Rome and we have never realized it would b such a thrill This morning we made he acquaintance of an American lady who has lived here for many years , and because Dick is in such dire need of pants, she offered to find a tailor. Dick is constantly checking behind to be sure there is not another opening there, The tailor will be here tonight. This morning we had our first glimpse of the Coliseum, Pantheon and the Forum, So we started with the Pantheism, so familiar it is in our history books It is all it is supposed to be. The dome quite unbelievable for its size and height, all in concrete , surprisingly. Miss Gallagher, our new knowledgeable friend, said that the outside had been originally covered with brass plates and the inner surfaces with marble. Further she commented that many who have suffered for their faith consider lt a disgrace that pagan temples such as this one have not been preserved more perfectly. And we ask why these people who have suffered would even wish to preserve these monument at all. This was a temple to the gods where each god had a niche for itself, and now they are replaced by smaller statues relating to Christianity, At one side is the tomb of Raphael and opposite the tombs of two Italian monarchism Emmanuel I and II. The only ventilation is through the large opening in the center of the dome admitting light The Pantheon was said to have ben built by Agrippa, but there is more reason to believe that when he added the portico and a few columns, his name took hold. As we walked out, again a glimpse of the Coliseum was there to thrill us. Miss Gallagher then pointed out palaces , showing us a few still in use as such, while most are considered liabilities and are used for stores and apartments. On our way to the Pantheon we had passed through the Piazza Venezia which is dominated by the Vittorio Emanuel Monument, and on the right side is the building wherein Mussolini has apartments. He makes his appearances on his balcony overlooking the square. Our next visit, as with all tourists, was to the Trevi Fountain where if you toss in a coin, you will return, just as in Honolulu where by tossing a coin for the divers, you too will assure a return. Therefore, our last evening here we plan to make offerings in order to return and with a single contribution minimize our losses. But this is not all we saw this morning. We were led into a small church that was the chapel for the Doria family, so prominent here, and where, also, Napoleon’s brother and his wife are buried. Below this building is the dungeon of St. Paul. A few steps away we entered the Jesuit University Chapel, with its magnificent interior. In one of the transcripts rests the tomb of Saint Aloysius, patron saint of young manhood. Just a word about churches in general . We will try to be succinct about the virtues of each because the details are repetitious and go on for pages. Dick and I have said that of all of the five hundred or more churches here, one side of one chapel would provide ample thrill for a lifetime. We nest entered another church, Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, erected on the ruins of the pagan Temple of Minerva. High mass was going on, and you can imagine the fiery land of candles. Michelanglo’s Risen Christ with the Cross stands to the left of the tribune with the right foot protected by a bronze shoe to withstand the kisses of the devout. On our way out Miss Gallagher pointed out to us the difference beaten good and bad sculpture. One was hard and unnatural, the other soft with fine proportions. We learned that the capitals of the doric columns are derived from the the Acanthus leaf that grows throughout the land. In the plaza, pronounced platza, in front of this church is a rather odd monument consisting of a marble elephant supporting an Egyptian obelisk. The reason for this design is that the obelisk, though beautiful, was too small and needed to be raised to be appreciated. After our morning of education, we returned and put a way a good lunch, part of which consisted of a heaped plate of spaghetti.The main attraction for the afternoon was our inspection of the Palazzo del Quirinale. Since 1870, it has ben the home of the King of italy, he displacing the Popes p;previously their owners. It is on a hilltop with full view of Rome including the dome of St. Peters. of course the marvelously uniformed guards with Carabinieri colors, sashes, medals, breast bands and all are at the door to silently greet us. The palace is as all palaces should be with room after room of gilt, freezes, art masterpieces, plush rugs, and striking colors such as yellow used quite beautifully. After the show we easily joined the real world again, hiking back to the pension not for away. We had intended to ride to the catacombs, although it was a little late, so on our bikes rode past the Coliseum, to the Via Appia as it starts out at the Porto San Sebastiano. There the Way continues as cobblestones. The day was poor, the bumping not well tolerated, and it was late, so we backed off to save the trip for another day. We rode for awhile by fields of red poppies and scattered ruins, making the circuit back to the city, and headed for shelter as again rain began. We had a good dinner and then learned of the evening’s plans. One of our pension friends was making up a party to go to a wine restaurant for some fun. We were invited, dutch-treat of course. At 9:30 we started and didn’t get back until 1AM. What a night! Our party consisted of the lawyer friend, Mr. Gionannini, who headed the party, two art students, Mr. and Mrs Mac Kinney, Lauren and a very interesting Scotchman just finishing a three year scholarship for travel in three European countries, Miss Gallagher, and the two of us. We walked quite a way to the Restaurant Biblioteca. Down a short staircase we found ourselves in a wine cellar, the walls housing the bottles. We were seated, surrounded with others obviously enjoying themselves The call went out for orders and sweet wine sounded good to us, but we later found the dry wine was the best. Musicians supplied popular songs and we sang lustily with the rest. Dad would have been in his element. Soon eyelids began to droop and we sang “:Show me the way to go home:” And another day was done as we walked home through the maze of narrow streets. Ted Rome May 4 Rome Dick The title of today’s epistle is “What a difference a day makes”. Today has been the best so far in Italy, forteling more to come, we hope. Everything seems to take on a healthier aspect when Old Man Sol shows up, and then we see beauty all about, largely unrecognized in the rain and mist. Bad weather has dogged our footsteps this far. Hopefully we are due some blue skies when we enter the Forum Romanum We eagerly climbed out of bed this morning. I rolled out to the starboard for mine lists. Enthusiastically we prepared for our ride to Tivoli, Hardian’s Villa, and the Villa d’Este with its pools and waterfalls. Ted had the cook make us a lunch and it was in our hands in jig time. Things outside were again looking threatening, and we were not anxious for another bath on wheels. After due deliberation the project was discarded in favpr of a safe and sure excursion to the Catacombs, Appian Way, and Forum Romanum. What really decided the issue is the problem with my pants, now becoming just a shadow, so thin is the seat. Just one more day and one more patch, but what do we do about the box lunch? If we were to be any where near our pension, we would not wish to miss the meal. There was nothing to do but, no matter the early hour, sit down and eat right now-4 ham sandwiches, 2 oranges, 2 buns, and 3 eggs we saved from yesterday’s breakfast. These refreshments put the Lyons in the pink of condition for the ride to the catacombs and Via Appia Anticus. This day is the anniversary of the finding of the cross by St. Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine. It was brought home and is now held in parts in different countries, St. Peter’s having custody of the largest section. Each year on this Sunday a procession visits each of the great churches, starting early in the morning and finishing up in Santa Maria Maggiore in the evening. Rome is divided into four parishes and each year each parish has its day. This is the day when the priest and train from his church, followed by a colorful line of children and elders, visits each “shut in” in the parish and administers the Holy Sacrament. This Sunday happens to be our parish’s day. As we left for the catacombs, we came on to the procession moving down the street. The head of the church and shaded by a rich canopy, was the focal point of the procession, preceded and followed also by girls, all ages, in white from head to foot in what might have been mothers’ bridal gowns. They carried glowing candles. Boys dressed in black, escorted by priests in black and white with blue and red crosses on their chests, followed, and then came the adults. All were singing and shouting in unision, repeating Latin responses as the procession would stop before a house, the priest entering to perform his duties. We enjoyed many intertainin g minutes, and were especially aware of the zeal guiding them. Our ride to the Catacombs took some minutes as we pedaled by the Coliseum and the Baths of Caracalla to the point just beyond where the Appian Way begins, However, the pavement was the same as that in Rome, dissipating the illusion that the Via is intact from its the start of its days of marching Legions We went up and down, as the avenue, lined by walls on both sides, gradually climbed to disappear over rolling hills. There are several sets of Catacombs on the Via Appia, but we were told to visit St. Calixtus as the most t interesting and instructive. St. Sebastian is the next in line. A little about Catacomb history first. In Rome’s pagan days when Christians were being persecuted and martyred, a place was necessary to hold services and bury their dead. Because the Romans had great respect for the bodies of the dead, a meeting place in the burial ground would be ideal. There were several wealthy Romans who had great holding outside of Rome, and as Christians offered their land for the church use. At first, meetings were held in the fields, but as the Romans got wind of this, something had to be done to create a new retreat. Tunnels, the Catacombs, were dug beneath the fields-miles and miles of them with twisting narrow corridors, supported by masonry and with shelves on which the dead were laid. Meetings continued in these caverns, lit by candles and aeriated through ingenious vents. Today, most of the bodies have been removed, many when Rome was invaded by the “barbarians.” Aside from many empty shelves, all is as it was. There are at least nineteen miles of corridors in St. Calixtus alone. St Calixtus, ,himself, was the caretaker It is an interesting fact that this catacomb was dug beneath the land owned by St. Cecelias family, and she was buried here for many years before being transferred to Rome. The entrance to the tunnels is in a beautiful verdant farmyard with colorful flowers, spreading trees, and pigeons frolicking in the shade. Down an avenue to the right we could see St. Peters, hazy as rain drops obscured the view. It was during these moments as we waited with brother Connoly, our enthusiastic guide, that we were introduced to Mr. and Mrs Flannery, an American couple hatless and camera in hand, and to a Mr. OConnel of the famous Irish O’Connels, our first acquaintance with the genuine thing. We had a long and highly productive chat with the Flannerys from Pittsburgh resulting in an invitation to tea at their plush hotel. And they will let us in even if in sweaters. Steep stone steps led us down into the Catacombs, its walls covered with a firm matting of ferns, moss, grass and vines. Once down in the labyrinth, we encountered a depth of darkness greater than we have ever experienced. The corridors are 4 feet wide and 20 feet high, their sides cut out in shelves, the length of the human body, short on that day. All are empty save for few unmolested and closed with a marble slab inscribed in Latin. Plaques with ancient inscriptions are attached to the walls, apparently placed their in pieces after the ravages from the north. The channels climb and dip and twist, stretching out in every direction so that we were soon lost in the inky blackness. We wonder if they ever found the nuns who had wandered away. Each of us held a flickering candle as our only guide. Brother O’Connolly guided us without hesitation, rattling off information and Latin inscriptions with machine-like precision. Ancient vegetable oil paintings can still be seen on the crumbling plaster of the many tiny chapels. How they have withstood the rigors of time here is not understood. In one mortuary, carved marble sarcophagi contain the dried bones open to be seen. The bodies had been wrapped in linen and then sealed for the centuries. Religious signs, the fish and olive, are prominent in many inscriptions. In the days of persecution the cross was at times depicted in the form of an anchor, as was the Greek cross. Many symbols are still not understood, And the a grave of a true martyr was pointed out from time to time. Brother O’Connolly closed our visit with an invitation to return at 6 PM and he would take us through portions not open to the public. We know we shall return if only to enjoy our friend’s rich and exuberant spirit, Back on the Via Appia we again took up our search for the original pavements. It was a mile or more before we found the first remains of the ancient highway-stones rough and warn and laid haphazardly. Perhaps the spaces between the stones were filled up with mortar during the days of the Caesars, but now it is like riding over a river bed of boulders. This road was certainly not built for bikes. Only patches of the original road remain, but some are smooth enough to remind us of the glory days. The sun was now shining brightly, tuning the fields of wildflowers into seas of reds and yellows. Ruins dotted the landscape. A great aqueduct stretches out in the distance, unmoved from the day it drew water into the fountains of Rome, The first recognizable roadside ruin was the tower of Cecilia Marbela a circular fortress, we suspect, now overgrown with weeds. At several points artists were catching the spirit on canvas. On both sides of the highway, fractured statues , columns, and what have been tombs. lie decaying, and in the shade they create, picnicers are resting. The sight of this food reminded us of the hours since we had eaten, so it was time to start for home. It was a long pedal on the Via, through the gates of San Sebastian and the usual arches to the Pension in time to enjoy a full Sunday dinner-chicken with all of the “fixins,” although not quite in the southern manner. I neglected to mention that the street decorations on this Parish Day along the path of the procession were multicolored blankets hanging from almost every balcony. Our new Scottish friend had agreed to take us to through the Ruins on the Palatine, providing his expertice in Roman history. However, the MacKinneys held the stage after lunch so that we couldn’t leave until 3 o’clock. Evenings are long and light slow to leave so we still had time. We first walked by Trajan’s Forum and learned a bit more looking down to inspect it, for it lies some 20 feet below the present city’s level. Trajan’s C olumns that depict his military victories are as high as the original hill from which the Forum was cut. Only a few columns here and there remain. Caeser’s Forum was much the same. There is no way I can fairly describe these entities without extensive descriptions from history, and I leave that to the books. Our visit to he prison Mamertinus was one of the highlights of the day, for this is the prison where Vercingetorix perished and Peter and Paul were imprisoned before their executions. A hole in the ceiling was the only inlet to the dungeons, and therefore escape was impossible. The prison is just two stone cells, one resting on the other. The famous prisoners were kept in the lower one. There was no light, just dampness everywhere. In the lower cell is a spring said to have appeared and enabled the Apostles to baptize their jailers. There is an imprint on the wall said to tbe Peter/’s face, when a jailer jammed him against the wall. However, since these rock walls were solid, a human face could only be smashed against it, so we have our doubts about the legend. These stories surely had color, intensifying memories of what we see. Forum Romanum, preeminent of ruins, lies at the foot of the Palatine. and is just a mass of crumbling buildings testifying to the glories that once was Rome. This was our first visit and I will just list a few impressions, for we will go back some evening just to sit and dream, imagining it as it was centuries ago. Today ivy and vines encircle everything, increasing the feeling of antiquity, all magnified by silence. Great white pillars, broken and marred, still stand serenely as part of the ancient temples whose interior crumbling frescoes and mosaics resist time. Inlaid marble floors, still beautiful; carvings still recognizable; pools bordered by worn smooth statues; a great amphitheater where foot and chariot races took place, and Christians were martyred; statues ruined by the thoughtless signatures of unappreciative visitors; the Arch of Titus still preserved, majestic, sketches our first observations and thoughts. In the broken foundation of what must have been a bank cooper coins, now green with age, lie imbedded in the pavement, melted by the fire that destroyed the structure. Our Scottish guide kept things lively with his humor as he described experiences with the paid Forum guides. When asked about an unrecognizable ruin, the answer is, if the name isn’t known, “It is the Temple of Jupiter.” So we are expecting many more Temples of Jupiter ahead. And guide will tell you that here Christians were thrown to the lions, as our guide pointed down into the remains of a Forum cistern. To top things off as we left the Arch of Titus behind, Mr. Air suddenly grabbed his stomach with a groan/ ”What’s the matter, have you swallowed a button?” asked Mrs MacKinney. ”Its worse than that. My belt has broken, he intoned. Ted said “ Do you mean nour belt gave? If so that’s impossible for a Scotchman who never gives anything.” A laugh and a sigh as Mr. Air clutched desperately his breeches while and mumbling something in his Scotch brogue. With the day’s rich memories it was with great difficulty that we broke away, passing the last of the Parish pilgrim procession at the final church. Darkness was falling and the time short and distance long. Mr Mac Kinney started down the line of cariocas (horse-drawn open carriages)-always waiting at the Coliseum) as they tried to find one that would take all eight of us for 8 liras. Success led to our starting home with Ted sitting with the driver. What a comical site as our old horse struggled with his ungainly load up winding avenues. I felt we should get off and give old Dobbins a hand. but similar experiences with oriental rickshaws restrained me. And then the procession pulled into view, a hundred strong and still singing lustily. All seemed fresh although they had been tramping all day. They chanted into the night with Latin responses. At the final church, flames from gas lamps on the balustrade above, waved merrily in the wind. We would like to have stayed, but appetites called for relief, so bck to the Pensione. At 9PM Ted and I decked out in Loren MacKinney’s blue coats, a few inches short but serving the purpose walked over to the exclusive Hotel Excelsior on Via Veneto for beer o coffee with the Flannerys, our acqaintances from the Catacombs who had invited us to drive to Naples with them. Mr. O”Connel turned up also and we had a merry time consuming two and a half bottles of beer each and listening most of the time to Mr. O”Connel. What a great fellow-a bachelor from Cork. He invited us to stay with him in Ireland. We will make the attempt to get there. Plans were made for the trip to Naples. First day we would drive to Naples; second to Amalfi and along the Riviera road to Sorrento, just for you, Mom, Then we go back to Naples, Herculaneum, Pompeii and Vesuviua. On the fourth day, to the museum and aquariam and then back to Rome. Then Ted and I go on to Florence, Both the Flannerys are young and enthusiastic, full of fun and humor. I am finishing this letter in Naples after our first day here. We are having a good time even if the weather is “not so hot”, By the way, when we phoned Mr. Flannery in the evening, an Italian answered first, then a Frenchman, and finally someone speaking English-the international code, suggesting not many Americns are vistors from Rome. This is our first night in the Pension. When we get to Venice, hope news from home will be there. Dick Rome May 4-n Rome to Naples Ted Another day gone and we really haven’t started to se Rome. It isn’t because we haven’t tried. Miss Gallagher, our new and good friend here said she went, went, went, for two solid months before she felt she knew enough about Rome to leave. Reverand Hayes, head of the College of North America, a theological institution, told us this afternoon, when we met him to secure entrance to the Vatican Galleries, that he was here for five years seeing Rome, and even then didn’t feel he had seen it all. So you may understand what we are up against. This morning was spent mostly for business. We managed to see a few things near the Tiber where Horatius held his bridge. The section is called the Forum Bearium, and it is full of interest. San Giego in Velabre was erected in honor of St, George, the soldier saint whose skull rests in a case in front of the alter. The chapel is plain and pleasing while the pillars that form the nave are of different sizes and decorations, probably secured from a variety of earlier temples when this church was erected. We gave to the small lady who fired Italian at an attempt to be a guide, one lira as is the custom. Adjacent to the 12th century porticos is the small Archus Argentarorum, or Arch of the Moneychangers. By the looks of the dilapidated stone carvings they must have had stock exchange crashes in those days too. An Arch to Janus, also in the same condition close by and opposite is a remnant of the Cloaca Maxima, an ancient channel constructed to drain the Forum. The word Cloaca is prominent in medicine today. The old arches still stand and we could trace the course of the channel as it reached the Tiber. A temple to Vesta rises close to the river, and another temple in poor condition stands near it. We rode on down along the bank of the Tiber to where the Circus Maximus was, and is still in the form of an arena, Ruins at one end suggest that is where the contestants entered. Then down to the Arch of Constantine which is possibly the best preserved monument in Rome. It was built after Constantine declared himself in favor of Christianity. It is covered with very readable stories of historical significance. The Coliseum looks mighty large in comparison to the Arch. Our pension is not far away and soon we were eating lunch. The afternoon was spent taking care of business about the camera, the Vatican, posting letters, getting tickets. etc. then a big dinner and to bed. May 8 in Napoli We are well situated in a pensione overlooking the Bay of Naples with Vesuvius to our left and Capri straight ahead to the south. Today we drove down from Rome with our new friends, the Flannerys. Finally getting away af 11:30 after quite a delay, we drove out the Appian Way to Alano, and then on south reaching here at 5:30. The car is a blue sport phaeton Ford. By the way, the sirens are sounding that Addis Ababa has fallen, so expect we will see some celebration. Too bad we are not in Rome. We are back again after an hour outside on the streets, and the people, mostly kids, are parading and milling everywhere. Black uniforms, black shirts, and black suits are everywhere. The kids are having the time of their lives. Sirens screamed for an hour, with accompanying bells and while we were observing the marching blackshirts, an airplane flew over and dropped packets of color paper reading “Viva Il Duce.” Flags have been hoisted and hang from every window. We walked down to the beach promenade away from the crowds and watched a huge full yellow moon rise at the foot of Vesuvius which was slowly fading in the dusk with a faint outline of smoke rising from the crater. Capri has already disappeared as the lights of Naples appear. Also, not to be forgotten is the radio from which we enviously get the roars of happy crowds in Rome, and the voices from loudspeakers, probably from a spot we wondered about this morning. It all stands for something we cannot grasp. Back to our pleasant trip–It is hard to write because of the roar outside with an explosion now and then, and intermittent bells ringing. To go back, we rode the bumpy Appian Way, along the stretch that is so painted and photographed. The fields of flowers are quite special. Their reds and yellows make the ride itself enjoyable, despite bumps. The landscape is solid green and we drove for miles through the country, by farms that Mussolini (Mr. Mulligan over here for fear of being arrested for conspiracy-has constructed over the reclaimed marshlands, now free of malaria bearing mosquitos. I belive DDT did it. Quite wonderful and close to the Perfect Project. Each farm has its house, which has been given by the government, usually to a war veteran. After a while a little rent is collected, and they must watch the farmers closely. On the side of every house is the year in Mr. Mulligan’s regime when the farm was laid out. Both scenery and people intrigued us. Orange and lemon trees abound and vineyards are plentiful. Picturesque ruins border the road and every now and then, the remains of an aqueduct appear in the distance. Battlements with square fighting towers loom up at turns and in the background are mountains overhung ith clouds. In the grain fields, men and women were working, and along the road women carry huge bundles of faggots, or water jars on their heads. Is this where the word “headstrong” comes from? The costumes vary. One lady wore a dark skirt, red apron, white blouse, dark blue vest, and a lace bonnet. We noticed though that there really is no real beauty about these people, unless is their carriage, for they have wonderful postures. But they look like very hard working folks who have never seen a beauty shop, and have cared less. As we came further south, the surroundings were less neat, almost dirty. But here was the same picturesqueness about the towns, nestled below or perched on the foothills. The streets were dirty, and I suppose mirror the people themselves. It is hard for us to accept, for we had always visualized Italy and Naples as clean and beautiful. Donkeys pull carts by themselves, or work with horses and sometimes a lone rider is in a saddle or on a bare back. Once we saw a donkey working one of those revolving heels at a well, and ducks and geese are usually around somewhere. About 5 o’clock we came into town and along the bay front to the Grand Hotel where the Flannerys are staying. Dick and i shouldered our packs and set out to find a pension. After the usual, negotiations we have a grand view, and who can ask for anything more? Ted May 4 Rome DICK We’re a few days behind again, and as we catch up it is a skeleton of our day’s activities, because so much of what we are observing is in the books and we would be wasting precious time in being detailed. We started the day off with a highly profitable visit to the American Consulate on Rome’s greatest street, Via Veneto, lined with with pots of azaleas and shaded by giant plane trees. The Consulate personnel were a joy as they were anxious to help. Mr. Blake, just transferred from Geneva, knows our friends there. We registered our passports and then were given passes to all of the state-owned museums. Then down to Cunard to see about tickets home. It will cost $10 a piece more to come home on the Berengaria but its departure on August 26th makes the most sense. As we waited in the consulate, the Rotarian Magazine advertising Atlantic City for its next international meeting caught my eye. A long ride along the twisty dirt colored Tiber beneath more plane trees and ancient monuments took us to the Department of Education, another striking marble edifice, where we made application for our “tessara” to be ready tomorow. It ws then only 11AM, giving us just enough time to visit some famous chiurches. Santa Maria in Travestore and Saint Cecelia are both on the Tiber’s right side, the same as Vatican City. Both are in the old quarters of th city, hemmed in by midieval houses and narrow streets. It was not an easy job finding their entrances, for all are so plain and uninteresting. In our travels we have learned never to judge a person or a building by its exterior, for great beauty may many times lie behind the plainest uninteresting facade. Santa Maria in Travestore is built where a spring is supposed to have suddenly welled forth at Christ’s birth. The 22 columns of unequal size are the most arresting, as they support straight entablature and ceiling. These columns are ancient, and probably taken from some temple of earlier tomes. This was the general practice of course causing the ruin of great architecture. The floor of inlaid marble is now rough with age. It has been worn down, irregular as stronger stones resisit wear and become almost stumbling blocks. Several periods are represented in the mosaics depicting biblical themes. Saint Cecelia was the most interesting of any church we have yet visited. She practiced Christianity devoutly without her parents knowledge. And they betrothed her to a young and up and coming man against her will, she praying to God to protect her virginity. After the ceremony she told her husband her wish and he was so inspired by her words that that he became a Christian secretly. The church was built right over the the traditional house of Saint Cecelia and recently excavated. A spacious garden leads up to the portico of the church, and into the nave, beautiful in its simplicity. Small in size and so plain in decoration– what a sanctuary of restfulness, after gaping and gasping at the “massiveness” in the great churches of Rome. A little more about Saint Cecelia. It is a long and interesting story. Here are the highlights. After her marriage, with her husband’s agreement, she remained a virgin. The emperor took a liking to her, and she tried to convert him. He had her murdered in the bathroom which is preserved in the church and tastefully decorated with frescoes and mosaics. Below in the crypt we find the seplucharal Chapel housing her remains, brought from the catacombs of Saint Calliptus. A beautiful sculpture shows her as she really was, so the story goes. It is of white marble found years after the burial, intact and with the murderous cuts across her neck By the time St. Cecelia had been thoroughly studied we were two ravenous Lyons, so hurried back the many miles to the pension for a delicious lunch. Our appetites and my pants with it many patches are standing jokes now. A patch a day keeps disaster away. We finally had to break down and spend our precious cash on pants. The stores had only pants for Italians, smaller in stature. A tailor came to the pension and measured me and agreed to make for me a pair, dark gray and of excellent material, for 150 lira, and we bartered him down to 110 and believed we had a fair deal. Cheap cloth can be found in the department stores here, but we followed Dad’ s dictum that it pays to get the best. We won’t get the pants until Monday so we will patch and I will be carefull to sit lightly. The weather looked theartening again. as small drops of rain fall, and we are forced to sightsee on foot, for it is hard to find some place to drag bikes under cover. The rain has surely cramped our style, for a wet day is not the ideal time to see Forum Romanum, or the Capitine and Palatine Hills. Santa Maria Maggiore was just a few blocks away, so should be our first afternoon’s visit. It is the largest of Rome’s eighty churches all dedicated to the Virgin. It is said that in the 13th century the Virgin appeared simultaneously to a devout patrician, Johannes, and Pope Tiberius, and in their dreams, commanding them to build a church where they found snow the next morning . This Basilica is the result, of course altered many times. A Basilica is a church that has been used also as a meeting house, a court of justice, or as an exchange. The beauty of the interior grows as one looks closely at the time of some Catholic gathering as we witnessed on Sunday, enchanting in the candle light. Most striking was the smoothly curved ceiling, said to have been gilded with gold brought from the Americas. We were reminded of the same temple ceilings, gilded, in Japan and China. Thirty-six dark ionic columns and four granite columns support the ceiling. Tombs and chapels line the aisles. Enough of this description to be found in any guide book. We left again in the rain and hurried down the Via Carlo Alberto to Piazza Vittorio Emanuele where spreading trees gave us a little shelter and the cats were everywhere. They are in droves, resting under bushes-white ones, brown, gray, black and serene in their ancient paradise. They are fed every day by the same people. We thought of Nara and the deer. Any difference, really? We take off for home, dinner and bed. Dick May 6 Napoli Dick Sorrento -* This morning on arising and shining at seven, we received our first view of Vesuvius, hazy in the distance because of a heavy fog covering everything. Smoke circled from it as if it is a chimney, spreading out into a great blanket, because there is no wind at the moment. Hope I can get it on film. This is how it looked from the pension window that looks out to the sea some blocks away. The black smoke forms a great shroud that moves with the wind. Ted has told you about our experiences leading up to today and I will continue. ”What a difference a day makes” was continually running through our minds as we climbed and twisted along percipitous mountain sides, the crashing surf below. The sun was completely hidden, spoiling many of the effects the camera wishes for. Many times we passed over narrow gorges, green with the spray from trickling water falls. Fishing boats lying on the sand of sheltered cove beaches with white houses for background clinging over the water’s edge would make some beautiful shots. Of course we tried for pictures, and hope a few will come out all right. This drive from Amalfi to Sorrento is supposed to be about the most beautiful in Italy, so rugged is the coast, and picturesque the fishing hamlets. Luckily, Mr. Flannery is a photo nut too, with his beautiful Bell and Howell cine with all the lenses and using the new colored film. So we stopped time and time again. Italian flags flew every place in celebration of the occupation of Addis Ababa, but can you imagine our surprise to find, on reaching a grade summit, two great flags flying over the road, American and Italian. It was all quickly explained. “Why the American flag?” Mr Flannery queried in his best Italian, with the aid of gesticulations. “Why? I’m from New York,” the man replied positively, “And you know New York is New York.” So all doubts were cleared away and on we went. The most disappointing thing about the day is that we had to see your Sorrento, Mom, in a drizzle. This quaint little town is situated some four miles off the main road, and we wound and twisted over cobblestones to reach the town square, Palazzo Tasso, named after that hard-luck poet. We found your lace shop on the corner. It is a heaven for feminine fancies. Once inside, Madame Garguile took us right in hand, and with what joy she exhibited her filmy wares. “C’est tres belle,” “Plus belle,” and “La plus belle” accompanied everything. She has her heart in her work, for sure. How you would enjoy a few hours under her guidance, with rooms filled with every sort of work from inlaid wood to to the finest needlework-Ponte Sorrento. I have told the madame that someday we would return with you to this lace shop of your dreams, and we can’t keep her waiting long, you know. Dad would have been right at home, too, midst the display of beautiful Sorrento silk ties. It was during our inspection that Ted received a most flattering complement. “Why, you look like an Italian” the madame’s assistant said. So Ted is getting his “O Sole Mios” ready for an American debut, as the great American Italian tenor, Theodora Lyon. By the way, we haven’t seen hide or hair of the raviolas we have heard about, and these folks will not fix spaghetti the way we do so well at home. A few minutes drive took us to fine vantage point above the town. Sorrento lies on the top of a perpendicular cliff, dropping a hundred feet at the least to the shore. The shore is not rugged, just straight up and down. The houses are small and quaint, surrounded by stone walls that line the sides of the narrow cobblestone streets. Horses and donkeys with ornate harnesses crested with silver, pull rumbling two wheeled wagons as they carry heavy loads. Bells and color are all an important part of the rig’s makeup. The drivers seem always to be dozing, allowing Dobbin to pick his way. Many carts, pulled by tiny mules roll slowly by. Everyone here takes it easy, an old Italian custom of great merit, for the auto has not yet established itself as an advantage to man. Sorrento is surely a haven of rest, off the beaten track and away from the hurry and scurry of the real world. However, it has its share of dirt, just as have all of the towns we have seen in southern Italy so far. Perhaps it is just as well, though, for how could any people be as lazy and dreamy without the inevitable dirt. More twists and turns took us back along the shore beneath Vesuvius, smoking as ever, below Pompeii. and over the fine Auitostrada back to Naples where we again were emeshed in the maze of unkept streets. The city of odors we now call it. If anyone wishes to see and feel really basic life it is here. With packs on our backs, we went again up the hill to find a new and cheaper pension. And that we did, for 36 lira, instead of the 50 the night before. And we got a lot more for our money, because the pension was Swiss-owned and run, and everything spic and span and tasty. We still hoped to return to Sorrento under the sun but that was not to be. #15 TED ROME MAY 6 THIS MORNING WE were as close to the center of Christianity in our world as it possible to be. That is, in the dome of the Cathedral of St. Peters. The Cathedral is quite indescribable and in order to a get any appreciation of what it really is, one must see it, as Dick said for we can’t understand how man could combine such immensity with such beauty. One receives a real education in just the few hours among its treasures. And what stands out in our minds? First is its immense size. It took us two and one half minutes to leisurely walk the length of the nave. The side aisles alone are the size of basketball courts, and the dome rises over 400 feet, more than 100 yards, and is nearly as large in diameter as the Pantheon. The seated figure of St. Peter is quite wonderful. His right foot has been partly worn down by kisses of the devout. Another great work is Michelangelo’s Pieta, the statue of Mary holding Christ. How can one forget it? The inlaid marble floor becomes something hard to describe as one sees it from above in the dome. Gardens around the cathedral seem surreal. We understand that all of the paintings which once adorned the walls are now in the Vatican Museum, and other churches around Rome. In their places are mosaics, so real that even as copies, they are just as effective. One of the mosaics portrays St. Michael, and later we saw the original as a painting in a church in the heart of Rome. The high alter has a canopy of bronze, and the confessional below is of inlaid marbles and golden lamps, just breath taking. We are aching to go back again among these treasures but that would take a year. After a full morning at the Cathedral we put away a bowl of spaghetti, several dishes of bread, a big entree, and two oranges. Yes, we are being truly fed here. After lunch, Mr. MacKinney, Loren Kinney, Dick, and I visited the Capitoline Museum which contains the statue known to all of us as the “Flying Gaul”. Every muscle and the position of every limb is a study itself. Busts of Socrates, Plato, Homer and other Greeks of equal stature fill the rooms, and their faces take on new meaning for us. A portion of Achilles shield caught our eyes. Is it real? Roman gods lined every hall, and our imaginations could soar. Part of the museum is a church, Santa Maria in Araeocoli, occupying the site of the Capitoline Temple of Juno. One of our reasons for this adventure was to see the “Bambino,” a life sized depiction of Jesus adorned with amethyists, diamonds, and gold. It was carved from live trees in the fifteenth century. The statue is venerated by Catholics, and it is supposed to do wonder for those it blesses. Our next stop was at American Express, then at another small church adjoining a Capuchin monastery. Our friends know it as “the Church of the Bones,” for below it is the monastary cemetery, and the hundreds of bones are arranged in geometrical designs around the walls and ceilings of five small damp rooms. Several corpses dressed in decaying shrouds are propped up in the midst of the bones. It was depressing and not condusive to meditation. Our afternoon was well finished off with a dish of ice cream at the Plazza Barbera adjoining Diocletion’s Baths, which we have not yet seen. We rested for an hour, absorbed observing the humanity around and just talked. Then home to a whale of a meal. PS It seems that the Laurel and Hardy film was a recent arrival in Rome, and ever since one hears their theme song in the streets. A boy just went by below whistling the tune. Small world? Not necessarily. Ted May 6..Amali Ted We took the famous Amalfi Drive today but the weather was cloudy and discouraging during the whole trip, so impressions are not as we had hoped them to be. It was enjoyable, though. We started out about 10 o’clock. It was hard to find our way out of the city as they have a bad habit of having almost no signs. And to top it all off, boys were marching, wagons rattling, as both thoroughly clog up traffic. We finally managed to get on the main route and we emerged from the city on a fine new road, an the Autostrada. Vesuvius with its tapering sides and funnel of white smoke swirling from the cone, was at the left. The Bay Of Naples lay to the right, and vineyards, orchards, trees, ruins and wild flowers surrounded us on all sides. It was truly as picturesque as we have seen. To Pompeii and Herculaneum we drove we drove towards Vistri, when the road meets the sea after circling inland. Some of the flowers we saw were marigolds, peonies, snapdragons, daises, and those red poppies, really exquisitely red. Ivy covers trees to fill in the landscape. We passed several flocks of sheep and noted that on the forehead or back of each animal is a distinctive mark presumably for identification. Donkeys, as usual are abundant, one or two with feathers in their caps. Wagons with huge wheels clutter up the road and nothing much can be done about it. The driver just lies on his seat and goes to sleep. He looks like he is waiting for the zero hour to go over the top as we pull up behind. Bells on horses and mules are the tops in style. The animals are really colorful with a few decorations and tinkling bells. Still, there is a dingy aspect about the whole scene. Mr. Mulligan (Il Duce) has plenty of work yet to do. However, the people seem contented and always anxious to please. It was not long before we left Vesuvius behind and were nearing Vietri and the water gain. Always the sides of the road are green. But when water was in view and Amalfi ahead, the road began to skirt the highlandswhich border the sea. We caught glimpses of fishing towns, nets out to dry on the beaches, and weather beaten boats resting on their sides, all with fading paint. The road is dangerously narrow as we rose and descended, always with a wondrous view. Lemons seem to the major crop, but in order to keep the trees from falling down the steep hillsides, they are propped up with arbor-like structures, giving an unnatural effect. Amalfi appeared about one o’clock and we stopped at the Santa Caterina Hotel for lunch. It was a treat to sit out on the terrace overlooking the sea and Almalfi below nestled in its cove. Lunch was two large plates of spaghetti with tomato sauce and powdered cheese, the standard combination. Dick finally likes cheese. It because he hates to see it go to waste, or is it really appetizing? An orange finished the lunch and we then got on our way to Sorrento. Just a few disconnected thoughts while Dick makes out the direful expense account. Something we have noticed that should Interest Wins are many racing crews working our along all of the bay fronts, both here and in Genoa. They, like the rest of the world, are awakening to sports, and are really going after them, with Il Duce’s full blessing and help. What a more beautiful place could one find to row? Last night we stopped at a Pensione, Plato Storey, which was very nice at 25 lira full with room, dinner and breakfast. But the food, t although of excellent quality, merely sufficed to tempt our appetites, so we foraged after dinner for a new lodging. With luck we found one just up the street. That same night when we were walking we passed along streets with flags flying at all angles, but the best effects were made by rugs hung over windowsills in the national colors of red, white, and green. Opening out into the sidewalks were many one-room houses. People were eating or talking inside, and anyone could look in to see what was going on. Every room had its alter and religious pictures. It reminded us faintly of the Orient, where small shrines are seen in the same way/. While we have ridden through country towns around Naples, we have been impressed by the similarity and the Philippine Islands., The people live in much the same unclean manner. On the other hand the central City of Naples, itself, as far as we can see,. is doing a fair job at making the necessary positive changes along cleanliness lines. Ted Ted Mussolini story i We have just had a marvelous experience, a description or which I will try to put into words. On our return from Naples on May 9 we found the city at a high pitch of excitement. That evening everyone was anticipating momentous and crucial proclamations by Mussolini in relation to Italy’s newly assumed status. We hopped into a cab which carried us to within a half mile of Piazza Venezia, the center ot Rome and flanked by government headquarters and the Vittoria Emanuel Monument. We were forced to alight from the cab and move through the hurrying crowd as we entered from the southeast past Trajan’s Forum and the Forum Romanum. We could not help thinking of the phrase, “Time marches on”. Rivers of Romans flowed along every radiating thoroughfare entering the plaza, and these are wide streets. We were quickly engulfed in the sea of humanity, moving like a giant ooze into Piazza Venezia. The square was rapidly filling. It was then about 9 PM. Search lights were playing on the Monument. Brightly burning oil lamps were in the hands of troops solidly filling its stairs, forming necklaces against the sky also twinkling, but with stars. From behind the dimly visible Coliseum to the east a three-quarter moon was arising, unnoticed by most as attention focused on the spectacular illumination of the marble and gold of the Monument. Soldiers representing special units of the Army stood at rigid attention on the stairs-a field of gray and shining metal. Civilians sought a view on statues and to escape the painfully common elbow jabs and shin kicks. Black shirted and uniformed men surged about in attempts to come close to their leader. People crowded rooftops from which floodlights played on the mass below. Balconies were dotted with fashionable evening clothes. Flags and banners rustled from windows, and cleverly placed beams of light at low levels heightened the aura of the event. Somehow, Dick and I had managed to worm our way to a spot almost directly under the balcony where Mussolini was to appear. I still don’t know how we did it, but perhaps our size and athletic ability helped as we gently yet firmly worked our way. By this time, not 10 minutes before the scheduled time for Il Duce’s appearance, the square is absolutely filled as are the entering octopus-like avenues. Bands played and trumpets sounded. While we waited we were joined by a fellow American who was much amused by the people around us guessing at our nationality. At the moment we desired to be thought as anything but English, because of the sanctions, and were glad to learn that we were believed to be Swiss. Apparently our heights were accepted as typical of the Swiss Vatican guards, perhaps off duty. American flags on our lapels would have been a help, but height won as we could look out over the whole crowd. Dick took one photo holding his camera high. Wonder how it will turn out? The crowd was electrified with anticipation. A group of students wearing long slender colorful hats were near us. Other groups were wildly demonstrating, yelling and waving satirical signs above the crowd. The center of attention in front of us was the Austrian Embassy building, now the abode of the Dictator. As the zero minute approached, all eyes focused on the small central balcony from which hung a red banner bearing the gold Fascisti emblem. National colors flanked the balcony, casting shadows on the doors behind. The crowd was becoming impatient. Cheering and clapping kept rising in pitch and volume. From strong throats came “Duce,Duce,Duce”(Duechay) in rapid succession. Tenseness in expectation ran like an electric current from shoulder to shoulder, climaxing in a roar as the curtained doors opened and two figures stepped out on the balcony, one in black and one in gray. The composure of the man in gray immediately marked him as the Dictator. Have to admit it was a bit of a thrill, this demonstration of loyalty to and admiration for this man. (by Dick) As the furor continued for many minutes, the “man of the hour” smilingly leaned forward, his hands on the balustrade, and straightened to speak. And the crowd became silent. His salutary greeting received a tremendous roar and Fascisti salutes. Il Duce spoke again, slowly and forcefully emphasizing his points with piston like motions of his left hand. The multitude, straining to hear, resounded to each statement with an explosive ovation. During the cheers, our American friend translated for us as follows: “The King shall henceforth assume the title of Emperor. You citizens have made this possible by your faith and sacrifice We will defend our rights against any foe. After fifteen centuries, the Roman Empire is reestablished. Before God and the World, have you faith in the new empire? Do you swear to stand together in life or death. Salute the Emperor”. It was now clear who was the second man on the balcony, both men small in stature. It was the King. Thundering “Si’s” from a million throats followed each query. There is no doubt as to the sincerity of all in their beliefs in their leader. His personal magnetism and force is obvious. His presentation finished, within seconds he had gone through the draped doors. “Duce, Duce, Duce” rang forth until the doors parted again and as with a curtain call the Black Shirt leader and saluted. But the crowd was not satisfied. Twice more he appeared and as we left the scene, the chants were continuing. While we passed through the streets and refreshed our selves at a street side cafe, newspaper extras still wet from the press hit the streets and demonstrating students kept up with their chants. And then a strange thing happened. We noticed a crowd of young people moving towards something, and it turned out to be the Quirinal. the King’s palace not far away So we followed along to see Mussolini and the King again waving together on the balcony. This reminded us of a college serenade on sorority row, for the spirit was much the same. What a day! May 7 Naples The sun now setting over the hills to the west brings to an end another full and profitable day, not to mention sheer enjoyment as we take everything in. We have at last seen and studied the historical sites, Herculaneum and Pompeii, buried with volcanic ash in 79 BC as Vesuvius erupted in a manner known to every American school child. The day passed quickly as we walked the stone streets, inspected Ionic columns and peered into grass covered atriums with marble fountains and frescoed walls, the art now barely visible after 2000 years of burial. It has been a marvelous revelation to gaze into an ancient civilization rich in art, and with many comforts we have today. The nineteenth hole is the closest institution we have to the luxurious baths of Pompeii where “the “400’ enjoyed every last word in luxury as they whiled their time away. Ted has told you how we acquired our guide and, further, our experience in Pompeii. However, buried cities were not the only things we saw, for our auto trip out and back was an eye-opener in itself. There are two ways to get to Pompeii, the Auto Strada where they soak you and the regular road, free of course. Well we elected to go that way, but we didn’t know what was ahead. The thirty minutes we spent bouncing over rough paving stones, dodging thru horse and wagon traffic, chewing dust here and there, all with a few reminders in the form of Italian comments, was our education. What a ride! The streets were packed with the classic Italian wagons, two wheeled with axles in the center, and anywhere from a solitary donkey to five horses pulling. What charioteers these drivers would make as they stood, reins in hand, cracking their whips with mastery. We dodged back and forth between them, our faith being in drivers’ control. If anyone has any illusions about the extinction of the horse as a dray animal, he’d better come to Naples where the horse age is in full swing and autos just get in the way. Children run and play in the street, dodging horse teams with casualness, but the sound of our horn sends them scurrying to the dirty sidewalk. The poor street cleaners are continually stooped with little do-dads to pick up here and there, remembrances from straining steeds-things we never think about in America. Wee became used to seeing flocks of sheep splotched with red paint- perhaps a mark of owners, being herded down the street by gentlemen carrying umbrellas for sticks. What strange and unreal sights were the tiny donkeys pulling a fat women seated in cart that required a full sized horse. What a drama of activity going on day in and day out, interrupted only by some American motorist trying to save a buck as he makes his way through Burt the most important thing I forgot to mention-how people move their goods in Italy. Dad take note. It seems that May is the moving month here when leases end and people change apartments. The goods are piled on carts and tied down, a blanket here and there, with a horse or horses pulling. Motorized transportation is still a fairy tale. Crackling whips take the place of roaring exhausts. Everyone must be moving on this day as wagons pass by, loaded to the gunwales, goods sticking out all over. Ten years of moving this way would make mince meat of anyone’s belongings. You see that we are making a serious investigation of moving and storage, hoping to be helpful in revolutionizing your industry in America. Mr Flannery is not so sure of our intentions for he finds always kicking-kicking about the bills. Several factories were pointed out to us by our guide, John. When asked about ravioli factories, he said that this dish is found mostly in Florence, and that is the reason we have seen so little of it up to now. The Neapolitan beach palaces have fallen into decay. Once our road passed through massive ports of the summer palace of the fallen king of Naples. For the most part, cracking whips, tinkling bells and straining horses so held our interist that a palace would pass by unnoticed POMPEII AT 12 O’CLOCK FROM TED The weather was again threatening today, allowing the sun infrequent peeks as we wandered through Pompeii. At times Vesuvius stood out surprisingly clear to the north, but it was shrouded in clouds most of the day. We hope tomorrow will be clear when we climb Vesuvius Retracing the several miles on the bumpy road we arrived at Herculaneum. Seeing this newly excavated city was a great treat, for we could watch the diggers unearthing the ancient treasures. The town is set in a great rectangular hole, and below the present land surface. They say the city was originally covered by lava, not ash, making excavation far more difficult. However the soil seemed more like a mud-flow filled with pebbles and dirt. We will have to get the straight dope. The workers were working with hoses, cutting away the dirt and dumping it into baskets on small rail cars. Some of the newest “finds” are supported by scaffolding while the digging goes on inside and out. Several of the gentlemen, we suppose the supervisors, were very good at doing nothing. Evidently, at some time during the day, they had amassed enough strength to convert a few pieces of plaster to a place on the walls. Herculaneum is quite wonderful because it is being reconstructed with the original stones and paintings, giving us a real look at a civilization that flourished 2000 years ago. It was a seaside town and a new port of southern Italy, small and for pleasure seekers. It was the seaside business center. Just how far the city extends still beneath the earth’s surface is unknown. Unsightly apartment houses, cheap and dirty, surround the excavations. Pompeii was rally covered with ashes, stones and hot water, and completely submerged. One should visit Pompeii first to understand how everything looked in the hay-day of Roman power. Herculaneum was built in much the same style as Pompeii, rough stone roads running between closely packed houses and shops. Wood rafters were extensively used, for one can see the charred remnants, now under glass. ”Carbonized” is the word of the guide. Mosaics depicting flowers have been marvelously restored. Tile flooring is just a mosaic in grand style. The figure of a lion was used extensively. Some gorgeous tables are supported by lion heads still in perfect condition. A few statues remain. but most of the treasures are now in the Naples Museum. Because everything was really crushed, the walls have been rebuilt with murals patched and replaced, in many cases still giving us a fine idea of how things must have been. And of course you always find statues marred by signatures, all of Italian tourists. Gardens have been replanted in the atriums, and those folks understood design. Herculaneum has no forum with temples, common to Pompeii. The town seems to have been just a resort for[pleasure. In shops we find charred walnuts, corn, and figs, all preserved under glass. Each day, if work continues with the foresight shown this far, Herculaneum will be completely restored and unique in restoration challenges. If the treasures are returned from the Museum-bronzes, marble, mosaics, and are placed just as they were, Herculaneum will be one of the great show places of the world, not only for its human interest but as an education. Business had slowed down quite a bit as we drove back to Naples at 5 o’clock. Back on the promenade once more we paid the agreed twenty lira to Giovanni, he a still asking for a tip until we reminded him that we had made an agreement for the final amount to be received. Cheap skates? Not sire. 10....MAY 8 VESUVIUS What a day this has been! Our ascent of Vesuvius and our wanderings in the smoking crater have made the volcano, for the moment, seem like a very old friend. We hate to leave on the morrow. Our pleasant memories of Naples will always be associated with this mountain puffing graceful streams of cream-colored smoke to heaven, while commanding admiration and respect from all who see her. A bright sun awakened us at 6 PM. And after lying another half hour, we climbed out and went to mail our letters to you. A dense haze or fog hid Vesuvius and the islands from view, but this gradually dissolved during the morning, save for a portion hanging about the volcanic cone. leaving only a light blue haze over the sea, Capri, and the southern coast to Sorrento. A large orange purchased yesterday gave us he necessary calories and vitamins, before tearing into tea and bread. At nine we walked to the Flannery’s hotel, finally getting started from there about 10:30 to visit the Naples Museum. As we walked down to get the car, guess whom we happened to meet? It was Clan, our first guide of the day before. He then proceeded to accompany us to Vesuvius for a mere 15 lira just to tell us about the countryside as we passed through it for the third time. We eventually managed to convince him that we were doing very well on our own, and deposited him back on his feet, still smiling with hope. This driving through Europe is an expensive business. These Latinos stick you for everything, and it is hard to say “No” for they seem to be so poor. They will watch the car, open the door, take your hand and guides see you a mile away. And then there are the “gimmes” gentry of exclusive hotels. Bikes are the way to go. Every place we go little kids ask us for cigarettes, some only 7 or 8 years old, and it seems to be the custom for a;ll kids to hook rides on the backs of street cars, wagons, and even autos. In the country and poor parts of the city there are always plenty of children all barefoot and grimy from head to foot. Mr. Mulligan has done a fine job so far in cleaning up the slums of Rome but he has a lot more ahead of him here in these southern parts. The Museum is immense and contains inconceivable wealth in art treasures unearthed near here. They even had blue glass in those days and gorgeous intricate cameos. The signet rings had me bewitched, so beautiful are they. And they were right up to date in gaming, for rows and rows of dice are little different from ours. Etruscan vases of huge proportions and with graceful lines fill several rooms. Gladiator helmets weighing 2 kilograms at least, and adorned with fin finely wrought bronze moldings are in perfect states of preservation, even though the gladiators are not. Silver goblets and finely spun gold have been found as part of jewelry hard to replicate today. While the James Alloysius Flannerys III went to lunch at the Grand Hotel, we had a grand luncheon of spaghetti in a street restaurant on the edge of the adjacent small boat harbor. Ancient Castle del Oro towered above us as we lapped up the spaghetti well garnished with cheese and tomato sauce, all to the accompaniment of the place’s orchestra and tenors. It was just the place you would expect to find here, as they charged us extra for the tomato sauce and cheese. But we did well for just 6 lira. That is the only argument we have with these folks, as they tack on all the extra charges they can and then expect tips as well. And then they se our bikes, not car, and they must smile. At 2 PM we finally got under way for the afternoon trip to Vesuvius, taking the autostrada once more to Tore Anuziata, the road that then took us up the mountain to the toll station. There we shelled out 23 lira apiece for the privilege of driving up a private road to within a 20 minute walk to the crater. This seemed like an atrocious amount a the time, but we received our full money’s worth and an experience never to be forgotten, Of course, a guide was thrown in with it all, to keep us on the path and out of the lava pits, as well as to point out the interesting sights along the way. He did this in split-second staccato English, pointing out the 1906 lava flow, and making us wonder if there is any connection with the “06 earthquake in San Francisco. At every turn, and there were many, the same explanation would pour forth. He was probably about 60, his handle bar mustache twitching with phrase, and he was as spry as a kid. His name Giuseppi of course is Joe to us, and as Dad would say, “If all of the guides in the world were laid face own, it would be a good thing”. The soft dirt road wound back and forth up 3000 feet or so, coming to an abrupt end where it had been destroyed by the previous eruption. Vesuvius is now pouring out lava for the first time since 1929, the red hot stream passing beneath the crater’s hardened crust to a lower level, then rolling over the edge and doe down the mountainside, giving off a gray smoke as it comes in contact with the cold lava from this and earlier eruptions. The first sight of this phenomenon was of course exciting, but more was yet to come. After a good twenty minutes climb, we reached the crater’s edge and could look inside it. Far off and beyond the center graceful plumes of creamy white smoke poured from the main cone, rising symmetrically a hundred feet or so. The cone stood engulfed completely in a sea of black and twisted cooling lava filling the entire crater. I say “cooling” for when we walked on it our shoes became hot, while gray steam poured from cracks, all with the characteristic choking sulfurous odor. Great chunks, broken and jagged, stood in place forced up by the pressure from below, while the entire surface was cracked and buckled. On rounded surfaces, the stone was corded, powerfulsulfurous gasses emitting. We really were thankful for our guide by this time. Joe led us down on the black porous mass and he bounded along with alacrity, forcing us to keep moving swiftly. Time and time again the upper foot of crust would give way, and we would crunch through, swallowing hard to keep our hearts from jumping out of our mouths. After several hundred yards of scrambling we were brought up sharply by Joe who pointed out a glowing red hole several yards away. The crust had broken in a few places and we could see the molten viscous red liquid moving slowly toward the crater’s edge. Red-hot lava right beneath us and only a few feet of firm material separating the two of us. Torrid steam and gasses poured out through the holes, so hot that a piece of cotton tossed in caught fire. Mr. Flannery got some beautiful pictures, we hope, for if they come out we really will have something to talk about. Smoke from the cone, as it blanked the crater, cut out most of the sunlight, for at the moment there was no wind. ”We wish to go over to the other side for a view of Naples and to get close to the cone”, we told Joe. ”Much dange, much dange”, said he, shaking his head. But after consulting with the Carabiniere on duty where he stands each day, Joe agreed to follow our wishes. We once more climbed after him, cracking through the soft upper crust, while hoping for something hard beneath, until we were within 50 yards of the smoking cone. Mr. Flannery had a rougher time of it with his camera and need to take shots every few feet. What a thrill it was as we stood as lightly as possible midst steam and gas, listening to the rumble from the cone beneath us as beautiful sunlit smoke clouds poured out and gasses from a vent in the cones’ side formed a ring of red, yellow, and green at its edges. It was that uneasiness about the molten streams below us that kept the chills running up and down our spines. As gasses shot out, we were reminded of a train whistle, substituting a rumble for a shriek. We retrieved pieces of brilliant yellow and red lava with a sulfurous powder on it. We were surely as close to Hades as one can get on this earth physically, just hoping that Vulcan would keep everything under control while we enjoyed his wizardry. How strange it was to find one's breath condensing in the cold air while surrounded with steam. Joe seemed impatient to get away, repeating over and over again as he pointed to the cone,”Much dange,much dange!” And we agreed. So we finally yielded to his entreaties and he made for the crater’s edge at full speed, leaving us behind to pick our ways over the still warm surfaces. We were loathe to leave this spectacle, but the sun was lowering in the sky, and if we desired some photos we had better be quick about it. A dense haze, unfortunately, hung over Naples, but to the south, Sorrento and the coast beyond stood out fairly clear. Below us were the earth colored ruins of Pompeii and further on, Castelemore, built over the ruins of lava- destroyed Stabiae. Whether our filters could cut through the blue haze is doubtful. Joe then led us back along the edge of the crater where the redhot lava rolled and tumbled over. It’s as red as the heated metal in the smithy’s forge. Every now and then a piece would break off and crash down the precipice, a warning to those below to be vigilant. Joe was impatient to get down so we ran down short cuts, while taking our time on winding main paths, enjoying the panorama and rethinking our experience. A few more bounces and we arrived at the toll station, thanked Joe with a tip, and headed for Napoli. At one point in the narrow road we worked our way slowly through a crowd attending a funeral, someone of wealth if we can judge from the floral displays and beauty of the jet black carriages. Stately plumes of course on the horses, attest to the pomp of these occasions, so much a part of life here. In Naples once more, we wrote a while, stored away some energy at dinner, and hit the hay, so thankful for another day to remember. SOME NOTES Pompeii was destroyed by ashes from “Soome” crater, right next to Vesuvius in 79 AD. Vesuvius itself was not the cause! Southern Italians are crazy to have their pictures taken. Everyone screams “shot” as I take out the camera, and then they want cigarettes which cost 20 cents a pack here. MAy 10 FRIDAY Not much doing today-some catching up on our writing and recovering from the exciting night in wide=open Rome. It is great to be back at Pensione Giuliana, and storing more wonderful food. At 2 PM we rode out to San Pietro in Vincoli(St. Peter in Chains) where the supposed actual chains are kept. The magnificent “ Moses” of Michelangelo absorbed all of our interest. It is so familiar to most Americans Things looked threatening but we pedaled out beyond the walls to S. Paolo fuori di Mura”( St. Paul Outside the Walls) and there admired the cloisters, a gorgeous nave with 80 granite and 6 alabaster columns, making is an impressive church because of its immense size. Then our luck gave out and the storm hit. We rode furiously back, soaked to the skin . We are still drying out. We’ ‘ll have to wear shorts to dinner. We can stand it and hope our friends will put up with us. So, we did go to dinner, Ted in shorts and both of us sweater less. We surely have hit the bad weather right from the start, and it is so hard for us to imagine storms in sunny Italy in May. They say this has been their worst winter, and now summer in years. If there is a Law of Compensation, we are entitled to great days ahead. We also pulled a boner when we sent you that birthday telegram at 12 AM here. Hope receiving it was not traumatic for its possibility of suggesting trouble. Last night over a glass of beer we said Goodbye to the Flannerys, and with the promise to stop over in Pittsburgh on our way home. They were wonderful to us and just “regular fellers’, so we hate to see them go, like so many wonderful friends made on this trip. Mother, I hope you received the Mothers’ Day greetings. Perhaps someday we can all spend that day in Sorrento. It won’t be long now before we will be home, soon away to school again. We appreciate more and more each day the wonderful land in which we live. America is a veritable paradise, with milkshakes and honeysuckle. We are both lucky and proud of our heritage. Another item. Europe is no longer the inexpensive place to live, for to live well with standards like our own costs much more. We find that with our special lira Letter of Credit-17 lira to the dollar instead of 13, we can live for $3 a day. Of coos things like pants and presents have their added prices. Tomorrow we look up Col. Cottica, the President of Rotary, and Archbishop Hanna from San Francisco who at the moment resides here. I don’t know, Dad, if you know him. Until now we have not contacted many people and thus bother them because things have gone well as we run on our own,. It looks as if we will stay on the train all of the way through Italy. We will bike over the Simplon, through Switzerland and then on to Germany. We still hope to go to Ireland, but that is a long shot. We aim for Munich on June 15, and are aching for letters from you at least by then. We are now studying German, not bothering with Italian where we are getting by with a few words very well. German is a different challenge and more within our range for it is a lot like our own language in its sounding. Hope everything is fine with you, and our love to Elizabeth. and Ching. American free ways in spending money here makes it tough for the rest of us less affluent. Americans are expected to be soaked for they know that will work. We are a little tired of bartering, and hope that once further north, prices and agreements will be firm, like our own. .Dick 7 Naples Ted What a day! Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Naples with the Flannerys, which makes it all the better. Their car is a beauty and they have done so much for us. They insist on paying certain charges and won’t take anything we try to force on them. Besides this, they are real people, so we do have a kick together. Pompeii is just as we expected it to be. To attempt any adequate description is foolish, so I will just hit the high points. The first paragraph, I think, should be about our guide. While we were waiting at the American Express, a good-looking boy stepped over and asked if he could be our guide. He gave a reasonable price and we talked. Soon we learned that he had known a Stanford boy, John MacMillan, brother of Don, now a freshman at Stanford. The second person he said he knew from America was Mister Harris, whom the Flannerys know well. This was a surprise and coincidence. So we hired him and soon were making tracks for Pompeii. We hadn’t gone far when he spoke up saying, “Would you rarer have my brother. He speaks better English and knows the ruined cities better”. This sounded OK so we picked up his brother instead. But as it turned out he had a different name. What a racket, for we were being introduced to the “brother” racket of much of the world. But on to Pompeii, over the cobbled streets lined with dirty fly-infested stores. But behind the poor shabby shops we would catch sight of extensive gardens and lovely summer homes. Our guide told us that these are places where wealthy people spend their holidays. When we asked him his name he pronounced it “John” but it turned out to be a slurred Giovanni. Soon we parked and walked toward the Pompeii gate. Before entering we enjoyed a lunch of sandwiches and wine. One man went to the trouble of leading us over to a bench, and thus doing an unnecessary service for the reward he expected. I cite this as one of the trials and tribulations of traveling afar, for it is done everywhere and in the end is tiresome. We escaped the entrance fee because of having our “tessers” which is part of the National Minister of Education’s job in Rome. We had gone to a bit of trouble to get it and it served us well in both Pompeii and Herculaneum It seems that Pompeii suffered destruction along with Herculaneum in 79 A.D. In 1748 the old city was discovered and then systematically excavated, until more than half has been uncovered, and even completely restored in some places. This is for the benefit of the tourist, of course. While we were examining the pottery, green with age, as well as the various implements in the Museum, our guide told us a bit of history. The town was founded by the “Griks” and later came under the Romans. In some places we could see where the older construction had been partially demolished by earthquakes. The Romans then built on top. Soon we were walking on the streets of Pompeii. This is really the only thrilling part of the show. The Basilica, Forum, temples are all still there, with a pillar or two to give the general idea of went before. Dick and I took a drink from a public fountain, where grooves were worn on the adjoining blocks of stone where people rested their hands while taking a drink. The bathhouses were intriguing. There is a frigitorium for the cold-blooded, a hot room or sauna for the flappers, and the private rooms and waiting rooms with marble benches and walls for the elite. The frigitorium was circular with a hole in the top of the dome for illumination. The hot rooms were different, for between double walls and floors, the steam was piped in. Marred murals and tiled floors are all that remain. Along the eastern side of the city stand the theaters, probably of Greek origin. Three classes of seats include the loges, intermediates, and the galleries. The very large theater is said to have been a place for comedies, so the smaller and more serious public had a roof to exclude the next-door laughs. Bakeries and bars were numerous. The large pottery containers that line the ruined shop fronts look like ice cream vats, but probably were vats for something else. Ovens and primitive grinders were in bakeries. The houses of the wealthy were elaborate. Everything surrounds the atrium, usually a large garden open to the sky. The kitchen, dining room, guest rooms, sitting rooms, and even the master’s den are all grouped around the atrium. Murals on the walls, tiles and mosaics in the floors, statues and fountains, all are part of the atrium. Pots and pans and ovens in the kitchen-all part of the ancient home just as today. What’s new? The palaces, which Buliver in “the Last Days of Pompeii” describes, all have their attractions, so it was fun to realize that all of the modern conveniences are really not new, and perhaps 2000 years old. From the grooves of wagon wheels in the cobblestones to the ancient pipes running into the houses, we gained some insight that perhaps the wheel of progress just goes around and around. On some of the mosaic thresholds at house entrances, the word “Have”, pronounced “Harvey”, as a southerner might say it is inscribed. Dad take note. After three hours, our guide reasoned that we had had enough, so out we went, a little more educated, we hope. Naples has many idiosyncrasies. Bootblacks have their high chairs in the middle of the sidewalks. Monkeys and organ grinders are everywhere. Everyone either walks, or drives a wagon. The old section of town is just filthy, while the newer part on the hill seems clean. Uniforms are everywhere. Nicely dressed couples drive along the shore promenade, classy in one-horse carriages. The streets are always under repair, for to drive on them means to dodge pot holes. The weather has been bad, giving a drab effect to everything that in realty can be beautiful. Flags add color. We haven’t heard many tenors yet. There was one in a carpenter’s shop yesterday, and our guide sang a few arias for us, and they love to be asked to sing Love Ted Ted May 9 Rome, and short Dick. Back to Rome we motored today with the Flannerys, leaving Naples at 11 AM and arriving here at 4 PM. We are beginning to despair about the weather, for the rain will not let up. It is good to be back at our pensione. Our Naples experience has been valuable. And we finally learned the full name of Mr. Flannery. It is James Joseph Aloysius Flannery III. Isn’t that powerful? I was just talking with the Mac Kinneys and they had seen Mr. Mulligan and the King twice during the day of celebration here in Rome. We also hear that tonight is the big night with lots of show so we shall see it. Today has been especially interesting. Before leaving, Dick wrote to a daughter in New York for the landlady who can’t write in English. The letter concerned a recent marriage in the family and the latest Rome news. Our breakfasts are unique. About 7:30, our landlady brings in our trays. Dick orders tea and I cocoa. We dunk our bread into the tea or chocolate until we are satisfied. And then an orange purchased at a fruit stand from the street below completes the meal. It is “multe bella”, the constant Italian expression for satisfaction. In Naples while waiting for the Flannerys we took some photos of our different world here. Dick wanted to photo a fisherman, but lo and behold, five youngsters, street waifs, demanded their picture. We herded them into one place while Dick bluffed at fixing the camera, I tried to place them into a group that would emphasize their best features. The picture should be special for these were happy faces, despite their lives in what we would consider a slum. They combed their hair and spiffed up, and then for payment asked for cigarettes, the rule in Napoli. In order to gain a better view of the city, we climbed a hill up a winding cobbled road. It was just the time when housewives were marketing and bargaining with food vendors. There are two types of vending. One owns a cart and sells from it. The other walks around, balancing on his head his wares, vegetables or greens, singing or calling out his sales pitch in a straining tenor voice. The best looking moving company we have yet seen was at a turn in the road. It was just a small truck piled high with furniture. Below, in the main street of the city, soldiers were marching. Every morning we hear trumpets outside, and rush out to see regiments of soldiers mounted on bicycles, and with flying black feathers in their caps, riding along slowly but surely. The state is building a monument along the bay front and every morning is sounds like an anvil chorus, the workmen pounding on the slabs. About noon we started after Mr. Flannery had tipped everyone in the hotel, a custom and necessary one in the patterns of hotels over here. Of course it is a lot of bunk, really just a ceremony, but foreigners are helpless to buck it. We took the identical route of our trip down to Naples, but now things looked different for some reason. Did it have something to do with the day of the week? Happy farm scenes, full of industry; colorful dresses in combinations of white, blue, and black; painted wagons; women in the fields cutting clover; men on dinky donkeys; scads of wildflowers; early fruit tree blossoms; hay wagons; small boys in pinafores; girls in vividly colorful dresses on their ways to school. These were some of the picturesque scenes as our Ford phaeton hummed along. As we passed the school children they would wave in sort of a salute and laugh happily when we would wave back. To add to their costume loveliness, the women wear scarves over their heads, and the men, wear a sheepskin slipper fashioned with leather thongs. Once we passed a cyclist group or perhaps club, first we have seen. Driving is very safe here because traffic is so small and the trees, poles, and turns are all marked in black and white. As usual the weather was rotten. It rained at intervals, heavy at times. We approached Rome about 4 o’clock and were soon in town and bidding our hospitable friends acquire. Another big dinner led to bed...Ted T Rome May 11 Cottica This morning we presented ourselves to Col. Cottica and the Rotary office. Tomorrow we go to Rotary. But this morning we enjoyed meeting Major Overton’s friend. He is every bit the fine gentleman Major Overton described. We talked awhile just to get aquatinted and then he asked us to luncheon. Returning at 12:30 after a ride to Garibaldi’s statue on the Juniculum, we found him waiting and were soon being driven towards the Lido, or beach at Ostia. Old Ostia is in ruins but a new municipality has grown up on the shore and not yet ten years. During the delicious meal, which included three kinds of wine, we discussed political affairs, Col. Cottica doing most of the talking. He is a close friend of Mussolini, both having come from the same region. Time and again he expressed his admiration for the man. He gave us a little insight into Duce’s personality and character, as we listened attentively, and as he added a few words about the fundamentals of the Ethiopian dispute and the National Fascist Movement. We feel we now have a little better understanding of the problem, having at the same time respect for the Duce. Many times the Col. mentioned his close friendship with Major Overton. “An unusually fine gentleman” was his comment. We liked Col. Cottica too. His personality and sense of humor, and his desire to inform were backed up by his courtesies to us. At 3 o’clock we returned and have since succeeded in doing nothing. Was it the wine? And why can’t he make the rain so? Won't it ever stop? However, for the past hour-it is now seven-small birds that resemble swallows have been swarming above the buildings around us. Are they giving uis a message that really Spring has Sprung, and it is not just a leak? Ted May 13..Rome Ted Its May 13th, and our lucky number. Maybe things will turn up. This morning we tried to see the Vatican Galleries, and without coats we failed. Afterwards we called on our good friend at the Consulate, Mr. Blake, who offered us his coats for the show. This morning we also contacted Bishop Hayes to attempt to arrange an audience with the Pope. Tomorrow at 9:30, dressed in borrowed coats, we carry a letter to the Vatican in the hope we will be admitted. One way or another we will get there. Rome is no place to spend just a week. We have been here longer and yet there is so much yet to be seen. Yesterday when we talked with Bishop Hanna he told us that after the many years he has spent in Rome and among its treasures, every day there is something new to be seen. We have just returned from the Museum of the Terme, situated among the vast Diocletian Baths. At one time it was only of mediocre interest but today, due to many additions, it is coming into its own. A new (old) Venus which is truly beautiful beyond words, is becoming a more famous work each day. It stands by itself in a small room, packed with admirers. Another great work is the familiar figure of the pugilist resting between rounds. Dick and I know it well, having felt the same fatigue. Again the rendering of the musculature is its virtue. Of course, the best known sculpture, the Terme Venus, is exceptional. Miss Gallagher guided us through the rooms, educating us. We are beginning to respond as we learn and appreciate a little more each day in an art world the privilege of only the few to see. Ted May 13....Italy-Rotary Rome Things are moving swiftly these days as we try to clean up Rome, although we have just started, before moving on to Florence, stopping at Assisi and Perugia en route. Right now, quite a bit of time has been taken up seeing people and making arrangements that might have important results. General Cottica is a great help, a real gentleman, as Major Overton says, and always his staunch friend. Every time we see him he asks if we have written yet and to be sure and give the Major his best. He must be an example of the best in Rome leadership, tremendously busy but always with a few minutes for us. “You are always at home in my office” was his comment when we left yesterday. May 12 Believe it or not, we were on our bikes and away at 8 o’clock this morning. General Cottica had spoken of the new Fero Mussolini (Forum) at lunch yesterday, insisting that we see it. So at this early hour we were quickly perspiring while covering several miles to the Fore on the Tiber’s banks outside of Rome’s northern walled entrance, Porta del Popolo. It was a thrill to see this shining white marble monument of modern Italy in the form of athletic training grounds for the youth. Every sport is represented. Modernistic design is carried out to the n’th degree in the gorgeous buildings decorated with mosaics depicting athletic figures and contests. Playing fields are surrounded by glistening white marble stands. The Fero covers several square miles and since it is now in the middle of construction, landscaping has not been started. What a sports haven we hope it will eventually turn out to be. Clay tennis courts are surrounded by marble grandstands topped with twelve foot milk white statues depicting sports in their primitive forms. This same design is carried out around the giant athletic field, with a second one under construction. Beautiful buildings in the same style house fencing courts, swimming pools, wrestling rings, etc. not to mention locker rooms for the vast army of athletes now working out all around us. In the distance, echoing rifle fire told us that target practice is a major part of the training activities. Il Duce is taking seriously this manner of building an active manhood that will dutifully follow his policies. Greek athletes had no finer places to train and compete than the youth of Rome today. Fero Mussolini can only be considered a revelation, saying more about modern Italy than any guides or books. Brother Connolly and Mr. O’Connel had informed us that Archbishop Hanna is in Rome, taking a vacation from the responsibilities in San Francisco, so we took the opportunity to call on him. He graciously received us, making us feel at home. We had an interesting conversation with him for 45 minutes, and especially enjoyed his comments on Italy and present events. In relation to the Foro Mussolini, the Archbishop made an especially interesting comment. “Mussolini has a tremendous burden to carry. He must not only deal with problems of today, but must prepare for the future. Added to this is the problem of being alert and guarding against attack. Such an institution is the Foro, stimulating athletics and building a competitive spirit which will serve to line up Italian youth behind him. It is most interesting to note that Italy, 2/3 the size of California, has a many times larger population. On the way back, we stopped for an hour or so in the famous Borghese Gallery, once the casino of the Villa Borghese, now a favorite as a promenade through its gardens. Among the special works in sculpture are Bernini’s “Apollo and Daphne” and “David” and of course the seductive reclining figure of Pauline Borghese, easily the most to our liking. Ancient mosaics depict gladiator contests that told us much about the armor and weapons of that day. Among the great works are Titian’s “Sacred and Profane Love”, Raphael’s “Entombment”, and Corregio’s “Danao”. Several Michelangelo’s also can be enjoyed. Here our tesseras stood us in good stead, saving a few coppers for our coffers. Today was Rotary in Rome. Having been invited to the meeting by the secretary, at Dad’s behest. We arrived at the Hotel Excelsior, slicked up in our latest ensambles-pants, same shirts, same sweaters- and we were on time. The meeting was held in the spacious dining room where the meal was delicious, of course, topped off with champagne toasts to Italy, the King, and Il Duce. Only 3 or 4 members spoke English so our conversation was limited. Mr.Zenardi, the club’s founder, and Mr.Giovanni(Mr. Jones of Italy) told us interesting things about the club’s history. First of all it has a record-breaking attendance of 30%(lowest in the world) because they claim that they have so many big guns as members and they find it hard to attend. The King is an honorary member. However, the way the meeting was carried on, we would attribute the poor attendance just to lack of interest, as with any mutual admiration society. Rotary in America is far ahead of the rest of the world, to the point that there is no comparison, as far as we can tell. A few members across from us actually were going to sleep. We felt as if we were intruding, and further, that the time and trouble necessary for us to make this type of contact and to explain our position in clubs is not worth the value received. Only in special cases do we plan to attend from now on, feeling out of temper with the Rotarians seen thus far in Europe. This may sound harsh, but it is the way we presently feel and we know you wish the facts. Perhaps the club had an off day, but 30% attendance speaks for itself. Only a few members wore their pins alongside Fascisti emblems. This club seemed to have just one goal, likely to be prestige alone. After competing our business about the city, we pedaled by the Coliseum, Arch of Constantine over Via dei Trionfi recently constructed by soldiers, oddly, to the Baths(Termae) of Caracalla, largest mass of ruins in Rome, save for the Coliseum. They were begun in 212 AD by Caracalla and finished by Severus as they cover more than six acres and accommodate 1600 bathers at a time. Many works of art were found but now are in museums, Naples gaining the largest collection. These baths, or Termae, were really the 19th holes of yesterday where one could find stores, restaurants, and art exhibits, not to mention great rooms to sit and gossip while being served peppy liquids. They were the meeting house for the middle class and the wealthy. All that remains now are great walls and arches, all of thin Roman bricks, and overgrown with grass and weeds. A few mosaic floors remain but have weathered badly as ceilings disintegrate over the scarred and fragmented capitals of melting columns. It was here that Shelly wrote his Prometheus Unbound, dreaming in the shadows as night would fall. Keats and Shelly are both buried in Rome in the little cemetery beside Porta Paola near the Tiber at the city’s eastern end. As the afternoon was still young enough for some more wandering, we retraced our steps back to the Coliseum to give it our first real inspection and perhaps dream a little too as evening shadows bring gladiators and to be martyred Christians into the arena. Although it may seen strange, but rather than listen to the lists of facts from guides’ lips we just like to pick a suitable spot in a moment such as this, glean a little history from our guide book, then sit and let imaginations roam. We fill the stadium with colorful cheering crowds above, roaring lions below, fighting men or racing chariots as we try to place ourselves in that day when the mere raising or lowering of a royal thumb meant life or death. The Coliseum is just as it is pictured, the greatest ruin in Rome, built by Vespasian in the First Century, a remarkable wonderful construction “first”. It will hopefully stand for the centuries ahead. It is just as solid today as ever. Forty to fifty thousand people filled the stadium to witness blood curdling events put on by the rich and powerful, and all for political purposes. A satisfied populace meant popularity and thus power. There really is nothing to say about its construction that can’t be found in any encyclopedia. At one time it was a fortress and the arena floor was, for the moment in time, covered with masonry. Spectacular views down radiating thoroughfares, the Vittorio Emanuel Monument, Arch of Constantine, the Foro of the Emperors, are received from the Coliseums highest points. Hard to believe but entrance was free, with our “iessaros,” to all these wonders. Best money’s worth yet! As evening fell, thousands of sparrows filled the air spinning and singing. To the east, promenaders enjoyed quiet walks through spacious public gardens that can be found throughout Rome. From where we stood we were looking over where the spacious grounds, making up half of Rome at the time, were serenaded by Nero while Rome burned. (Time out to wash socks while water is hot) We were enjoying ourselves so much that closing time of 6 o’clock slipped by for ten minutes before we noticed. On reaching the gate below we found ourselves locked in. Imagine being locked in the Coliseum, even if you are a hungry Lyon. All we could do was roar through the bars. And then a soldier passed by, and with gestures we conveyed are plight and the need for rescue. He came back with the attendant who luckily had a sense of humor and freed us with a chuckle. There were still a few unexposed pictures on the camera roll. In order to use them up, we rode down the boulevard between the Forum Romanum and Forum Augustis to the Vittoio Emanuel Monument. It is a singularly impressive structure of white marble, with gilded statues blackening with age. Some witty sole made the comment that the Monument looked like a lower plate of false teeth, the columns the teeth. Ever since that far-fetched name has stuck. So, it was up behind the first and second lateral incisors that we took several shots of the sunset behind St. Peters and for the first time were asked for our passports and “sojarne” card by a plainclothes policeman. No problem. The Monument is far more impressive from a distance, for already the inlaid marble floors are deteriorating and the gold blackening, Passing down the steps we paused for a moment to pay our respects at the Unknown Soldier’s Grave, decorated simply and beautifully, two fully equipped soldiers standing guard. The memorial is at the bottom of the first flight of stairs and always easily accessible, beautiful at dusk with its Guard of Honor. After a delicious dinner at 7:30, we found ourselves dead tired and went right to bed. It doesn’t seem as if we are doing much as we go along, but after an hour at supper, we realize what a full day it has been. We still have 12 days before we leave for Assisi on Sunday morning. Time flies fast, so we must make hay during these last days in Italy, hoping to cross the border on the 28th into Switzerland. How fast we will be able to ride over the Alps remains to be seen. Please tell President Roosevelt to hurry up and stabilize the dollar. With it worth just 59 cents over here, our living is expensive and when I say “living” I mean not only food but the other necessities such as clothes, toothpaste, and film. We will have spent during one month in italy(33 days) about $180, including railroad tickets-more than $5 a day. However, cutting everything to a minimum, despite such expenditures as 160 lira for pants, 44 lira for shoes to be soled, and 18 lira for a roll of film, it all adds up in the end. If everything goes as we hope, on leaving Italy we will have $370 left, which plus your extra $100, ought to do the job. Living is cheap in Germany, expensive in France, Switzerland, and Holland. We will keep the latch tight on the Lyon Brothers” cash in our money belts, itchy when we sweat, but safe. Of course plans change every minute it seems, and with the latest hope to go to Ireland to see our friend in Cork, we will have to speed things up. Here is the latest for you to send letters. Just think, we have not heard a word from you since Marseilles, and won’t until Venice where we have had mail forwarded from Geneva.(Its raining cats and dogs again) Please write to each city along our route. We are always able to have mail changed or forwarded. We should be in Geneva about June 3, Zurich on June 11, and Munich on the 16th. There is an awful lot to do, and if time is passing. We will likely leave out Ireland. It just depends on what we do each day. We figure we ride 20 kms. and hour, about 12 miles per hour, if we don’t stop. That was our average over the Riviera hills. After Munich please write to Nuremburg. Whether we will make the Olympics is doughtful. If we follow the schedule, we should be in England the very last of July. The more we think about it, we doubt we can either afford the time or the money for Berlin Olympics.. (Boy, its really thundering outside-rattles the windows-Hope this will break the rainy spell.) Reservations have been made for the Aquaitania-our NYK tickets and $20 for two. We could have gone on a smaller 8 day ship , but figured the days here are too valuable. We have to look ahead because the ships are filling up. On telling of the Termae Museum, Ted left out the Discus Thrower, probably the most justly famous piece in the Museum. The original is scarred and broken, his feet, head, and most of his arms gone. His body is as beautiful as ever, not overdone nor musclebound as are so many of these strong men. Beside him stands the modern bronze completed as the original must have looked in white marble. It is a thrill to see such original Greek sculpture as it depicts the athlete centuries ago. Fine judgment was used in not trying to restore it in the way so many wonderful pieces have been disfigured. The bronze replica served that need. These are just haphazard comments that slip out. Rome is overrun with Germans and Swiss these days, evidently seeking some warmth. Rome is sultry. Every time we ride our bikes we perspire profusely, especially as we carry them up the two flights of our Pensione. We are studying German these days in preparation for great experiences in Deutschland ahead. School for Bruce will be over by the time we reach geneva. Tell us your summer plans. Dick May 14 Rome Ted St. Angelo This morning we carried a letter of introduction from Bishop Hayes to gain a general audience with the Pope. But Saturday is the day set and we pedaled to the Vatican only to be turned away by the gorgeous Swiss Guards. It was on our way back that I had some near miss episodes. The first happened when a cycler cut in front of me and my brake was not punctual enough. I just lay over his back fender in graceful style, then picked myself up and tried to say "Damn you and pardon me” in fifty different languages. You know my temper. Well, the second time a fellow sneaked up on me from behind as we were going down one of Rome’s side streets, and I swerved out, nearly spilling us. It was useless for both of us to talk so dirty glances sufficed. By this time I was in a sweat when around another corner and on the wrong side, a rider came at me. ”Kerfluey”, with my quick stop handlebars went forward as did I, and over them. Luckily our destination was nearby so I was able to make the rest of the way on foot. Sometimes in using our front wheel hand brakes, when we apply them firmly, because the brake handle is on top instead of on the underside, a quick stop has us moving forward, putting more unwanted pressure on the handles, and we somersault, and land on our backs as occurred the other day when the Carabinieri put his hand up. Both of us lay flat on our backs at his sides, and everyone had a laugh, motorists, Carabinieri, and we as well, Today we bought a German grammar and are beginning our study. It is raining and we are writing. Can you imagine that here in the middle of May it’s pouring. We have ordered a USA sign for our bikes just in case they can ever be useful. This afternoon we journeyed to the Capitoline Museum. We wished to get another look at the “Flying Gaul” and to go through the Palace of the Conservatori where the figure of the boy bent over to get a thorn out of his foot and the bronze mold of Romulus and Remus are found. Of course all the other wonders are there too from tapestries to works by Reni, Van Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, and Bassane, plus all the usual frescoes and mosaics. Then Dick’s bike chain broke. As you see we have an eventful life even if we have to create the events Tomorrow we go to the Vatican Galleries. The Consul’s coats fit fine though they are baggy in the shoulders. A ride out to Hadrian’s Villa will occupy the afternoon. Saturday, we hope to meet the Pope. Sunday we will shuffle off to Assisi, Perugia, and Florence. Evening After lunch we visited Hadrian’s tomb, now properly called the Castle of St. Angelo. It was begun by Hadrian and completed by his successor, Antoninus Pius. At first it was used as a mausoleum, but then became a refuge for the Popes in times of siege, numerous to say the least. A passage led to it from the Vatican and the Popes did flee through it. One time there was a terrible plague in Rome. The Pope led a procession by the Castle and when they passed the fortress, St. Michael appeared above, sheathing his sword, and the plague ended. Ever since it has been known as the Castle St.Angelo in memory of the angel saint. In order to reach the Museum and rooms of the Pope inside, we had to wind up through a cold gloomy tunnel. The collections were interesting, and the small dungeons like Chateau d'If were full of mystery. From the top we had an excellent view of St.Peters and Rome itself. On our way back into the city, we stopped at the Rag Market, just a number of booths placed in the maze of streets in the city’s center. As we pushed our bikes through everyone would stare at us, and all we could do was stare back. They tried to sell us everything, but we weren’t in the market for The market. Every shop in town is supposed to have a booth at this market, surely unusual. We then rode across town to the Church of San Clemente. An English priest took us down to the lower church which, recently uncovered, is said to be of the fourth century. He then took us even further down, until we heard running water. No one knows from where it comes, so it remains a mystery. To a Californian it is just another artisan well. He showed us portions of not yet excavated buildings that date from the Imperial Age of 700 to about 500 BC,,nd just above, buildings of the Republican age, 500 BC to 46 BC. One small room the priest told us was the home of St. Clemente. When he was banished from Rome, the pagans erected an alter in the room to their Sun God, which still stands in the center. What a fertile field for a fertile mind to write about. We finished another remarkable day, tired and sleepy, and to bed. May 18 Perugia Really Rome Dick It has been a number of days since we have had time to sit down and write. The last few days in Rome were packed with a such a series of experiences that a few spare minutes were not found. We are in the ancient hill town of Perugia, some hundred miles north of Florence. Ted will tell you of our first impressions and of the great day we visited the Vatican Museum and its wondrous collection of sculpture and art. It opened at 9 and wishing to spend as much time as possible there, we dressed quickly, spiffed up in Mr. Blake’s double breasted coats, carried our bikes down the stairs-the two flights we call the last mile, for if we aren’t perspiring before climbing them, the top will find us both puffing and sopping wet. We started pedaling when “bang”, something went off below me. My chain was lying in the street, not caring whether or not we got to the Vatican. Back up the last mile because we could not fix the chain without links. I ran again to catch the bus, while Ted rode over on his bike. The Vatican Galleries and Museum are tremendous, with their untold wealth of art. There are just a few, however, that we wish to specially remember. The works of Raphael-his stanza containing the School of Athens- and ‘Confirmation of the Holy Sacrament”. Works on Constantine’;s life were surprises and interesting. In this, emotions on each face give a feeling of intense emotion. The “Loggia” of Raphael,, corridors decorated with frescoes illustrating 45 scenes from the Bible, held our attention especially. The Sistine Chapel with Michelangelo's works is beyond awe inspiring. The tremendous “Last Judgment” and ceiling covered with frescoes cannot be forgotten. In the picture gallery, Rafael's “Transfiguration” and “Madonna del Feligno” and Dammenlurie’s “The Last Communion of St. jerome” and in sculpture, the familiar “Laocoon” were most appreciated by us. This is just a hasty sketch but time limits such a tale. Dad, Mom, Bruce–as you read our letters you should have the Encyclopedia open and read there about we see and can’t really describe. The early afternoon was spent completing our business- getting steamship tickers on the Aquitania, films, money. At four we wandered down into the Forum Romanum to stay there as shadows fell. We sat for awhile beneath the lone beautiful column of P.... rising high above the surrounding ruins is the speakers’ rostrum from which Cicero thundered at Catline, Arch of Severus, and grave of Romulus. Above this the eight columns of Saturn still stand. We then wandered through the remains of the Temple of Vesta and admired the three columns with still rich entablature of Castor and Pollux. We just strolled and lapped it all up, trying to picture the grass covered ruins as they were when Caesar started his Basilica Julia. At 6:30 we were shooed out by the attendant but still climbed up on some ruins overlooking the Forum and enjoyed the sunset to its fullest. This has been the most wonderful day since our arrival in Rome. After dinner, tripod and camera in hand, we ambled the kilometer to the Coliseum, and after studying it from every angle, and exploring for a few moments in its oily depths, we took a time exposure from a point overlooking the broad well-lighted avenue running to the Vittorio Emanuel Monument to the west. A shot of Constantine’s well lit arch completed the evening’s photo attempts, followed by a frappe(Italian watery milkshake) between the two of us. They still can’t make a milkshake anywhere at Eddy's but in California. May 16 Our last day was to prove a full one. Up early, we rode (I found a link for the chain made in America and it fit the French design for once) to San Givanni in Laterno, the leading church of Rome, ahead of St. Peter’s in ecclesiastical standards. It is up until the present, the Pope was confirmed first as a Bishop of Rome, a necessary step to being named the Pope. However, the church itself was not as interesting as the Baptistry and Cloisters of its adjacent monastery. An attendant took around the small circular Baptistry, telling us that this building is the oldest of its kind in Rome. It is believed that Constantine was baptized here. In one of the side chapels can be seen the oldest mosaics in Rome, somewhat coarser but just as rich as later ones. The attendant held a lighted match against one the small alter pillars, causing the stone to light up with its translucent qualities. He explained that the pillars are of alabaster, their translucency being the test. The musical doors fascinated us, each weighing 1400 pounds. and constructed of gold, silver, and copper As they were swung clear, thundering notes issue forth, at times just plain beautiful. Because they were so heavy, we felt the guide earned his lira tip, something we are rarely able to do. The monastery cloisters are beautiful, much the same as in “:St.Paul’s Outside The Walls”-small marble columns each of a different color and mineral content, and they enclosed the beautifully tended inner garden. This trip has been a wonderful revelation to us, so surrounded by the oldest and the new, exposing what we don’t know and acting as a stimulus for study. Our next surprise was a quick glance at Santa Croce and Santa Ascala wherein are the marble steps brought by St. Helena to Rome from Palestine, the stones on which Christ was supposed to have stood before Pontius Pilate. One may ascend them, and there are many, only on one’s knees. The wooden covers of the steps are hollowed and smooth from worshipers’ knees. Ten were ascending and praying as we watched. Of course the ever-present postcard and curio vender is close at hand. You find them clustered at every historical tourist point. If they can’t speak English, at the least a “Hello” makes the introduction. I am afraid though that we have not proved a boon the International Pest Association. Back at the Pension again we slicked up in Mr. Blake’s coats, ran the polishing rag over our shoes, put on garters and ties, and were all set to meet the Pope. On bikes again, we picked up our letter of Introduction at Bishop Hayes’ office, and rode slowly, so as not to sweat, to the Vatican. It was no use, though, for if we rode slowly our backs became frying pans , and if we rode faster for a little breeze, nothing changed save more sweat. What a great day when shorts will outfit us again, seeming to be a custom of American origin. The Vatican entrance is adjacent to St. Peters steps at the end of the row of columns circling the plaza. There we received our first view of the famous Swiss Guards, dressed in gay colored uniforms from medieval days. Their head=gear is just as brilliant, looking like glorified berets at rakish angles. Several wore shining swords, while others stood at attention, pikes in hand. Every major language is spoken by these fellows. We had no trouble in finding one who could speak English. Our letter was addressed to Father Clark, who without ado gave us our card to attend the general audience with the Pope. While waiting we made the acquaintance of a young American student in the Priesthood Jim McKugo from Chicago who was obtaining an audience for another American from his home town. Since an hour of sitting was necessary, he took us through St. Peters explaining clearly to us the meaning of Catholic beliefs and doctrines. At 12 we returned to the Vatican waiting room with Mr. Palette, Tom’s friend. We passed the guards once more and then up a beautiful staircase and through gorgeous rooms covered with equally gorgeous frescoes, and then more guards at a room where, to our amazement, several hundred people sat or walked about, all waiting to receive the Pope’s blessing. Evidently our audience was to be anything but private. While we waited, several people came out from an adjoining room in full dress,They were, without doubt, returning from a truly private audience with His Holiness. After several false alarms, the doors finally opened, and we were admitted into a spacious audience hall. again richly decorated from top to bottom, with the Popes chair on a plush covered platform, at a point nearest us. While standing in the crowd waiting, we had plenty of time to observe those around us. Our height, of course thanks to orange juice and Kepler’s Malt Extract, again stood us in good stead, for we could see so much. All about us, petite women in black, their heads covered with intricate handwork scarves, some perhaps from Sorrento, craned eagerly forward. Swiss Guards, their backs to us, stood holding everyone in line, leaving a large free space around His Holiness’ chair. Guards were at every door. Since cameras are forbidden and we needed some remembrance of the Guards. Here is a sketch made as we waited The Guard had his back to us. Hope you can recognize him (Back of helmut and pike) Perhaps you have been able to gain some idea of just how colorful these gentlemen are in red, blue, and yellow, with black steel helmets and shining pikes. As we stood, suddenly a “SH” passed through the crowd and all stood silently as the doors to the right slowly opened. Again, modern smartly uniformed officers appeared, followed by Pope Pius IX in a white robe and white skullcap. He walked slowly and majestically to his chair, seated himself, and was of course surrounded by his “Guard of of Honor”. He pronounced quietly his benediction with right hand raised, and promptly left the room with the same quiet tread. It was over so quickly that we never really caught up. What was the biggest surprise was the clapping as he appeared and left. Just a few kneeled for the benediction. We also paid our homage and kneeled as we had been told to do. No difficulty with that. The Pope spoke feebly, his words barely audible. There is so little for us to say, for it all happened so fast. our surprise so great that we never really put it all together. When it was over, the room filled with excited mutterings as we emptied out into the corridor. Pope Pius is getting vary old and these audiences must be very tiring for him He is a quite wonderful and kindly man, beloved and venerated by the entire Christian world. He has every right to this adoration. Here is another scribble-his red plush chair burnished with gold, yet its beauty so simple. I forgot to mention that the guards had handsome displays of medals to twinkle and shine. We had received the Pope’s blessing, and now we feel our visit to Rome is complete. So, off to Tivoli and Hadrian’s Villa 50 kilometers away(about 10 miles) filled the afternoon. We had so looked forward to these treasures, although most have been removed and are in museums around the world. Above was blue sky and sunshine. Just ahead was a black sky as ominous clouds poured down torrents of rain. As we felt the dripping water getting inside our inadequate protective clothing we would stop, let the downpour stop, and then sort of follow along again in a beautiful countryside that first appeared as we were traveling north from Rome. Water glistened in the sunshine, accentuating the green-red, and yellow of the springtime landscape. Tall slender cypress’ and poplars gave a pastoral effect to each farmyard, a crooked fence, and grazing cattle-just another haven for artists, if it weren't for the rows of telephone lines everywhere. But the artist has the advantage not allowed the photographer, for these modern eyesores are overlooked by their brushes. On the outskirts of Rome we passed clean new apartments and office buildings, in the most modern designs. There are simply hundreds of these in Rome. Of course everyone gawks as we pass, politely surprising their laughter at the two giraffes making time on bikes. Peaceful repose was exhibited by wagon drivers, snoozing contentedly, mouths agape, as their faithful donkeys pulled along steadily. We’re sure that the seats of these men’s pants must be nailed to the boards to keep them from falling out as they swing rhythm back and forth. The most remarkable characteristic of Hadrian’s Villa is its symmetry and landscaping, all situated on a broad hill overlooking the valley. Even today, overgrown and fairly well kept, it is a superb sight. Statuesque cypress’ add most to the picturesqueness as they cluster around colossal ruins. It is the peace and quiet that pervades everything that is most impressive, a consistent quality of the Roman hill through which we have ridden so far. As for the ruins themselves, just a few words. The grounds are extensive and cover acres of rolling ground with some remains of extensive structures everywhere, apparently built for the enjoyment of the populace itself, as they enjoyed the Emperor’s hospitality. We see massive floors in black and white, with tiny bits of marble, all well preserved, their geometrical designs still fresh. Only traces of all and ceiling frescoes remain, now covered with the inescapable sightseers’ signatures. Hadrian’s Villa is an illuminating view into the past, gowned with natures robes ot the present. This Emperor seems to us not fully appreciated for he left something of which he could be proud. Six o’clock found us back on the road, once more pumping towards Rome. Our legs wanted to stop but stomachs said “Not yet”. Of course we did stop here and there for a photo. About 2/3 of the way in we passed a couple of local bikers riding along leisurely. But, guess what, they immediately stepped on the gas to stay follow in our wake and take advantage of our backwash. We decided to leave them far behind. So we pumped as hard as we could. They stuck like lePage’s glue, smiling all the time. After several miles up a slight grade, our not yet conditioned legs pled for help, and then the cobblestones began. That topped things off. Every stone felt like a boulder, and America would have to be humbled. Just when the old pistons were ready to quit, Italy turned down a side street to wave and laugh, leaving us still in front but the worse for wear. We covered the distance back in a short 1 1/4 hour. After another satisfying dinner, with legs and all else wilting, we hit the sack-a fitting end to our fullest day yet in Rome. PS Pension Giuliana at 26 Via Palermo--these are the personalities-Italian, Swiss, German, Austrian, English, French, Scotch. Dutch, Cypriots, Russian, and American. Dick May 18 Assisi Perugia Ted It is morning as we wait for breakfast to be brought to our room. Yesterday was a climbing day as we were first introduced to the hill towns. We arose early, packed and ate a good breakfast and said goodbye to the smiling frauliens who had taken such good care of us in Pensione Giulliana. Finding the baggage office in the large Rome station just a few minutes before the train’s departure was exciting. At 7:30 the train pulled out and from that itime one we had a most enjoyable morning, riding over the compagne and up a flood plain while the river meandered with us in zigzag fashion and into the foothills of Assisi. At one place we thought we were back in California for the morning sunshine emphasized the beauty of a field of those glorious red poppies. Grain fields dotted with wild flowers lay over the countryside like a quilt, and fruit trees with vine clad wires strung from tree to tree divided the landscape in an irregular pattern. What an abundance of picturesqueness surrounded us while on the train, and in our car a little drama was progressing. Evidently, the church young women’s guild of Spoligna was out on a binge to Assisi. They boarded the train by storm with a priest leading them, swarming through every compartment door. Finding seats was an amusing problem, at least so they thought, and as for Dick some of these dainty country maids were nearly in his lap. Although the morning was still young they had to open their small cases and bring out loaves of bread-cake, which having been cut with a kitchen knife and handled by three or four people, proceeded to disappear in a very few mouthfulls. Then came the wine, toted by one bosomed maid who generously offered us some. But since everyone was drinking out of the same glass, we had lost our thirst. To make things more interesting, as we were still at in our seats, a large group gathered and made us the objects of their conversation. Then and there we were sorry we didn’t know a little Italian. But were got our licks in. The conductor, as he came through, turned to us and fired some Italian We weren’t sure of what he had said, but answered simultaneously “Assisi”, for that seemed the likely correct answer to any question a conductor might ask. W were right for the conductor nodded and went on his way, but the girls now thought we knew Italian and had understood all of their gossip. They became shame-faced and continued talking in a hushed fones while we chuckled. They were nice girls, very hardy and with strong faces. Their clothes were very plain and in most cases were probably hand-me-downs from older sisters. Two small girls in bright dresses to match their ruddy cheeks, stared at us as though we were freaks. None of them gave any evidence of having ever ridden in a train before. Time passed quickly and Assisi popped into view. There on the the point was the massive gothic structure-the Church of San Francisco, where the crypt holds St. Francis. You can imagine how we felt living such a short distance from our own St. Francis just across the bay. To the south the gray town stretched along the heights. Standing out above is the Castle Maggiore, the original guardian of the town The train stopped and we were again on the go. We stopped beneath fruit trees in a verdant orchard to eat our lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, and oranges. It was one of our most delightful experiences, just sitting there, with Assisi in the distance, Spring colors surrounded us, and snow white clouds floated above. But all suddenly became dark as Dick proceeded to change film and something snapped. It had to be the film. It was stuck. Nothing can be so dire and depressing to a photographer as to have destroyed negatives that cannot be created again. Up to the town we climbed, hoping to find a spot dark enough to make the film change. It was Sunday, and noon, and all shops were closed, but we found what we were for in the black recess of an old watch-tower. We had climbed to the Castle where a small boy with five large keys and a lantern led us into the stronghold. We were not as much interested in in the castle remains as we were in finding a medieval dark room. Oh, for the life of a photographer! We were beginning to despair when he started off to a hole in a corner. We followed and found ourselves in a long tunnel to a watch-tower out on the precipitous point. And, by the way it is no place for orange juice drinkers from California, for ceilings were dangerously low There in the dark recesses of circular staircase, Dick changed the film. All was bright once more as we hiked back into town to take pictures of the bounty of our first hill town. Clean winding streets which many times ended in descending steps, led us past neat plain houses. On every windowsill were potted plants and greens. Pleasant people watched us pass, always with a good natured smile, sometimes accompanied with “bonjourno”. Down among the gray tiled roofs,with interesting doorways and intriguing passages, and inviting lace and metal shops, we found ourselves at the Church Of San Francisco. At every turn we caught sight of the plain below extending into the hazy distance. A muddy twisting riverbed wiggled off to the right, the railroad station directly below surrounded by a carpet of green with orchards rising out of the grain-what a picture! We entered the church, beautified by the brushes ot the wondrous noted artists of Italy. Our interest lay in seeing the lower church and the crypt where St. Francis lies. We descended to the chapel where many young monks were holding a service. Then, dark stairs led us down to the crypt. Outside the iron-grated doors we stood transfixed. An alter, so beautiful with fresh flowers, stood at the extremity of the small chapel. Faintly burning oil lamps in groups of three hung from the ceiling on either side, and down the stairway from the chapel overhead came the echoing chants of a hundred voices in answer to the sole chanter’s call. An opening above the alter illuminated it and added the final touch. It was great. Everything was so quiet until the chanting broke the stillness to again and again making it in fact an enchanting experience. The walk back to the station was a joy. We were at peace with the world. Near the station we stopped for a time in the Church of Santa Maria Dogli Angeli where under its dome is the hut in which St. Francis and his followers worshiped. We passed from the nave, through the sacristy to the garden beyond, where we saw the thornless roses of St. Francis. The train ride from Assisi to Perugia was short and sweet, and soon we were riding up into the town of Perugia, packs in place. As we turned almost the first corner, down a small side street we read Alberge Diurno. We agreed on a price and then settled down in our room. Our first impression of Perugia came as we walked after dinner. Everyone with his good looking sister was out promenading in the town circle in their spring dresses or suits. It was a sight one would imagine happening in a good-sized hill town on Sunday night in the early spring. Small shops with wonderful displays lined the wide main avenue, though irregularly; past the Gothic town hall which looks very ostentatious in the diffused light, to the main square and its fountain. A side street looked inviting, so for a few minutes we wandered aimlessly through the twisting streets, at times pausing a to get a more complete picture of some dimly lighted shop. In one filled with huge barrels a good-natured shopkeeper was leaning on a barrel jesting with a friend. We weren’t afraid of getting lost because when we wished to get back, all we had to do was climb to the highest point, and that is where the main street lies. Sort of like the Boy Scout trick of following the stream down when lost. It is so hard to believe that we are really in this hill town of Perugia. Our only wish is that you, too, could be here and share this with us. So we can do is our best as we write. Back to the ridge, along the avenue, where everyone is walking in the street, and weaving our way through the sidewalk beer cafes and standing horse carriages, we turned down a high class alley, as we might call it in America, to our comfortable humble abode, for forty, make it sixty, winks..love Ted May 19 Firenze...Tand D From the open window here by the writing table, I can look out over the tiled roofs of Firenze, alive with radio aerials and chattering birds, to the green yet brown dotted hills beyond. Florence enchants us with quiet quaint streets and mediaeval buildings, from the moment we arrived. And this enchantment has grown as we have been caught by the serenity pervading everything. Picturesque shops filled with attractive handworks in metal, leather, and cloth; modernistic street restaurants ; feudal strongholds; and weather-worn statuary give Florence a flavor all its own-a Mecca for lovers of art and history. The peacefulness hanging over everything has struck us the hardest. No one seems in a hurry. Autos are scarce. Everyone smiles with good humor. Florence lives up to its name, meaning “flowers’ from a Latin derivation. Firenze is Italian for Florence and is much more sonorous to our ears. Bells in churches all about us are now pealing out 6 o’clock, in harmony. This is distinctly the Italy we have dreamed about. How wonderful it would be to have you here too, if only for five minutes. Just picture the streets below with Jeanette Mc Donald singing and you have a fairly good idea of the atmosphere saturating us. WEDNESDAY MORNING 8:30 AM Rain is still pouring down, forcing us to stay in, and will complete some writing. We just finished the week’s washing, by the way. MAY 18 PERUGIA TO FLORENCE Up early to accomplish some back writing. How it piles up these flying days. We downed our distasteful coffee-1 part caffeine to 4 parts milk-helped along with some bread. Then we sat down to write. The morning was quickly slipping by, so with letters half done we left the auberge, armed with camera to see this quaint hill town. Perugia is one of the oldest cities in Italy, boasting a colorful history going all of the way back to early Etruscan days, about 10,000 BC. Today traces can be seen ot this ancient flourishing civilization in the stone walls and gates. Perugia was one of twelve cities comprising the powerful Etruscan League. Medieval influence is seen today in the impressive Gothic strongholds and churches, Roman, yet in previously pagan temples and brick walls. Today Perugia's main street is lined today with smart shops displaying the latest fashions in design, The Museum and Cathedral, both Gothic structures-the first with an especially striking facade-are the prime places of historic importance and standing on the main Piazza. Its center is the celebrated statue of the Panics and Cambria. Vaulted ceilings and Gothic windows interested us the most, as we examined many of Peruginos most noted works. We spent the rest of the morning wandering the tortuous streets. clean and bright in the sunlight and alive with stimulating scenes, Perugia is some 1300 feet above the valley, and spreads out over a hill top. Its streets follow the lines of least resistance along the hills contours. At least every five minutes some watchful mother would sneak up behind us and scream a sharp nasal ‘Maria” unhappily reminding of us of our experience in the Genoa pensione. Every street is a camera study, harmed only by lines of telephone wires with large insulators. On windowsills cats bask and lick themselves in the sunlight. Aged faces look kindly at us from second story windows, over potted plants in window boxes. Every little byway goes either up or down, some ending abruptly against a stone wall but always with some scene of human interest even a camera can’t reveal. Women carrying beautiful water jugs of metal and pottery are at the public fountains and remind us of biblical scenes. These Etruscan vases must be among the most beautiful we will ever see, THURSDAY MORNING As we walked down one narrow street the voice of Grace Moore came from an open window, and above a street that could easily have been seen in her pictures. Another time, several troops of soldiers marched below us singing rollicking marching songs. They sounded like a college glee club. These people unleash their “not so bad” voices at every opportunity, and we enjoy their enthusiasm. On one corner of town we suddenly came upon a a weather beaten crumbling stone church. It looked interesting, so a small bell brought the attendant, who then told us of its wonders, all in Italian. Its surprising the similarity between French and Italian, for we have little trouble in catching the major components of these lectures. Sante Angelo, as we found the name to be, was built around a Roman temple to Vesta. Holes in the ceiling to light the original columns and “blessed treir” is now kept in one of the sculptured vestal lamps. Behind, outside the ancient Etruscan wall we lay in the grass, just to admire the the Umbrian plain and hills below us, great patchwork quilt dotted with button-like orchards . To our left arises the famous “Aree di Auguyste”, a Roman gate built on Etruscan foundations and topped with Renascence buttresses. And climbing up our road, old Dobbin was having a dickens of time pilling his heavy load of wood, with kids hanging on while his driver walked beside, cracking his whip with the dexterity of circus trainer. Minerva Restaurante was the eating portion of our Pensione. There we we enjoyed two delicious meals in surroundings just the same today as is the time of the Knights. It is a stone cellar wish narrow corridors. arched walls, and ceilings lit by rustic lamps. These dark stones have seen five hundred years of service, and still look as good as new. What a piece of luck to find such a place, for only a few such remain today. While we waited for spaghetti, a nice looking fellow came up and started speaking Italian. We must have looked completely blank. All at once he popped out “Where are you from, and with machinelike precision. We meekly answered, California, at which he almost fell on our necks. He was from New Jersey, studying medicine in Perugia. He spent the next minutes telling us more about the town. On the way down to the train after lunch, we stopped for a half hour in a most beautiful spot, so common in this country. We sat on a stone bench and just took it all in. Hills and valleys like our central valley but with a unique springtime beauty. Our train to Tarantella was a single untie streamlined diesel powered car-now becoming popular for the short tuns. At Tarantola we changed to the regular train to Florence. While changing cars, we met a Mr. and Mrs. de Roover from Antwerp and then we sat together to Florence. They too were “riding the boards” for third class is really fine for short distances. The Mrs. is an American and seems to rule her roost. We had an interesting conversation, leading to observations on the world we are seeing. Once in Florence, we recovered our bikes “out of hook” and rode, knapsacks on backs, straight to Pensione Morandi, where Miss Gallagher was staying. Mrs. Morandi, is a vivacious little Irish woman. Her name was McIntyre. She made us feel right at home for 20 lira, including wine. She gave us a sunny third story room and filled us with delicious food. Our first impression of Florence, as we looked out over its roofs and domes, was the peacefulness hanging over everything, and especially when melodious church bells ring out at 6 o’clock-not the banging we have heard in so many other cities. And the boy who waits on tables, cleans the rooms, and does everything else can only be regarded as a gem. Some day we will come back perhaps loaded with $10 bills for just such deserving people who work like demons and expect so little in return. After dinner we took our first walk around town. The streets were almost empty save for an occasional horse and carriage, or a solitary promenader It was at just such a quiet corner that a car, naturally a Fiat, suddenly whizzed by from no place, putting a shine on Ted’s pants. In little stands, tiny wire cages are for sale, with a chirping cricket inside. This is a quaint system, we’ re told, handed down from Etruscan days. Everyone buys a cricket for the festive day ahead. In the great squares, Piazza Vittoria Emanuel especially, brilliantly illuminated cafes are inviting. and we stood for a few minutes listening to the music, then home for a fine supper, and hit the hay saturated with over indulgence of both food and beauty. MAY 29TH..AFTERNOON These letters of mine must be regarded as crossword puzzles, the way I meander without order much of the time. So, let’s go again. Museums were to be the morning’s program, so we phoned Betty Lawler to meet us as soon as possible in the front of Palazzo Vecchio at 2 o’clock. In characteristic feminine style, she arrived at 3. The museum consumed the first hour. This great Gothic fortress-palace, you name it, was the seat of Florentine power for many years, when it was Duccal apartments and council halls. Of course the “gimme gimme” kids are at every turn seeking to show us around. However, guide books in hand, we managed to navigate successfully through the rooms and great halls, all frescoed of course. Of greatest interest to us was the 300 foot tower, it a tough climb but worth it to view a panorama of the city. Narrow corridors took us to battlements and past the small cell in which Savanarola was imprisoned before martyrdom. It really wasn’t so bad after all because he had a beautiful city view from his window with lots of time for thought. The National Museum situated in the Barghello palace and prison, took another hour of looking. The three Della Robbias attracted us the most, for these were something new and entirely different. What a treat it is to see the originals of what we have in our own homes. Luga della Robia is responsible for rediscovering the glass finish made by the Etruscans, and his representations are both original and beautiful. Across from our pensione in the Piazza Annunciata are the famous Bambinos on the portico of the Foundling Home, the first such in the world. They seem as fresh today, in blue and white, as fresh as they were on the day they were cast. The astonishing thing is that the baking process did not injure the human features. Giovanni and Andrea, both della Robias, were equally skillful. John of Bologna’s “Mercury” and Michelangelo’s “Mark” were treats to see, along with some of Cellini’s works in the much pictured staircase leading up to the the Barthello’s courtyard. We wished to look at silver and leather goods for which Florence is also famous . At 5:30 we met Miss Gallagher who knows all of the best shops. The silver work is beautiful as well, formed in the ancient style and sold by weight. However, much of it is trash, and is sold to tourists on the Ponte Vecchio, so well known “the bridge of the jewelers”. Gorgeous stones add much to the beauty of their Etruscan settings. Italian shopkeepers are quite different from American, and in a big way. If you come in they take it for granted you will buy, and they become very disagreeable if you don’t make a purchase. Americans are gradually learning to buy only when something suits them. The leather shops were the most fascinating to us. But here again one has to be careful for only a few stores are responsible enough for one to be sure of the quality. We have found, as Dad has always said, that nothing is cheap that is good. 8 Lira purses don’t interest us for the leather is thin and will wear out rapidly. We were taken to a top shop on the Arno where we watched skilled craftsmen at work. The $10 we spent there will bring much satisfaction, an opportunity we would have been foolish to have passed up. As we walked back to the pension the pleasant strains of “Sweet Mystery of Life” came to us from a theater playing “Naughty Marietta” at 1.50 lira a seat. The temptation was too much, so we made plans with Betty to meet her for the nine o’clock show. When we arrived on time her taxi was standing in front while she stood fumbling for some coins. We bailed her out with our largesse. She found out later that the taxi driver had taken advantage of her ignorance of Italian and city streets and had driven round and round the block, not heeding her cries. And he got his money! The picture was really enjoyable as it always will be with such beautiful music. The actors were apparently speaking in French, with Italian words dubbed in, except for the songs themselves. We thoroughly enjoyed it as much as the locals. The gallery is the choice play to sit in Italy, and the crowd acts like a bunch of college kids, stamping and whistling when the picture flickers. FRIDAY MORNING Tomorrow we go to Venice for one day, then to Verona and Milan. We are planning to leave Italy on Wednesday. Brig will be our first Swiss stop. Then we go to Zermatt, out of the way, but with its Matterhorrn. We should be in Munich about the 16th of June. This is our last day in Florence so must be off. Dick May 20 Firenze..Ted Its raining again. Such luck. But yesterday was nice and Florence looked good, for the moment. There are three characteristics that define this city-the leather shops, silver and gold workers, and finally linens. Then come the flower shops overflowing and with the scents of roses as the name Florence or Firenza says. And third is the ringing of church bells throughout the day. You might add the hose drawn carriages which roam the streets just as they have for centuries, and finally the cleanliness and honesty of the people which seems to be the rule In all ways. it is a lovely city to our eyes. Yesterday we were occupied by a combination of business and window-shopping. Some of the shops are super, with things we can just admire. The famous Ponte Vecchio is lined with goldsmiths who make enticing window displays while others resemble pawn shops, yet without the three balls out front, actually the coat of arms of the Medicis, I believe. Their origin goes something like this. It seems that the Medici family were formally doctors and on the famous shield they placed the symbols of three pills. When they advanced in wealth to the level of bankers, they kept their moniker in the same form of the three balls. In the American Express yesterday we were waiting at the counter thinking of not having met a Californian since leaving the orient when a pretty girl stepped up and asked when there would be a ship leaving an Italian port for San Francisco. It took a few moments for us to say hello. She is Betty Tower. She is a graduate of Castalejo in my year, having lived in Palo Alto. She and her mother, who has been very ill thus necessitating the early trip home. have been traveling by car through Europe. She is going to Stanford in September. We talked for a while comparing notes on friends and later in the day went to the Uffizi Gallery together, along with our fine Scotch friend from Rome who added a great deal to the visit with his knowledge of art. But we also had to rehear his worn out jokes as he fingered his goatee with that look of wisdom. Our new friend going to Stanford proved to b a good sport and we hope we will have more of her company. Last evening we ran into Mr. Falletti, our acquaintance from the Vatican when we saw the Pope. He heads for Venice in the morning, in true American style, not missing out on anything. There go the church bells a again. What a warm atmosphere they create. We can hardly wait to reach Venice, having transferred our letters from you from Geneva. Ted .. May 21 Florence Ted Yesterday we visited the Pitti Gallery with our Scotch friend. We know so little about the stories and subjects portrayed in the art collections that without a guide of some sort, we lose a good deal. We enjoyed the Pitti more than the Uffizi because the figures seem more natural and thus real. I enjoyed particularly the collection of Cellini goblets. They had fascinated me in my high school history class for Benvenuto Cellini seemed to have such an imaginative high class rake. Did I imagine a personal resemblance? This morning Miss Gallagher guided us through the Church of Santa Croce, the Westminister Abbey of Florence where famous sons of Florence are buried or commemorated. In one instance we were shown the difference between the earlier and later workmanship of Michelangelo who is buried in the church, and such men as Raphael, Dante, and Masiniare are revered on plaques scattered around. Frescoes by Giotto and terracottas by Andrea della Robia are there as well. The organ, the finest in italy, was given by our own Bank of Italy founder, Giannini. Some of the sculptures are exquisite. Even a minor artist’s work seems remarkable and makes one aware of this sea of talent in Florence. And for us it is quite wonderful that we can absorb enough to take home with us and color our future intellectual lives, perhaps. This morning we examined the bronze “Doors,of Paradise” which Michelangelo so praised. They are the work of Gibretti and open into the Baptistry opposite the Cathederal. The scenes in bronze, tinged with green oxidation of age, are biblical. Ii don’t think we will ever think of Florence without bringing these doors to mind. We just had another cloudburst. We are so hardened to rain that is just a comma in our day. We are fondest of the leather-work here, and you would be too. Oh for a trunk to bring some home except for one missing item-money. The afternoon was dreary with rain. Luckily we were in a church when the biggest cloudburst hit. Even the church roof started to leak enough to shower a tomb or two. With this wetness all of our plans for an afternoon out side dissolved so we instead continued tramps through churches, all loaded with frescoes of note. Mr. Air, from Rome, was our companion. It seems he is taking notes from ancient manuscripts on information about certain comedies written by someone in two hundred years BC. Since every hundred years or so the manuscripts have been copied the interpretations varying as one desires, his job is to get it right. Tonight was opera night. We entered through a back stairway leading to the balcony, one of six above one another and in a V facing the stage. When we took our seats on the wooden bench in a box on the top tier we had a chance to observe the music and drama lovers below who were reading newspapers or just talking. These are the plutocrats who were enjoying, I hope, their red plush seats. Full evening dress was lacking but rabbit and rat furs were abundant. While the orchestra tuned up and the ventilators buzzed, chauffeurs, soldiers, young and old couples of small means, as well as whole families, flocked to the benches we were enjoying. At 9:15 the curtain bearing the Florentine Lilly parted and the entertainment began. The opera was Maristella by Salvani. We knew nothing of it or the composer, and we are still hazy about its particulars. The orchestra was top notch as were the singers. After each outstanding solo, the audience would clap enthusiastically, calling for more until satisfied. And after each of the three acts, again prolonged clapping was the rule. It was one evening of fun for us, and all for the colossal sum of 49 of our lira, or thirty cents. That’s getting your moneys’ worth! Good night Ted May 23 Florence-Venice Dick Dear All The rain is becoming tiresome. Nineteen days out of 38 so far, and in 13 out of 15 cities visited-some record for the Riviera, and sunny southern Italy and in the springtime. But you have been having rain too. I am trying to write as we ride from Florence to Venice. We have just passed through Ferrara, Colonel Cottica’s home town. The sun is trying to come out. Hope it does for our few days in Venice. I give up-the train bounces too much for me to write a reasonable hand. 5 PM I am continuing in our Smith pensione room in Venice just off the famous San Marco Square. We are right behind the well known clock which is now striking. The narrow streets are filled with gossiping people, their voices sounding like the murmurs of a mountain stream. We must get down to business. We were two anxious boys when we asked at America Express for letters forwarded from Geneva. Just think, this is our first mail since April 12th, more than a month back. It was with excited nervous fingers we read and reread each of the pile. Letters also from Wins, Sally Ammen, Ralph Kingsbury, Uncle Tom, Major Overton, and Fong Sec were happily received. Thank you for the clippings and photos. Bruce, thank you for your swell letter. Guess you have broken all the records in ‘C’ track by now, and won the Patrol contest in family style. The check was received safely and with many thanks. We will turn it into a Letter of Credit in Geneva, traveler’s cheques being too much of a bother. They are just about the same as carrying $10 bills. We were very interested in Kiplinger’s commentaries on Italy’s financial standing. How they have carried on a remarkable building program and still financed a war is beyond us. Please wish Wins a belated Happy Birthday for us. Major Overton’s letter is tremendously interesting and helpful. I would like to have been there to sponsor Wins. I know that our letters from Europe will not be as interesting as those from the orient, and for several reasons. Time is so short and we cannot go into details about things more commonplace and we’re not using Rotary contacts often. The glamour and mystery also is less, perhaps and even boring at times, as we simply write the chronicle of our activities. That is too bad about the missing Philippine letter or letters. If they haven’t arrived by now they are surely lost. Here are some bare facts. I think you know about our stay in Manila, the Rotary meeting, the kindness of Judge Lockwood, and our dinner with Judge and Mrs. Ingersoll and Mr. Miller. Judge Lockwood told us that Mrs. Ammen had written to him to be sure we stay at Baguio Country Club as her guests. There we enjoyed luxurious comfort and wonderful food while taking in the beauty, with marvelous weather. We were able to observe the native Igorotes, so much more civilized than reported. A Mrs. Quigley whom we happened to meet at an a army reservation took us around by car. The cool monition air is the cardinal virtue of Baguio, and makes it the prime upscale resort for Manila. We stayed there one night, played 9 holes of golf the next morning, coming in 3 over par, much to the surprise of Mr. Fisher the likable manager. The train and bus trip to and from Baguio was a real experience, giving us our closest view into the people’s lives and habits. We greatly appreciate Mrs. Ammen’s thoughtfulness, adding so much to our stay. The boat trip down the rapids of Pagsenhan was thrilling, all made possible by Judge Lockwood who gave us his car for the day. He is special, and dinner in his home the night before we left was a treat. These are just a few brief thoughts for those were eventful days still fresh in our minds. May 22 Great plans were made for this last day in Florence, but it poured puppy dogs off and on all day so that we spent most of the time running for protection beneath eaves over walks. A bike trip to Fissile and the countryside was the program before the skies opened up again, so we stayed in town, did a little business, and enjoyed the sights. It is a great stunt here to have a street artist paint one’s face into a religious triptych and thus play “Saint”. Since we aren’t and are really cheap, we remain just ordinary guys. Whether the Medicis lived up to their reputations as wise men is hard to say. Perhaps things don’t change from the days of Savanarola. In fact we are now afraid to express any views on a political situation, for whlle in a country we receive only one side of a problem, and very well presented, and then in the next country the opinions are reversed. Major Overton made a statement that could not be more true, to the effect that we will never be able to hate a people, for as we travel we learn to love each country and feel that each must have good reasons for it actions. The Iaccardi Medici Palace has a colorful history, remnants we see in their coats of arms, beautiful frescoes, giant mirrors. and spacious rooms and courtyards filled with Roman antiquities. Today it is the Prefecture, as are many of the great palaces of the past. The tombs of the Medicis are among those certain few things no visitor to Florence misses, for here, lying in grandeur is the family that did so much to forward and preserve the art that we see today. Michelangelo lived in the house of the Medici for years, paying nothing as he worked at creating. Any other fine artist was given the same benefits, so that he might work unhindered. The Medicis made Florence what it is today, the art center of the world. Was this farsightedness or just luck? Capella de Medici or Chapel of the Princes was originally planned to enshrine the Holy Sepluchre to be acquired somehow, but the scheme failed. Instead it became the burial sites for the Dukes. In its original form the walls and floor were entirely covered with precious marbles and frescoes. Some of the workmen today are busy repairing the floors. We watched them with such care fit in each piece of inlay. The New Sacristy, built by Michelangelo for the older members of the family, lies down the corridor a few steps away, constructed in a simple Renascence style. Four of his greatest works Night, Day, Dawn, and Twilight, remain unfinished as is the case with many of his pieces . AHEAD TO VENICE The clock has just struck 9 o’clock as we hear the voices of men singing, and their marching feet in the square here in Venice. They harmonize beautifully and sounds are clear and strong. A band just went by. We will have to hurry to see what gives. 6:30 PM. Back again TO FLORENCE and at it again after a full day in Venice. Michelangelo’s David preserved in the Bella Arte or Academy of Fine Arts was our excuse for the visit to that remarkable place. Plaster casts of other Michelangelo sculptures, most unfinished, were equally arresting but not as intriguing as the originals in Rome. The works of Fra Angelico drew us to San Marco Museum, once the monastery in which the great Dominican Savanarola, Fra Angelica, and Fra Bartolomeo studied and lived. The ceilings were especially interesting, decorated with paintings by Fra Angelico, but the library took the prize for us. There we were able to inspect marvelous manuscripts printed so carefully by hand and illustrated with delicate plates in color. Each is bound with heavy leather and clasps. A run between protective overhangs landed us back at the Morandi for another delicious lunch helped with a wine-free concoction still unnamed. A most unexciting afternoon followed due to the disagreeable threatening clouds. Business with CIT, American Express, the leather shop where we watched the goodies in the making, gave us a few ideas for our leather work at home, and writing letters took a great deal of time. There was one noted church we had not seen, so about five thirty, when things looked brighter, we rode our bikes at top speed up winding Via Michelangelo to the Piazza of the same name, noted for its view of the city and surrounding valley, with the River Arno now dirty with topsoil from the rains flowing below. A few minutes of looking were enough, for something awfully black was above and we felt those first telltale drops. Above the Piazza, some hundred yards back, stands the Church of San Mineta, with facade of colored marbles, its inlaid marble floors, ceiling of wood supported by timber rafters, and some beautiful works of della Robbia-always a fascination to us. Of all the churches in Florence, San Mineto endeared itself most to us, for its simplicity was in keeping with the sincerity it exudes, Rain again sheeted down as we admired the glossy white and blue della Robias, their wreaths of fruit bringing to mind his works in our home, particularly at Christmas, Mom Luck stayed with us on the ride back, so that we were dry for dinner. An after dinner discussion with Mr. Press, a Latvian student studying medicine in Florence, brought out some revealing facts about the Italian universities. The attitudes of the students are really in the childish stages that our institutions have long ago passed through with respect to hazing. The hazing is so bad here that only a few freshmen are able to make attend the classes late in the year. It even goes so far as to make the freshmen pay exorbitant taxes, which the upper classmen pocket. Of course it is just plain robbery and this sort of thing will go on indefinitely, for the new students are too scared to stand up for their rights, especially as they plot what they will do to the next freshman class. Lovely playmates! One big happy family? It isn’t what it seems. love dick. May 26 Iselle This is the third time that I have started this letter, and in three different places: Venice, Milan, and now Iselle, a tiny border hamlet nestled in an Alpine stream valley on the Italian frontier. The sun has passed below jagged snow capped peaks to the west, as we sit on our alberghe porch above a churning roaring stream which though the centuries has cut its way down, leaving precipitous cliffs verdant with ferns and other rugged plants. Tiny waterfalls spring through invisible cracks, ever refreshed by the melting snow. Weather-worn tumbledown rail fences and rock walls surround the quaint village houses across from us, roofed with roughly hewn slate and repaired in splotches with the same material. All is green about, with the reds, whites, blues, and yellows of Johnny Jump-ups, Snapdragons, Buttercups and Forget-me-nots. It’s just like home Away up and built on the edge of nothing are a few simple dwellings, reached by steep narrow paths along the cliff’s edge and through clusters of flowering white lilac trees and a few shivering alders. How we wish you could be here to take this all in. The roaring of the stream would put an end to all worries as you just sit, breath the fresh alpine air and enjoy the unsurpassed beauty and restfulness all about us. But must get down to business. Our days in Venice, the city with a hairnet of water. May 24. VENICE We must have overslept for we were awakened by the rollicking songs of young voices and tramping of feet in unison, all coming from our open sunlit window. From the excitement going on outside, we gathered that today would be a big day in Venice. Pensione Smith, our abode, is situated right behind the famous clock of San Marco overlooking the even better known Plazza San Marco, fronted with the ornate Cathedral, and to its left the Duccal Palace. A very little writing was done before swallowing an appetizing breakfast and hurrying into the square below. And what a sight met our eyes! Marching soldiers and uniformed youths coming from every direction as they converged in the center to quickly fill up the Plazza. Bands were playing stirring music and adding to the excitement, obvious to bystanders as they strained to see the show. In order to get an unobstructed view, we paid two lira and climbed up to the notorious balcony of the Church from which Doges watched glorious spectacles, now only observed by the four immense bronze horses, green with weathering. Our view was excellent and we had time to glean information about the event while waiting for something to happen. This day, the 24th day in May, is the anniversary of Italy’s entrance into the war against Austria. We in America have holidays to at the end such a conflict! It is a Fascisti holiday when members of various groups graduate to a higher level. Here is a rough sketch of the party organization, beginning with the Young Fascisti, everything going up from there on. From the age of 4 to 7, the boy is a member of the “Figli della Lupa” or “Sons of the Lupa”. At seven he becomes a “Balilla” and wears Alpine green; at 14 an “Avabguardisti” with a black uniform and red and yellow neckerchief; at 18 a “:Giovanni Fascisti” or Young Fascisti wearing a simple black shirt. At 21, he is a member of the “Partite”(Party) and wears natty black from head to toe. Each of these groups are trained in military fashion, starting young with sticks for guns. Later on they wear knives on their belts, but the knives are made of rubber, not steel ! Even the girls in white and black regulation dresses comprise an important part of the system. Enthusiasm oozes from every level as Young italy trains under Il Duce’s hand. Gorgeously uniformed officers with acres of gold braid conducted the proceedings from a central platform, their proclamations answered with sharp cheers and Fascisti salutes in unison. Pigeons roosted in eaves, their stomping ground not available at the moment. tt was during the ceremonies that we ran into Ben Noble, an interesting fellow who had just returned from India as a correspondent for the New York Post. His flat hat, high water boots and zippy monologue gave us the idea of how a reporter should look-the Lee Tracy type. He had never heard of California and we countered that we were glad to learn that there is a Connecticut. So we were even and got along fine, trading travel stories. He got the better of us when it came to excitement, when he told us of experiences along with his observations on Gandhi and British problems in India. At the end of the ceremonies, rolling drums and bands started to march again as the square emptied. After many minutes, all that was left were three great flags drooping lazily in the mild breezes-two Italian and one bearing the Lion of St. Mark. The sky was clear and the sun bright, but clouds threatened to the east, warning of rain and the need to get our photos promptly. For two hours we wandered the maze of streets and byways, trying to get a taste of the city as it was and still is. Houses are densely packed together, running right into the water, shutting out healthful sunlight during the greater part of the day. Graceful black gondolas ply the narrow waterways, propelled by the single long oar in the gondoliers’ supple hands, and so effortlessly. Fancy moldings and shinny metal fixtures are the marks of the finest gondolas. Blunt-nosed commercial barges add to the picturesqueness of the waterways, often lying in the shadows where one cannot see the ever present floating debris. Our maps are almost of no use to us for they cannot possibly show all the tiny passages and byways. Time and again our street ended at the water, for bridges come at irregular intervals and seem haphazardly placed. We literally followed our noses, and they are fine guides especially as they pick up the disagreeable odors. Hoping to receive a real touch of the “old”, odors and all, we worked our way to the Ghetto where Shylock must have lived, leaving it only to ply his trade on the Rialto Bridge with its lining of shops. However, the Ghetto presented almost the same appearance as the rest of Venice, save for a few venerable shawl-covered heads looking from curtained windows, as they watch with expressionless eyes the passing parade. Circular sculptured massive bronze wells in courtyard centers were a surprise. A few beggars and many children completed the Ghetto scene, especially for our camera. Returning to our Pensione for lunch, we were quickly again engulfed in the tide of humanity decked out in summer clothing, promenading along Venice’s prime shop street, the Merceria. Here on Sunday inhabitants sip wine in the Square, rather than troop around 18 holes as do we, chasing an overgrown marble. San Marco Plazza is packed all day with smartly dressed attractive women and escorts, not going any place, but just enjoying the sunshine, pigeons, and themselves. Venice has three churches which should not be missed. They are San Marco, Church of the Frasi, and S.S. Giovanni e Paulo(John and Paul). In order to do the city justice we spent an hour or so after lunch tramping to their locations in three different parts of the city. Our feet received a good workout today. The Frari and John and Paul were constructed similarly, both impressively high with severe apses in classic Gothic. As we travel further north we find the Gothic influence in architecture growing stronger, and likewise find ourselves appreciating its royal dignity more and more. Tombs of the Doges fill S.S. Giovanni e Paule, placed haphazardly along the walls. As we admired the noble angular apse, children’s voices rang through the church as they shouted responses in front of a side chapel And another large Titian added its elegance. However, a Madonna and Child by Bellini, considered to be the finest of his works, held us enraptured, facial features were so real. We believe we are slowly learning to appreciate fine art here in Italy this last month, surely adding something to future enjoyment whenever exposed to art treasures. (Time out to cross the Simplon Pass into Switzerland. We are in the tiny town of Visp just a few kilometers from Brig where we tale the path up to Zermatt and the Matterhorn It is difficult to go back to Venice after the wonders of this day’s ride, coupled with receiving first impressions of Switzerland. Plaza San Marco is the central point of Venetian life. just as it has been for centuries. Everyone either starts at or ends up in it as one walks about the city where one must walk to see. The Campanile, situated in the eastern corner of the square at the edge of the Grand Canal, is important for its views. Just as we started to enter (1 lira each) a red headed boy stepped up and asked if we were the Lyons. He then introduced himself as Pat Crowe from New York, saying that he had been directed by Miss Gallagher in Florence to keep an eye out for a red and a blue sweater, draped on a couple of flag poles. We quickly took him in tow to the top of the Campanile, climbing the circular ramp, while the well-to -do rode up in the lift, probably an Otis. Pat proved to be one of the most unusual "cases".” we have met. He travels alone, not seeing anything-he spent one night in Florence-and having only a vague future in mind. Ireland seems to be his eventual destination, but in the meantime he is wasting money, spending it right and left and for the wrong reasons. He has never heard of a Letter of Credit nor “tourist liras”: knows not a word of italian: buys “through” RR tickets on night trains: and doesn’t know what he has seen. I am writing this down because such is the case with many tourists. The panorama from the Camponile gave us a fairly good idea as to how the city is laid out. Save the Grand Canal, not another waterway can be seen as closely packed buildings overhang the small canals. Not until we ran down the ramp to the Plazza did we realize the height we had just climbed to. The afternoon was still young, so how about a trip to the Lido? We had just missed the boat in true Lyon style, but managed to catch the next water-taxi-bus, or Vaporetto, with time to spare. The Lido lies on a long narrow island resembling an off shore bar, some few miles from Venice proper and the grand Canal. Just a few words about this renowned bathing and pleasure resort. The broad sandy beach, several kilometers long, is now taken up by an unbroken line of beach clubs, for the most part private. Tiny bathhouses stand neatly in rows- thousands of them- and well back from the water’s edge. These one-person dressing rooms must be the Cabanas of Italy. The day was sunny but cool breezes kept all, save a few hardies, from donning bathing suits. The Ice cream vendors pushing merry little boat-shaped carts do a rushing business midst the holiday crowd, The Lido looked to us like an ideal summer resort, nearby but away from the bustle of business life. It was truly peaceful. Returning on the launch we had plenty of time to speculate on such matters as gondolas and gondoliers These gondolas are racy-looking crafts, with slick hulls and glistening black decks. The gondoliers, often one forward and always one standing high on the stern, propel their boats at great speed. Their movements are graceful and easy, handling their oars to attain the most power with the least effort, as they guide more than propel. Their manner of rowing is so finished and easy that I suggest we try it in America. Am having a dozen gondolas shipped C.O.D. While in Florence, Miss Gallagher had made a date with us to meet ‘neath the Great Clock at 8: 30 in the evening, and sure enough there she was. Of course we ran again into Mr. Paletti-we do not know which of us is shadowing the other. Of course he joined our “neath the clock group”, as the membership increased to five when Pat Crowe appeared. What an unusual bunch! Sort of a gathering of the nuts from four states in the Union. As accepted, Miss Gallagher ran the show, but Paletti managed to to get in a few words of Chicago lingo between breaths. Pat’s philosophies of life went unheard in the over bearing competition. For almost two hours we cluttered up the Plazza, joking and slinging. before finally being reminded of the late hour as Big Ben above sounded off. Sleepy goodbyes and best wishes for pleasant trips closed the club’s fast and final session. It is a fact but the chances of our never seeing these three friends again are great, and yet what effects each of us might have had on each other is unfortellable. During our trip we have said aloha to many such friends, also never to see again, and yet these memories will always be cherished and in place long after museums and palaces are forgotten. Just a few side comments on our affairs in Europe,. Will you please speak to our Congressman and tell him to put the USA back on the gold standard.? Living is too blamed expensive over here. In fact the dollar is so cheap that they’re melting them to make manhole covers, I am told. Things are costing about one half again more than we counted on with the 59 cent dollar. 2. The Shellams will possibly go through San Franciso in August. They will be in a rush so may not be able to see you. When we all go to China he will take us for a locomotIve ride from Tientsin to Peking. 3. Plans now are,roughly Zermatt tomorrow, Montreaux the next day, then Geneva. But nothing can be definite. We will spend twelve to fourteen days in Switzerland. It is truly God’s country, oh so beautiful. 4. For letters-Munich June 16 and then Berlin If we don’t get the letters hopefully we can have them forwarded. American Express is something special. We will try to see Bill Lang and John Lyman in Heidelberg. More writing yet to do on this our first day in Switzerland, as we play catch up again. PS These letters are hurried and mistakes require corrections. Thanks for so doing. May 26 Milano Ted Oddly enough I am writing in one the new electric trains in 3rd class while waiting for our time of departure to Dormodossola. This morning we left the Verona station at 7 o’clock and tremendously enjoyed the 2 /2 hour ride to Milan. People in the fields were cutting hay and orchards of cherry trees filled the landscape. To the north in the far distance tower the snow capped Alps and where mountains met the plain their are small villages with their single church steeples. When we reached Milan we left the train in the colossal new station and took a tram to the center of town. Milan is said to be larger than Rome. It was lucky that we took the tram for we had just enough time to finish up business. Next came the Cathedral, the third largest in Europe after St. Peters and Seville. The exterior is covered with the usual pinnacles, statues, and gargoyles, providing an odd yet pleasing effect. We entered from the front and found ourselves looking down the main nave of five such. The ceiling is supported by fifty-two columns that measure forty-five feet in circumference. Our curiosity got the best of us as we remembered Dad’s story about the chimes, so we found where the man went down to ring them with electricity. It is true that it is done this way, but our stay was too short to allow us to hear the ringing. Yesterday morning we arose in Venice early with a big day ahead. First we hired a gondola not only for the fun and experience, but to take us to the building housing Salviatti glass and mosaic works. Our boatman standing behind us in his dungaree attire, propelled us steadily to our destination on the Grand Canal The gondola is jet black except for our seats lying low in the craft. What a great trip! We landed, paid the small fee, and were ushered into a shop that contains the most varied glassware we have ever seen. Our main reason for this jaunt was the fact that this is where the Stanford Chapel mosaics were created. We discussed this with the proprietor and then went in the back room, to watch the blowers at work. We seated ourselves opposite to fiery burners which contain the opaque molten glass, with transparent molten glass blown at the other end of the room. It reminded us of the same display at the San Diego Exposition, but this was for real by workers brought into the trade from childhood. Speedily and with precision and repetition, they molded the glass as it cooled. At first we thought the object would be a light globe, but to our surprise it evolved into a green swan, and it is done with such ease. We thanked them as the swan set went to the cool room to harden. And then when a we asked to see the manufacture of mosaics as was done for Stanford, we learned that that workman was in Milan for a show. Then It was time to move on and get ready to leave for Verona. After thanking our host we walked through the irregular byways and over countless bridges, including the splendid high and arched Acadamia to Piazza San Marco. The finest Gothic edifice in Venice is the Doge’s Palace- so off to see it. We had to go up three flights of stairs from the main courtyard to the galleries of venetian art. Know to everyone as the rooms of the Council of Three, and The Council of Ten, the large hall contains the immense painting said to the largest is the world by Tintoretto, ”Paradise”. Around the room were the portraits of 76 Doges, and the black painted drape on one and said to be a warning to traitors. There of course were the usual stories about each room culminating in the fabled Bridge of Sighs. Cells like those of Chateau d’If and Castle St. Angelo in Rome were dark and forbidding. As we crossed one threshold Dick put one hand on my shoulder, the other clasping my wrists behind me and we walked with direful steps into the gloom of the dungeons. It might have been effective but somehow we just couldn’t get into the necessary mood. So after a short scuffle, we emerged again into the welcome sunlight. When we finally left we could picture more clearly what really happened in the Duccal Palace when Venice was at the top of the seafaring world. After lunch of spaghetti and wine, we took a last look at the square, the pigeons, the Cathedral and the Palace, and boarded the Vaporetto-the canal bus-for the station. We were sorry to see the Lido disappear, then the Rialto come and go as we passed under it, but we hope to return someday. Our train took us away from the islands on a long low trestle with water on all sides. Soon were moving across the Lombardy plain with its rich green perspective all about mirroring the fertility of the soil. Fields of grain squared off with single rows of vine-draped fruit trees and every few miles we would slip through a small town of whitewashed houses with the inevitable church spire. Within two hours Verona announced itself and we were soon hiking to town, first to find a room and then to see what we could see. The first hotel we found proved adequate, so knapsacks were left and we started out. Verona was already an ancient city when it came under the control of Rome and she still proudly guards a few reminders of this past. The most impressive remains are those of the amphitheater where Operas are now presented in July and August. Another Roman Amphitheater. an arch, several gates, and a medieval bridge are scattered among the new construction that is modern Italy. The Senliger family seems to have been the great patrons of Verona, for there is a monument to the family in the form of a plaza, with Dante’s statue in its center. It was this family that welcomed the poet when he fled from Florence. Veronese are noted for their genius in construction and an example is the well preserved Castel Vecchio, once the main castle. We photoed the striking long graceful low bridge spanning the River Adige. Not to compare with Genoa, but demanding respect, are the old palaces with their still frescoed and ornamental facades. The Church of San Zeno, a romanesque basilica with magnificent bronze doors and cloisters, was are only religious pilgrimage here. After a climb up a hill behind the city for a view of the outlying country, we returned to the center of the own and the Plaza Erbe. We rounded a corner to find a rather unusual scene. The plaza of irregular shape is surrounded by many large and fanciful buildings, with extensive frescoing and ornamentation standing out in the bright sunlight. Above were squads of sparrows, darting and spinning over the roof tops, and below, was the market consisting of flimsy booths protected with umbrellas. Like an American drugstore, everything could be found. Soldiers in groups a were loitering to talk or enjoying water-ice. Water-ice is interesting. One clever maid scraped ice from a big cake, while her robust partner inverted it into a tall thin glass and proceeded unerringly to pour in a variety of colored juices. It reminded us of a dye or just ink and the boys loved it. Postcards, lace, vegetables, shoes, fruit and fountain pens could be had for a song. Cafes spread out into the plaza and as shadows lengthened looked inviting. Dick and his little brother Ted sat down in a nice looking one and enjoyed a real Veronese dinner. I wish you could have been with us later in our small verandah among potted plants and my feet on the railing, crooning to a new moon, and competing with the noise from below. Well, again, it was just as well you didn’t have to hear it. Ted 16...June 17 Munich We found the Rotary secretary in one of the large hotels. She greeted us warmly and said she had been expecting us since May 20. Yesterday was a most interesting day. Arising in Munchen from our camp beds at 6:30AM when the bell sounded, we climbed out of our clolh bags(schlaf sacs) and dressed in our Sunday best in preparation for presentation at the Rotary office. Slippage next to me was a boy from a city in northern Germany who had met a Stanford student a while back. He was delighted to discover someone from the same place. He speaks English well so from him we got the dope on how to make things work right. For breakfast we must buy a slip at the office and present it to the pantry downstairs, where they will fill out the order for milk, rolls, and jam. We aren’t allowed to leave our baggage in the sleeping room, so during the day it rests in a locker. After breakfast we wrote a bit and then rode into town to American Express to buy a Grisbon’s guide book for Munich and the royal castles of Bavaria. We found the Rotary secretary in one of the large hotels. She said she had been expecting us since May 20. Better late than never. We learned that the meeting was to be held at noon, so after a cordial invitation by the secretary we had our hair cut and shoes shined. At 1:30 we returned from a walk about the streets and entered a room filled with fine looking men talking in groups. Several came up and shook our hands and we were happy to find two other Americans also visiting. The President made us feel at home when he led the way to the head table and placed us on either side of him. This we felt was an unexpected honor. The meal was delicious and because the President had traveled a great deal we talked together on subjects familiar to, both. At 2:15 the meeting was called to order After introductions a gentleman gave a short talk on his recent trip. Then the President asked Dick to speak. Of course Dick was forewarned and was ready to do himself proud with a good 15 minute spiel about Rotary experiences and travel impressions. The speech was well received and soon we were saying goodbye to the president and to Mr. Voelker from Potsdam, New York, who is traveling cheaply by train around Germany and getting a great kick out of it. We were surely in luck, for one of the members, Mr.Sattler, an architect, offered to guide us for the afternoon. We didn’t have any idea of the treat ahead. First, Mr. Sattler is full of energy and many times we felt ourselves falling behind. However, I believe we used our time to the best advantage. He first took us into the old part of town, showing us buildings, towers surrounded by construction, and pointed out where the moat used to be. From a second story window he pointed into the busy street below. ‘Look at that valley”, meaning that at one time where we were standing was the wall, and outside was as yet uninhabited. Now we see the city market, an old beer garden with its hall built into the wall, a venison market where deer meat is sold and now is a very old landmark decorated with greens and deer heads. Wesaw the city market, an old beer garden, and a venison market where deer meat is sold, decorated with with greens and deer heads, these eventually placed in in a “keller “located in an almost deserted alley. These were things our nimble elder showed us. and what we admired most was his genuine appreciation of the really old things in the city and his knowledge of the architectural styles of each period . By climbing a staircase we were led into the old town meeting hall, or Rathaus, consisting of a magnificent banquet hall with a wooden barrel-like ceiling which is said to be one of the most notable interiors in old Germany. Light coming through gothic windows illuminated the many Guild flags around the room, while at one end hung a huge eagle. Small curved figures representing a Marasuka Dancer and done by Erasmus Grasser, enhanced the blithesome decorations on the wall. From what we gather, modern Gothic is much softer, more colorful and informal then the stiff designs of the old. As we entered the Peters Krohe we were reminded that the decorations inside would be made of wood instead of sculptured stone as in Italy, and because of fire and disaster, only a few works would survive. It seems that the churches of Munich were originally Gothic, but during the Renascence and other periods of change, the style has too changed. This church is an old parish church and decorations of with wood carvings give a pleasing baroque appearance. We didn’t realize when entering a small door in the corner of the church that we were in for a real climb to to the tower for its view. This is of the twelfth century and later remodeled after a fire in the fourteenth century. The tower commands a full panorama of the city and mountains to the south. Every day the keeper at the top flies a flag, white and when the view is good and red if it is poor. Very helpful to us tourists. In the tower we were shown the marvelously engraved old bell that still rings as it did in medieval days. Our next visit was to the Cathedral Frauen Kirche, a massive red brick edifice and again gothic. The interior is plain and simple and there were some impressive light effects from the stained glass windows. In the back is the tomb if the Emperor Ludwig, the eccentric and artistic Bavarian who was at odds with the Pope and joined this church as a result. Our next visit was to St.Michaels-Kirche, the most stupendous creation in ecclesiastical architecture which the German Renaissance produced. What interested us was that the Bavarian royal burial vault occupied the crypt, while above us a barrel-shaped ceiling of gigantic proportions added to the artist’s desired effective result. And did finish things nicely. Mr. Sattler took us into a quiet garden square of the Jesuit order where there was once a very beautiful cloister for the monks and priests to study in. It was a revelation for us to realize that such a lovely spot can be found today in the center of a modern frenetic city. Then we visited several famous beer houses, the new Socialist buildings, Hitler’s headquarters here,the Brown House, and the technical high school. There we entered and looked at the latest thing in lecture rooms, as well as students working and drafting. Dick was impressed with the facilities for light and said he thought we were behind in advancements of this kind. Mr. Sattler then led us to the art school where he is a professor and e teacher of the process of pottery making. A very pretty English speaking girl explained such things as glazing, heating, and molding on the rotating disc machines. This work room makes it own modeling substances from powder, water, and clay. Then the figure of a teapot or pitcher is modeled by the students who then cook the final article. Both painting and glazing are done here to be fol;lowed by the finishing oven and the article then goes to market. Following this we walked to a street car line. caught a ride, and were soon entering Mr. Sattler’s small and beautifully furnished home. We found his wife, daughter, and son to be equally refined, and we greatly enjoyed talking and having refreshments with them. This “refreshment” is very popular and very good. It is made from raspberries, sugar, and water, making a quite wonderful drink. As it was growing late, Dick and I thanked Mr. Sattler, said goodbye to to Miss Sattler and young Master Sattler, and finally the head of the house as a wonderful afternoon came to an end. Next was a fast walk into town for our bicycles and to ride to our hostel before 9:30 for that is the time we must be inside or out for the night. By 10:30 all is quiet and we are sound asleep. Love Ted. 021.....MUNICH JUNE 24 D I am sitting at one of the tables in our jugendherberge’s backyard, scratching so down a few words while three German fellows are having a great time looking through our dictionary for familiar phrases. One has a brother in Chicago, I have learned as our sparse German begins to become effective. All we really can do is laugh as we try and communicate. These fellows are regular guys anxious to be friends and always ready to help. We are picking up the language slowly and hope we may study it thoroughly at Stanford, then come here again. It is the one language so far that appeals to us and that we might do well with. Three more fellows have now sat down opposite me and are doing very nicely with the jam and milk. We’re a regular little club here with everyone trying to make me understand what he is saying, but not much hope yet . June 22 Boy, what a day! Somehow I always seem to get the nerve racking days to describe as Ted and I take turns, but if you can take it so can I. There is very little to say, though, although we went strong all day and were dog tired by nightfall. Mr. Rupe, son of a prominent Rotarian was to pick us up at 8 AM for a day’s ride to Mittenwald, Garmisch, and Oberammergau. At 8;30 he pulled up with Maria Sattler, and off we went. The morning was beautiful and we looked forward to a super day. However, Mr. Rupe drove like a raving maniac all the way, taking 10 cents of rubber off on every turn, and keeping us continuously scared. We simply held our breaths for eight hours, hearts in mouths. His car is only a year old and already a wreck. I cannot speak much about the country because we saw nothing and I figure the least said about that part of the day the better. The fact is that we are going back again on bikes and will tell about that later. Everything was not quite as bad as it would seem, for we enjoyed a wonderful lunch at Elmau and tea in Garmisch with Major Overton’s friend Fraulein Knauerhase. Elmau is really a heaven on earth, lying at the base of the Alps and away from everything. There is a road in but no cars are allowed. The hotel, or Schloss Elmau was built by Professor Sattler, and is beautiful in its simplicity. Everyone eats in the great dining hall and at long tables, taking a different seat each meal while being served by attractive girls who spend their summers here earning their keeps. All are from leading families. Everyone knows everyone else and during the eight days or more spent there, a congenial spirit builds. Eight days is the minimum stay and six marks is the pension (room and board) rate. This is remarkably cheap for such rooms, meals , and priceless atmosphere at about $1.50 a day. Marvelous hikes and bike rides radiate from Elmau, which also possesses, a beautiful lake for swimming, surrounded by rolling mounded green slopes doted with alpine log huts, rugged cliffs rising above. We will never forget our half hour beside the little lake, a tiny wonderland of beauty made more unreal by shrill “coo coos” from far off in the forest and sharp clear yodels from high on the mountains. This was one of those rare treats worth alone the day’s ride. The sky threatened as it hid the sun while we soaked up the woodland beauty, and our friends soaked in the lake. Maria’s uncle and family, our Elmau hosts and owners of the resort insisted that we stay for tea, which turned out to be a dinner, as far as we were concerned. Then tea, more tea, and cakes. We finally managed to break away, thanking them for a super time in the grandest and homiest nook we have yet found. What a wonderful base it would be for travels in Switzerland and Austria, and of course Germany. You would love it, Mom and Dad. The building itself is bare of paint inside its walls and floors kept spotlessly clean with scrubbing. Every window has its own beautiful view for it is truly a fairyland. By the time we left the rain was coming down in buckets, obscuring the countryside. A quick glimpse of the Olympic jumps sufficed in Garmisch, after which we drove to Burgestrasse 55, letter in hand from Major Overton, and what a reception we met. The Fraulein was overjoyed to meet us, friends of the Overtons, of whom she thinks so much. She bowled us over with hospitality, insisting that we have a cup of tea. We could not refuse, especially when she brought in some home made cakes which melted in our mouths. She had just received a letter from Mr. Clock and was full of questions about the Overtons. They surely have wonderful friends, and we feel honored to carry letters of introduction from them. General Cottica and the Fraulein are special people–so very real. It was with great regret that we said goodbye carrying with us her best to the Overtons. If we would return she would ‘bake a cake “especially for you”, she said, and it is with her hospitality in mind that we will return to Gamisch. We cannot leave Bavaria without returning to Mittenwald, Garmisch, and Oberammergau and spending a day in the Fraulein's lovely chalet pension. Tomorrow, if the day dawns hopefully we will ride again through the Bavarian highlands on bikes this time, where the value received is 500% higher than any car journey can provide As it was getting late and we had quietly made up our minds to return, going to Oberammergau made little difference. The Passion Play Theater was closed for the night, cinching our decision to come back. However we did not get through town unhindered. Cattle were strung out along the entire main street and going where they pleased, taking their times while the boy herder paid them no attention. And what ornery critters they were! But the funniest thing of all came when one of the biggest animals parked herself in the doorway of the town’s smallest cafe, and gave vent to her feelings with “moos” which fairly blew out the windows. Everyone was busy snapping pictures and having just as an uproarious time as the cow. We left her unsatisfied and she may still be there. The ride back was in the expected manner, Ted and I surpressing exclamations of deep feeling, especially on bumps. Yes, we remained gentlemen. When the right rear tire finally gave up we had to inform our driver before he realized it. Storm clouds were catching up with us, so we worked fast, only to find that the jack handle was missing. After our chauffeur had made a general mess of everything, Lyon Repair Service took charge, using a wrench for a handle and completing the job. Our leather shorts also turned their first shade darker as we groveled in the gravel. It will take about sixty more “flats” before our pants will be seasoned and the real thing, and as Bavarians we can stand them in the corner for the night. What a glorious feeling to be finally in bed after “just one of those days”, firmly determined to ride on our own ponies through the Bavarian highlands again,. We would rather ride a mile and push a mile than see the country through a needle’s eye. We’ve ridden with three German drivers so far, and two of them don’t believe in slowing up to let the turns go by. So here’s to Europe on bikes. “Good night” in five different languages featured the evening, before all drooped off to sleep. French, German, Belgian, Czechoslovakian, and English. What a day! Munich is a grand city, and we will be sorry to leave it. Our experiences so far in Germany have left only fine impressions. Everyone is cheerful and works hard. When anything needs fixing, we know that the job will be well done. Everyone is interested in us and anxious to be friendly, we being handicapped by our ignorance of German. However, we are making headway as we pick up six or seven words each day so that now when we wish to buy something we get along fine. Our ambition now is to study German and return again, staying in the Jugendgherbergs and seeing this country again in the finest way. Bavaria is just as picturesque as its name suggested to us, and we are loathe to leave it. We have found the youths to be highly musical but lacking in instruction on the instruments themselves, such as the piano. its not hard to imagine ourselves in America, for German and American youths are full of the same life and vigor, differing only in speech. Must sign off for now, for there are socks to darn and “thank you” letters to write. Dick 24 June 26 Garmisch Today Everett Brown will make the final step and also Uncle Tom and family will start for Hawaii. It’s lovely here on the the verandah of the Villa Reiter with heaven full of clouds, a panorama full of mountains, and an atmosphere full of quiet. This morning we slept till late 7:30 in our so comfortable beds, the first such in many day. Then, after a short playful-tiff on my bed-you know who started it-we enjoyed a delicious breakfast in the morning air. Here on the same verandah. At ten we pushed off in the direction of Oberammergau and the Schloss Linderhof. We climbed the short grade to the upper valley from Oberu, using the system of fifty steps and fifty pumps, and found the system works easily. We were expecting to come upon a massive turreted structure on some lofty promontory, but instead found a small square building in Rococo style amidst lovely gardens, armored walks, statues, and fountains. At noon the fountains began to play and their effect quite wonderful, especially about the main one in the center front pond. From a golden statue group, a sting stream of water shot 70 or so feet into the air, to falter at the top and then return down, shimmering on the gold leaf surfaces. Unfortunately the sun had forsaken us and threatening clouds were coming in from the north. We were anxious to see the interior. At 12:15 the guide appeared with a group of twenty and we started around, reading explanations from the guidebook. From the center hallway, containing really antique cloisonné vases, we climbed a magnificent staircase of Austrian marble to the first of ten rooms. Each room was beautiful, filled to overflowing with gold leaf and bright colors which might at first seem gaudy and disagreeable, but to us somehow the arrangements and selections made everything just about as lovely as a fairy castle should be. There are costly Gobelin tapestries, exquisite terra cottas, superb immense mirrors all placed effectively and bordered by an abundance of gold leaf wood carving, porcelain pieces from Nymphenburg and elsewhere and regal systole chandeliers that related well to the mirrors as images were replicated as far as the eye can see, as in a barbershop. Our guide became a bit disgusted with us when we lagged behind to admire each article, but each demanded such admiration for what it really is. Louise IV seemed to capture the show, but there were some others that figured prominently. We were especially taken with the bed-chamber, the largest and most sensational of all the rooms. The canopied bed was in blue, while the remainder of the room was a rich gold. A ceiling painting, a huge chandelier, and some white statues of Greek figures all beautified the room. We were sorry to leave, but after a short walk bout the stately gardens we found the rain prodding us onward. Back down the valley we rode to Oberammergau. First we had lunch of milk and buns with some friendly English hikers, and then we started to look at the town. There had been a confirmation service in the church that morning and many were dressed in their Sunday best. The women wore long black and brown dresses with embroidered silk shawls around their shoulders. About the neck was black or white lace of exquisite quality, and with braided hair and hats that resemble those of the Roman student priests with flat domes and turned up brims, the braided tassel behind, they too on the look back many years in the evolution of the dress. The little girls wore white dresses and bows in their double braided hair, looking very much like dolls. The men all wore dark suits, rather tight coats and high water pants. You could tell they weren’t used to this gay outfitting for one gentleman was in the process of taking off his strangling cravat. The boys also dressed in dark blue with white shirts, white tuxedo collars and neat white bow ties. Everyone was at his best, very proud and well mannered. We were anxious to see the shops and the Passion Play Theater, so we moved along into the curio shop of Anton Lang who takes the part of The Christ in the famous drama. We saw him with his kind bearded face behind the counter, waiting on some English people who were paying close attention to him. Across the road was a wood carver’s shop and inside was another bearded gentleman working on a rough image of the Crucifix. These are the town specialty. We wondered what part he takes in the play every ten years. And there were others around who appeared to be participants. On many of the house and near their doorways are the names of people who take certain parts. By this time we were ready to see the theater, a good sized building set off to the side of the town’s center. The theater was not inspiring or imposing, but behind the stage the guide showed us the various dressing rooms. It sounded funny to hear him in broken English, “And there is the dressing room of King Herrod”. The costumes were interesting and we saw the cross the man who takes the part of Jesus hangs on to for 22 minutes in the play. When we emerged after our short inspection of the theater, rain had begun again and since it looked like one of those long lingering showers, we started back to the Villa. It was a memorable wetting cool ride, but we found warmth and a change of clothes waiting at the finish. After some tea and a piece of Fraulein’s lovely cake, we well with the world again. Learning German is a kick. There are about six ladies living here who take great delight in helping us. By the way, I forgot to mention that the inhabitants around here take the Passion Play lightly. Very few have seen it. The natives don’t seem to think anything of it. They say that there are more Americans attending than any other nationality. Also the guide said there were some 400,000 attending during 1934, the 300th anniversary and the play is performed every ten years. 26 Augsburg June 30 D We’re one more day along on our journey 130 kilometers north of Garmisch with 140 ahead to Nurnberg. Early tomorrow we will pass the 2000 mark, since arriving in Rome where we bought our cyclometer. The Jugendherberge is very quiet now as fellows sit about reading and writing. We can see the moon coming up with trees in silhouette for the first time in many days. We are fifteen words ahead in German today and can sit back meditating with satisfaction on the whys and wherefores of rain. Yesterday, June 30, was another full one and of unexpected virtues. Our plan was to leave Garmisch in the morning, riding to Augsburg, but when we awakened to find prospects for a fine day at a new high we started contemplating how nice it would be to stay in Garmisch and hike to some mountain inspiration points. Fraulein’s delicious breakfast was the deciding factor, breaking down our resistance. It was only then that we realized how difficult it would be to leave our Garmisch home. At the moment, a squad of singing brown shirts, Nazi unarmed troops with brown shirts, beach ties and riding pants with black leggings and brown military hats is marching by. These fellows sing well and with gusto. continued in Nurenberg. Today is July 2nd and we’re a long way behind in our writing. It is sure hard to believe that the 4th is almost here and your birthday, Mom, only a few days hence. We surely like to munch a little of the angel food cake on the 10th. Hope you liked our birthday thoughts for you, Continued --June 29. This will have to be shorter and I hope sweeter for time passes. Boy, my mouth waters when I think of that breakfast at the Villa Reiter before starting out for a day of activity. Kreuzenhaus is situated five thousand feet high on the Kreuz summit. it was our first goal, so we rode across Garmisch to the base of the mountains at the valley’s southern edge. The early morning and evening views of this range are grand from the Villa, with the towering Zugspitze far off in the distant background. In front stands the Alpspitze that is not as high but as it resembles the Matterhorn, it is more majestic. Both peaks are snow capped and wispy clouds play about them in sort of an alpine hide and seek. Below in the foreground stands Kreuzech Ridge. famous for the panoramic views it affords. We locked our bikes to a fence at the mountain's foot and started up, sweaters tied at the waists for the day was already warm. A short quick climb brought us to Riesser See, a small lake forming a striking setting for the jagged peaks above. A number of vacationers were enjoying the water’s coolness, but we could not be tempted so moved on. Real climbing started there, and continued for an hour and a half, we moving at a good clip. The trail weaved sharply back and forth up the mountain, sometimes through sunlit stretches but mostly in the refreshing coolness of the shade. Green grassy clearings were especially beautiful, abundant with wildflowers and with an occasional lonely hut. As we climbed higher fine views of the valley stretched in all directions accompanied by the music of cattle bells as the animals clung confidently to precipitous slopes while munching luscious looking grass. One tiny herder boy equipped only with a long pole was the master and kept the herd in order. Every time we hear a cowbell, our tongues cry for milk and we just can’t get enough. We passed many hikers going up and down, for the Bavarians are great outdoor people who love to walk. It was great to see the old folks taking it slow and easy and getting there just the same. Elderly ladies with packs on their backs, and young old men always cane in hand, chugging up the path and greeting us as they passed with a smiling “Guten Morgen”. These grandmothers and grandfathers have joints that are well lubricated. Ted’s real silk tennis shoe footwear stood the task so that we did arrive on the top hungry and thirsty just in time to put away delicious glasses of milch along with some dates, not the grandest of meals but almost nectar to us. The views from Kreuzech were grand, obstructed only by a haze hanging over the valley. The sun was by this time playing hide and seek with ominous clouds , so that we received our best looks only spasmodically. The three radiating valleys below stretched out to the point that one can see the Eib See, then Mittenwald, and in the center, Murnau, with the Starnberger See faintly visible in the distance. Garmisch Partenkirchen lay dead center below us. The Alspitze seemed only a few yards away, but we saved it ascent for some later day. After our sumptuous repast and a few minutes rest, we took one look through the telescope for 10 pfennings, discovering to our surprise climbers on the Alpspitze, not visible to the naked eye, who had started along the ridge trail leading toward the Alspitze glacial valley and finally back to Garmisch. Two Bavarian mountaineers, both real characters, put us on the right track and relieved our doubts about the trip down. It is great fun exercising our Deutsch on these fellows who can really take it. Our vocabulary is still very limited, so at ten word a day it will stay difficult for a while. Up and down we climbed for a kilometer to Rupfleiten Jock, a narrow saddle on which rested many climbers, all admiring the valley view which was becoming poorer as clouds rolled in. The trail went straight down from there, it seemed, toward the valley floor. That slide down was an experience not devoid of thrills. The trail was cut out of solid rock for the most part, and was just a few feet in width with nothing between you and a long drop almost straight down to some uncomfortable looking spots. Loose gravel and slippery limestone surfaces kept us continuously on the alert In many places cable handrails had been placed, especially around corners over “nothing” and a little safety on wide stretches. We passed many a climber stepping with great care, women for the most part whose shoes and feet were accustomed more to a dance floor than a mountain devil slide. Half way down we felt the first raindrops, so hurried on before a possible deluge, having no bathing suits. We crossed several mountain streams pouring through long limestone canyons, and although we looked and looked for a beautiful Alpine Rose, only one bedraggled specimen rewarded our effort. They are in danger of extinction, and we believe this from the numerous signs saying “Picking Alpine Roses forbidden”: The word of course is “Verboten”, an institution in these parts. Rain was coming down in deadly earnest, so a quick survey up the small valley at the Alpspitze's foot sufficed before we hurried on down the path. Just as it looked as if we were in for a real drenching, the path turned into a tunnel in the limestone. This looked like a haven of refuge, but hopes were dampened by the constant dripping from the tunnels side and top. It was evidently not built for six footers without raincoats, for we had to duck low trying to miss the internal streams. The tunnel continued on, interesting at first, but it gradually dropped into a stream gauged gorge, where we gained views every twenty yards or so. The old path had evidently been washed out for traces of it were visible along the canyon wall, and this new tunnel is an admirable feat. Going down and down, the gorge narrower and narrower, deeper and deeper, and the river roared louder and louder. Miniature falls shot from above while others dribbled from vents in the rocks, keeping the air continuously damp. It was a beautiful sight and really thrilling with a new and finer view at each turn. The water churned to a snowy whiteness at points where the gorge snaked to extreme narrowness. By the time we reached the canyon’s end rain had turned to a drizzle. It seemed is if fate had placed these tunnels of refuge from a storm especially for us. The show was not to be free, however, for 50 pfennings were painlessly extracted from each at the toll gate. We had received our full value and the strange thing was that no citizen or tourist agent had expounded on the glories of this wonder, known as the Hollentall Klamm. This beat the Rhine Fall by miles, perhaps because we had expected nothing. We fairly ran through green forests legs weary from the downhill jogging, to Hammerstach and the valley floor. It was still some distance to town so we struck out but had gone only a half mile when the skies opened up again. Shelter was found beneath me of the lonely log houses where we spent the time learning some more German from Hugo’s Grammer. As the storm passed we set out once more, pausing often to admire the landscape. I think the country is the most beautiful after a rain when the sun turns water soaked leaves and roofs into shimmering jewels and clouds break exposing the blue sky and rugged peaks. However, we’d just as soon trade these liquid jewels for a couple of good coats of summer tan. We arrived back at the Villa tired and of course famished and again Fraulein came to our rescue in her own inimitable style with this time with lemon pudding saved especially for us. The German word for delicious is “Kostlich” which we remember by thinking of custard and how we licked the dish. Dinner was super as usual and we had an interesting discussion with a new member of the household who speaks English. He is a teacher of English and French. He told us that the German youth are now passing through a stage of enthusiastic military and athletic participation in the zeal for the “new movement’ as they forsake the arts, literature and science almost completely. But this is just one stage in the development of the new Germany with the hope that more worthy objectives finally surface in the end. We find this enthusiasm a live and burning thing, as we live with the German youth. ‘Heil Hitler” constantly greets us we ride from passing bicyclists and hikers, while the older men in taverns or fields greet with “Guten Tag”. Old Germany seems not willing to accept what seems inevitable, but young Deutschland is crying its glory to the world. The Fuhrer has certainly placed himself in the hearts of the young. There is much to say on both sides, and we will save this until latter In fifteen minute we meet with Mr. Stemmed, secretary of Nuremberg Rotary, to go for supper in a true “beer keller”. There is really so much to say and so little time to say it. We received a swell letter from Wins. He surely deserves every satisfaction he is receiving, and more power on licking envelopes..D27 Nuremberg July 3 Continued..Next day Today is the great 4th but it is just another day for us for old man sin must have heard that we are planning to start for Heidelberg this afternoon. He, or she, is liquidating in his usual unappreciated manner forcing us to spend the time inside. However there is much writing to do so it’s just as well. On our next trip abroad are planning to start in Lapland in the dead of winter, working down slowly to avoid the summer rains. During yesterday morning, and a really long one it was, for we were on the road at 8:39-think of it--we pedaled over rolling country with lovely farms, old and new, and through quaint tiny villages. Peasants worked in the fields, doing all the labor by hand aided, perhaps, by a horse and in just one case by a tractor, the first we have seen in many a day. The women always with colored kerchiefs tied over their heads and usually in white, blue, red make real the mental picture we have formed in America as we have imagined how the other half of the world lives. Sunshine flooded everything, and great white clouds hung lazily above. Roadside crucifixes are becoming fewer and fewer as we ride north. In Southern Bavaria every farm had its carved crucifix. Donausworth, just 46 kilometers from Augsburg, is a quaint very old town on the River Donau, and as yet has not met the modern world as we pumped over its rough cobblestone main street. This is a matter unforgettable just as is the tiny grocery store we purchased two apples for 30 pfennings and munched them in the shade just outside of town. Already stomachs were asking for sustenance for we can’t live on beauty alone in every tiny hamlet of town. Quaint barnyard scenes greet our eyes, and many a time we had to pull over while ox drawn hay or fertilizer carts rolled by manned by sleepy characters who seem to have supreme confidence in their equally drowsy looking animals. Few automobiles were met, so we enjoyed the countryside peacefulness to its fullest. These Bavarian old timers are great, shuffling along slowly on the road, their strange pipes swinging like pendulums from their mouths. It was only 11:30 but out tongues were hanging out with desire for food as we approached Jktzing (Yo say it). But can you imagine our surprise to find not a store in the town, and hardly any sign of one. We had seen nothing quite like this before. It w is just a tiny hamlet of quaint peasant houses, with a light blanket of dust over everything. Evidently its inhabitants all were out in the fields, leaving chickens and ducks in full charge. It was just packed with picturesque nooks and crannies undiscovered, of course, by tourist hordes. To make the picture complete, a smiling goose boy came down the narrow dusty unpaved main street, driving his flock of cackling milk-feathered ducks before him. His plain little staff, handled deftly, kept the more rambunctious elements in order. It was a scene we have seen many times in art galleries, but never expected to meet in real life. I dearly hope my snapshot will come out. We simply could go no longer without food so sat down by the side of the road and finished the bread and jam remaining from breakfast, along with water furnished by the Jtzing Public Works Administration in its town water trough. This light repast, just an appetizer, held us for the remaining five kilometers to Monheim, another lazy old village, hot and dusty. But for milk we had to go to the village dairy high on the hill where we were served with the greatest of beverages on the dairy’s steps. Satisfied at last, we lay for many minutes in the roadside shade, allowing the delicacies to digest. The early afternoon passed quickly as we pedaled more rapidly over a fairly level country, broken occasionally by short pulls. One stretch, however, we’ll not forget, for it went up and down over dusty roads that loosened everything inside our insides, while we prayed for no punctures. It’s real work riding this type of cow path. Wessenburg is the superest old town we have yet seen, remaining today as it was in the time of Knights and Ladies. The ancient town hall still stands in parts, with its four cornered towers informing tourists as they approach that they are now in the heart of a land filled with musk of past grandeur and pageantry. Wessenburg took to us and we to it, from the moment we drank from its lovely fountain. Time was flying and Nurnberg was still more than 50 kilometers away, but we just had to spend some minutes wandering through narrow lanes and byways or across the few town squares, sopping up the loveliness around us. The houses were plastered, with beams and other woodwork exposed in delightful Symmetry. What really thrilled us were the tiny glass enclosed balconies with geranium and peony filled windows. These flowers fairly spring from every window and add so much beauty. And the grill work signs in silhouette add the final touch, seen against the sky, as they more or less frame our views. One barnyard is vivid in our minds and right in the center of town too. Through the open barnyard door we see framed perfectly the sprawling Bavarian barn, hay strewn cobblestones, and a rickety old grain wagon. Our camera didn’t let us down so you too will see it. We hated to leave but the minutes were flying and we had tasted just enough of the old here to wish to see Nurnberg as soon as possible. Ellwaggen, another grand old village passed by, and then came Roth where we stopped to pay proper homage with toasts of milk and confiture (snails ) carried out in proper style while answering the shopkeeper’s questions between gulps. Schwabdorf was next and took us down its cobblestone main street which gives these French bikes the real jitters. A few kilometers more brought us into Nurnberg, the city of our dreams and hopes. The usual trouble with street surfaces and our confusion in trying to understand a cop’s gesticulations were combined with our attempts to get directions to the Jugenherberge, the same queries we experience in each new city. Again, a friendly youth came to our aid, taking us to the hostel. There we showered in ice cold water, slicked up, and walked a few blocks down the Konigstrasse, the main street, to the Motkeller where we enjoyed a good dinner, which also served to leaden the eyelids. The Motkeller, or meat cellar, is one of Nurnberg’s most known restaurants, situated in the cellar of one of the old grain store houses used during early times to keep stocked for sieges and it is usually built into the fortifications well inside the moat. We were quite disappointed in the “keller” itself, finding only newly painted Gothic pillars and vaulted ceiling instead of the musky old hall we expected. The dinner was good and the waitress full of smiles, so we enjoyed the time, even if the three tiny pears we had for desert would get “the bird” in California. All the good beds were occupied in the Jugendherberge so again we forced to sleep on the low cots in the attic. Being too tired to care what we slept on, we hit the hay, interrupted only when rain cam through the skylight, dampening Ted slightly right in the midst of a sweet dream. Rain has stopped now so we will walk over to the house of Albrecht Durer, immortal pioneering Nurnberg artist and noted for his engravings (etchings) to see some of his works, but most important, just to see his house as he lived in it..D. 27 Nurnberg July 2 As the last day of June dawned the Lyon brothers were far behind schedule still in the lovely Garmisch country. But on this day we had to leave and were not anticipating it. The breakfast with the Fraulein who saw to it that we ate enough marmalade, pronounced “marmalada” that means just “jam”, was more appreciated than ever. Afterwards we were told that the Burgermeister of Garmisch had called previously with orders that anyone staying in town must pay a certain fee for each night’s lodging. However, the ever thoughtful Fraulein had presented our case as students with the result that we were to present ourselves at the Rathaus, so up to the city hall we rode, carrying our Jugendherberge cards as evidence. And sure enough the gentleman knew his business and in a short time we had settled the matter. Back at the Villa Reiter after our last ride on the cobblestone street, we put packs on bikes and prepared to say Goodbye, first to Herr and Frau Reiter who own the Villa and then to friends who wished us “Bon Voyage” and “Good Luck” many times. And then, after thanking Fraulein over and over with honest to goodness lumps in our throats, we received from her a lovely Spring rose and rode down the lane waving Goodbye to her at the gate. We knew that one of the happiest experiences of our lives had just ended, but with our writing and photographs the joy can be rekindled in the future The way to Oberammergau was made through another drizzle, and from then on the weather improved and we could see a bit of the country. What we liked about it, although plenty hilly, is the change from surroundings of picturesque villages to fields of grain filled with people, and to the quiet forests for which Bavaria is so well known. All of the way we dodged rain clouds to the small town of Schongau, about 50 kilometers on our way, where a wetting rain descended. We stopped, ate sugared buns, and drank several glasses of refreshing milch. When we lunch this way in a small “milchhaus” the lady or man keeper is usually quite curious about us so in pigeon German we explain that we are Americans on bicycles, having traveled so far, and plan to travel so far although the “vetter ist sehr slecht.” We like these people tremendously because they are so friendly and so honest, plain, and strong. In the afternoon as we followed the Tech River down, we had a good road for a change. At one place near a military center where there are fine new buildings for the men we hit another cloudburst and had to seek shelter in a small cabin in a field. About 5 o’clock we galloped wearily over the cobblestones of Augsburg. Neither the telephone book nor Banhof (railway station) had any idea where the hostel was and we were ready to look for a Fremdenzimmer when Dick happened to ask a bicycler and to our surprise he knew where the Jugendberge was and offered to show us the way. There we found a shower and a change of clothes after which we walked to the center of town. It is interesting to note that this town was at first a colony sent out by the Emperor Augusts in 12 B.C. and from the 14th to the 16th century is was a great commercial center as the ships of the merchant princes made sail on every sea. At this time in the late Middle Ages, Augsburg was a center of world trade, a major town of the Renascence and the Reformation. With this information we started out among its unusual buildings and streets. Into the Cathedral we peered through bronze grills at what is said to be the oldest painted glass in history while a Catholic Seville was going on inside. Outside we walked down the main street bordered by venerable patrician palaces and made interesting by curious fountains. What we like to look for most part are the ever changing medieval roof forms, the lettering over the portes and on the front of business houses, and the gas lamps at every corner. As we returned to our lodging at sunset along a picturesque canal we realized that all we had against such towns is the cobblestone byways for we are wondering just how long our bikes will continue to stand up under such beating. For dinner our hostel father directed us to a real “Gestatte’ or Inn of about 4th class where men sat at tables “mugging” beer and the keeper kept the mugs filled. The ox fleisch we ate wasn’t quite as good or as satisfying as the surroundings. In the dim light we could discern deer antlers, old pictures and sketches, and an ancient clock on the far wall, while through an inner window we could watch the keeper in his beer pantry. For a while we talked with two men from Berlin who must take the train that night for their city. because one’s mother was ill. At ten o’clock we were well asleep, something that we have little trouble with these nights. Ted Nurnberg This mooring it was a little difficult to get up after our stiff ride yesterday. I had been sleeping under a small sky window until it started to rain when I quickly moved to a dry spot. We dressed, packed, took our them took our things down from our attic room, and secured a real bed downstairs for tonight. After a breakfast of “broten, marmelade, and milch” we hiked into town. When we learned that the Rotary President lives 25 kilometers out of town at the University, we decided to call on the Secretary at the Grand Hotel. There a lady met us and informed us that we were booked for a bus tour of the city in five minutes. The tour lasted far more than five minutes and as guests we enjoyed every minute of the ride. Nuremberg, or Nurnberg, occupies a portion of both banks of the River Pagnitz. It’s population is 400,000, the second largest city in Bavaria and it has a real history much too long to recite here. One thing should be noted is that over the years, there have been three distinct walls. The oldest has entirely disappeared but the second and third remain in part as they give evidence of the days when fortifications were necessities. We like them of course as photographic images. And likewise we are entranced by the the six stone bridges that span the river. At sunset these river scenes are the most impressive. There is always the quaint bridge in the center with rolling clouds behind and medieval buildings of Gothic designs standing on the banks. Color is important for the blue sky, red tiled roofs, and bright orange geraniums along the balconies combine in harmony. The city has many churches that are filled with relics, but we have seen enough of those. We would rather be outside taking in the old sights. Our bus trip took us to the Kaiserburg, a castle built by Frederick Barbarossa in the 11th century. The best part was the view of the roofs of Nurnburg, the dignified high church spires, the round green dome of the synagogue, and in great contrast, the tall rather ugly factory chimneys pouring out dirty smoke over these house tops. It was here in the Castle that we met a fellow countryman, a banker from Cleveland who complained that we were speaking English rather than American and there is quite a difference with all of our newly coined words. We explained that we had to speak slowly and clearly and in plain words on our trip without contact with Americans, in order that we be understood by the people in other countries. As the bus trip ended we decided that this sightseeing procedure is excellent for the hurried visitor on a short visit. The genial guide spoke four languages, and by the time he had finished speaking in German and French we had a pretty good idea of what he had said. As the trip ended we alighted and met the Secretary Mr. Schmidt at the Grand Hotel. We liked him immediately. He speaks English, a little rusty, but we understood each other well. Only when he tried to describe something difficult, politics for instance, would he get stuck, snapping his fingers in despair and in German asking “How do you say it?” It was one PM and were hungry of course. He must have seen it in our eyes for we headed for food in a rather modern restaurant yet of the old style. And it was one fine meal, apple cider included. Afterwards and armed with our guide book, we started to out to see things for ourselves. First was the Martha Church , built in 1390 and used by the Meistersingers as a meeting place from 1578 to 1614. The interior is rather plain, more like a town hall, but we saw traces of frescoes and other decorations that must have been quite beautiful. The next step was to see the house where Hans Sachs lived and we found it on a side street on the north side of the river. On the outside are the words “Hans Sachs Haus” in that expressive German lettering and its front is typical of Nurnburg style. We entered the little Inn which is quaintly decorated with fancy porcelain mugs, old plates, and an ancient golden-faced clock and many small curious pieces around it. It was fascinating just to wander about the cozy room. Not far away in a square is a statue of Hans just as he worked in his shoemaker’s shop. It reminded us of the opera greatly. In our minds we could picture those colorful old settings in the performance, especially when Hans Sachs sits just outside his shop and in the dim light goes on with his hammering. That kind of street was new to us at the opera, but in real life it is here and everywhere, with potted geraniums, the arches, and old buildings fronting cobblestone streets. Back across the river which we always like to photograph, we hiked to Kernmarkt, now used as a hop market, the largest in the world. Throughout the town one sees large sturdy business houses which at one time were granaries, and adjoining the Kernmarket is a particularly striking one. We decided we had seen enough for one afternoon so we repaired to our Palace Hotel, the hostel. At 6 o’clock we met Mr. Schmidt again and drove with him to the southern outskirts of the city. There we were shown the new party gathering ground for the Socialist government. It is a huge affair, effectively constructed in stone and in the few days of the year it is used, over a million people attending a mass meeting. Around a large grass field divided in the middle by a stone walk are low seating stands, and at the west is a typical grandstand with a huge wooden eagle at each side. We also saw where plans are going ahead for a new massive government building in contrast to the close by brown wooden hospital shacks used in the war. From this section we drove back to the Hans Sachs district. Down a short narrow street we halted, and followed our genial host into one of the loveliest cafes we have ever seen. I is unforgettable. The name is famous here, Bratwurstherzle, meaning “cooked sausage heart.” The reason for the cooked sausage will soon be explained, but the heart seems to be the name of that section of town. At any rate, outside are tables surrounded by greens. Inside we were in for a surprise, We seated ourselves at one of the only two good-sized tables. The room is small and is filled with interesting objects. First of all there are the old windows called “Butzenscheiben} which we would call “bottle glass,” They are really rough discs of glass and were used before they learned how to make today’s regular windows. The spaces between the discs are filled in by metal, and in most cases the glass is multicolored with wonderful effects. These windows don’t provide much illumination so as we there in the early evening the lanterns strung from the ceiling and the little red lamps in the corners are used for illumination. Starting from the top, the wooden ceiling is supported ny rafters and on these are many shields and coats of arms. Around the upper section of the wall are inscriptions in striking German print, and just below runs a shelf circling the room. What a collection of old steins there were! They were in pewter and porcelain, mugs of every decryption. An old box clock holds down the center of honor, fancy plates behind with pusywillows in the corners and below them rough wooden figures. One of these is the Nurnberg Madonna sharing this panorama. Bellow the shelf comes some more wall pretty well covered up by comical pictures and steel engravings. One crude painting depicts a sausage machine. The pig is sitting on the fire and sticking his snout into the grinder, while sausages are coming out the machine’s other end. Quite a process! Somewhere on the wall is the name of the cafe and underneath was printed “seit 1404,” the year of its claimed founding. And we can believe it. Over in a corner is an old porcelain stove and near it a cabinet of equally old glassware. This immediate description ended, the more important issue presents itself. From the clean tiny kitchen that shown with copper ware issued a smell, call it ‘fragrance,” that had the word “sausages’ plastered all over it. We thought of Dad and our Sunday morning breakfasts as the keeper laid down the food. This food demands special attention. Dick and I were admiring the luscious crisp brown odorescent sausages around a center of sauerkraut, and the plate an ordinary one but made of tin with many dents, and in the shape of a heart. I thought I wasn’t going to like the sauerkraut at first, but one can’t dislike anything in such an atmosphere. I grieved to have to say that the first ten disappeared like magic, and to the delight of our appetites another ten came steaming from the kitchen and were set before us. Together with light beer and bread, the dish was complete and we have never enjoyed any meal more. We finished our second plates and heartily declined a third in favor of digestive gastric juice potentials. Then we recovered our coats which we had hung on hangers in the center of the room. We took leave in the cool night air. We thanked our host heartily and headed for home. Dick had to have an ice cream cone so we had to purchase one at the automat. Then on to bed. However, sleep was slow to come, for our hostel companions, probably on a weekend walk or ride, insisted on talking and making noise well into the night. Ted 27 Nuremberg July 3 D It’;s now almost 9 P.M. as we finally get down to business on the writing after finishing the usual night’s puzzle balancing the bank account in our money belts. It is a beautiful evening with a full moon still low in the west. We are hoping for a favorable morning tomorrow for Nurnberg is packed full of those priceless little scenes we photo nuts must record and early morning with its highlights and shadows gives things the best touch. We are sorry that we can’t bring back to you the reds, whites, and greens of the the flower filled window boxes which add so much to our days on the byways. Our journey from Augsburg to Nuremberg on July 1 two days ago will not be soon forgotten, and for two reasons. First is that it was the most beautiful and interesting stretch of countryside we have encountered and second, it was the longest day’s ride to date. We rode 150 kilometers, or 100 miles. But Nurnberg called so we took up another notch in our belts an went to work. The country was great though so a few extra hours pumping briskly passed quickly. It’s now 9:26 and its almost impossible to get our writing done because these German fellows are so anxious to talk with us and crowd around at the slightest excuse, to practice their English of course. “America” seems to be a magic word and almost invariably every Gemini man or woman shopkeeper says “Deutschland ist sehr shon, Ja”? (Germany is very beautiful. Yes?” to which we always truthfully answer in the affirmative, putting both parties at once on the best of terms. A young Czechoslovakian just came over and kept us busy for a good ten minutes, as we listened to his discourse on Prague and his future plans. He has been studying English by himself and is making the most of opportunities to practice. We greatly enjoy these little chats and only wish that lights weren’t turned out here in the Jugendherberge at 10 o’clock so that both writing and talking could be accomplished. To get back to the pressing issue, aft er the usual breakfast of milch, bread, and jam eaten in the hostel yard while basking in the early morning sun’s warmth, we bade “Aufwiedersehn” to the cheery plump father with a real Hindenburg mustache, and pedaled off, loaded to the gunwales. This old fellow had a real sense of humor, not found often in our German hostel experiences with such officials, as he sat down at the woebegone piano and bangd out Yankee Doodle Dandy with disastrous results. He gets a great kick out of life and radiates his joy to the group. Continued..Next day Today is the great 4th but it is just another day for us for old man sin must have heard that we are planning to start for Heidelberg this afternoon. He, or she, is liquidating in his usual unappreciated manner forcing us to spend the time inside. However there is much writing to do so it’s just as well. On our next trip abroad are planning to start in Lapland in the dead of winter, working down slowly to avoid the summer rains. During yesterday morning, and a really long one it was, for we were on the road at 8:39-think of it--we pedaled over rolling country with lovely farms, old and new, and through quaint tiny villages. Peasants worked in the fields, doing all the labor by hand aided, perhaps, by a horse and in just one case by a tractor, the first we have seen in many a day. The women always with colored kerchiefs tied over their heads and usually in white, blue, red make real the mental picture we have formed in America as we have imagined how the other half of the world lives. Sunshine flooded everything, and great white clouds hung lazily above. Roadside crucifixes are becoming fewer and fewer as we ride north. In Southern Bavaria every farm had its carved crucifix. Donausworth, just 46 kilometers from Augsburg, is a quaint very old town on the River Donau, and as yet has not met the modern world as we pumped over its rough cobblestoned main street. This is a matter unforgettable just as is the tiny grocery store we purchased two apples for 30 pfennings and munched them in the shade just outside of town. Already stomachs were asking for sustenance for we can’t live on beauty alone in every tiny hamlet of town. Quaint barnyard scenes greet our eyes, and many a time we had to pull over while ox drawn hay or fertilizer carts rolled by manned by sleepy characters who seem to have supreme confidence in their equally drowsy looking animals. Few automobiles were met, so we enjoyed the countryside peacefulness to its fullest. These Bavarian old timers are great, shuffling along slowly on the road, their strange pipes swinging like pendulums from their mouths. It was only 11:30 but out tongues were hanging out with desire for food as we approached Jktzing (Yo say it). But can you imagine our surprise to find not a store in the town, and hardly any sign of one. We had seen nothing quite like this before. It w is just a tiny hamlet of quaint peasant houses, with a light blanket of dust over everything. Evidently its inhabitants all were out in the fields, leaving chickens and ducks in full charge. It as just packed with picturesque nooks and crannies undiscovered, of course, by tourist hordes. To make the picture complete, a smiling goose boy came down the narrow dusty unpaved main street,driving his flock of cackling milk feathered ducks before him. His plain little staff, handled deftly, kept the more rambunctious elements in order. It was a scene we have seen many times in art galleries, but never expected to meet in real life. I dearly hope my snapshot will come out. We simply could go no longer without food so sat down by the side of the road and finished the bread and jam remaining from breakfast, along with water furnished by the Jtzing Public Works Administration in its town water trough. This light repast, just an appetizer, held us for the remanning five kilometers to Monheim, another lazy old village, hot and dusty, but for milk we had to go to the village dairy high on the hill where we were served with the greatest of beverages on the dairy’s steps. Satisfied at last, we lay for many minutes in the roadside shade, allowing the delicacies to digest. The early afternoon passed quickly as we pedaled more rapidly over a fairly level country, broken occasionally by short pulls. One stretch, however, we’ll not forget, for it went up and down over dusty roads that loosened everything inside our insides, while we prayed for no punctures. It’s real work riding this type of cow path. Wessenburg is the superest old town we have yet seen, remaining today as it was in the time of Knights and Ladies. The ancient town hall still stands in parts, with its four cornered towers informing tourists as they approach that they are now in the heart of a land filled with musk of past grandeur and pageantry. Wessenburg took to us and we to it, from the moment we drank from its lovely fountain. Time was flying and Nurnberg was still more than 50 kilometers away, but we just had to spend some miniutes wandering through narrow lanes and byways or across the few town squares, sopping up the loveliness around us. The houses were plastered, with beams and other wood work exposed in delightful Symmetry. What really thrilled us were the tiny glass enclosed balconies with geranium and peony filled windows. These flowers fairly spring from every window and add so much beauty. And the grill work signs in silhouette add the final touch, seen against the sky, as they more or less frame our views. One barnyard is vivid in our minds and right in the center of town too. Through the open barnyard door we see framed perfectly the sprawling Bavarian barn, hay strewn cobblestones, and a rickety old grain wagon. Our camera didn’t let us down so you too will see it. We hated to leave but the minutes were flying and we had tasted just enough of the old here to wish to see Nurnberg as soon as possible. Ellwaggen, another grand old village passed by, and then came Roth where we stopped to pay proper homage with toasts of milk and confiture(snails ) carried out in proper style while answering the shopkeeper’s questions between gulps. Schwabdorf was next and took us down its cobblestone main street which gives these French bikes the real jitters. A few kilometers more brought us into Nurnberg, the city of our dreams and hopes. The usual trouble with street surfaces and our confusion in trying to understand a cop’s gesticulations were combined with our attempts to get directions to the Jugenherberge, the same queries we experience in each new city. Again, a friendly youth came to our aid, taking us to the hostel. There we showered in ice cold water, slicked up, and walked a few blocks down the Konigstrasse, the main street, to the Motkeller where we enjoyed a good dinner, which also served to leaden the eyelids. The Motkeller or meat cellar is one of Nurenberg’s most known restaurants, situated in the cellar of one of the old grain store houses used during early times to keep stocked for sieges and it is usually built into the fortifications well inside the moat. We were quite disappointed in the “keller” itself, finding only newly painted Gothic pillars and vaulted ceiling instead of the musky old hall we expected. The dinner was good and the waitress full of smiles, so we enjoyed the time, even if the three tiny pears we had for desert would get “the bird” in California. All the good beds were occupied in the Jugendherberge so again we forced to sleep on the low cots in the attic. Being too tired to care what we slept on, we hit the hay, interrupted only when rain cam through the skylight, dampening Ted slightly right in the midst of a sweet dream. Rain has stopped now so we will walk over to the house of Albrecht Durer, immortal pioneering Nurnberg artist and noted for his engravings (etchings) to see some of his works, but most important, just to see his house as he lived in it..D. 28 July 4 Nurnberg Ladies and gents-You have just heard our “Glorious Fourth” If you have enunciated each syllable with care you have received the same depth of feeling we experience. I hope your ears are not burned. It is really outrageous the way these Germans pass up our “4th” without even a cackle, but a derby-hatted beer wagon driver cracked his whip this morning and we are satisfied. July 2nd We were up at the “crack of dawn this morning, not by our own choices, though. A large group of students spent the night here and used up all their surplus energy after a day of sight seeing by yelling and cutting up until 11 P.M., and then they started all over again at 6 AM., refreshed by their few hours of sleep. It looked like a beautiful morning so we rolled out at 6 to make a photo excursion trough old Nurnberg in the early morning light. But again hopes were doomed. By the time we had consumed our usual allotment of milk, bread, and jam, clouds filled the sky, hiding the sun, so that until 9 o’clock we just walked about the cites we,followed the “Handy Guide” given us by Mr. ity as. Starting at the old Kornmarket now used as a hop markt in one of the really picturesque old storehouses and squares, we walked down the Jaholstrasse to the Neisser Turn, or White Tower. This solid stone structure was a gate in the earlier wall around the town, and it is as strong today as ever, It is really a pair of entrances giving double protection, surrounded by a time darkened square tower. It was as we approached the gate that an under slung beer wagon rolled out of a dark side street, pulled by to fine looking dray horse and manned by a derby-hatted roustabout. The small kegs of precious liquid banged together as the driver cracked his whip , masterly urging on his straining horses. It is great to find such a real touch of the old, especially in a country where diesel trucks roar up and down the highways. It was in Nurnberg that the watch was first made, so we next visited the statue of its inventor, Peter Henlein. The window panes in this vicinity are of special interest, many still in place after centuries of use. They resemble camera lenses with their outer convex contours. Walking down the several blocks to the river, we came upon a secondhand market, or Trodmarkt, with all of its wares on outdoor display, consisting mostly of shoes. Interesting prints, some perhaps very old, received most of our attention. One can never tell whether what one sees is a really old print, for perfect weather-beaten copies are the rule these days. From the tiny bridge below we had a fine view of the Henhersteg, or Hangman’s Bridge, with its characteristic tower. Then we walked back though the bustling city of today, modern stores housed in medieval buildings At the Bahnhof(station) we caught car number 15 to take us to Mr. Scmidt lithographing works. For half an hour we enjoyed his interesting process carried out to the nth degree as the leading plant in Nurnberg. In lithographing, instead of using the usual type, the design is first drawn on a specially prepared stone and then transferred by means of a complicated and technical process to paper. In its simplest form, here is the process. The stones are quarried somewhere near Augsburg and have qualities of strength and fine grain. Their surfaces are first smoothed and then polished. The designs are then applied by master artists doing everything by hand. Since Mr. Schmidt’s English did not encompass the more technical steps, his descriptions were not always clear so that much of that is doubtful in our understanding. By a special process, the use of a certain ink then covered with water that is allowed to dry leads to the next step where the paper is placed on the stone and pressed the designs transferred without flaws. Many colors are applied, necessitating a new stone and design for each as the final print emerges, such as Shell Oil covers running through the presses that day. Time was short so this brief introduction sufficed. It is a treat to watch these master craftsmen and artists at work. It is a satisfaction to know that the machine will never fully replace the human imagination and inspiration, although techniques may advance. Mr. Schmidt then put us on the street car with directions to transfer to the Erlangen bus for Dr.Wintz, the Rotary President was expecting us that morning at his University office. After banging 20 kilometers over more cobblestones, we arrived in Erlangen and walked quickly to the address given us, finding it to be clinic of the University of Erlangen. Dr. Wintz’s secretary took us in her charge, showing us the inside workings of the leading experimental X Ray shops in the world. It was through her that we realized what a worldwide medical man Dr. Wintz is, famous for his contributions to X Ray development. Garbed in a doctor’s white starched coats, we watched the latest in X Ray equipment in action, as machines not yet on the market are tested. The knowledge of the scientific advances here are very limited we are sorry to say, but future studies in this field will make things much clearer to the rest of the world. We examined each other’s beating heart in the “plate”, machine. I had the camera slung on my shoulder as usual while in the treatment room. Miss Shoener did not notice it until afterwards, telling us that any film in the camera is ruined if it was in the room with the equipment turned on. The film had not been exposed, so our only loss was financial, not half so serious if our photos from the past days had been injured. We were just lucky. Dr. Wintz managed to take a few minutes from his pressing day to talk with us and help plan our future journey through Germany. We liked ham from the start and appreciated his interest in us and giving us his valuable time. With an invitation to take coffee in his home with him at 5 o’clock, we left and Miss Shoener, Ted, and I took lunch in the “garten” of the town’s leading restaurant. When we think again of our dessert, our mouths water. It was a “confiture,” really a strawberry short cake, whip cream and all. Only our photo of it will do it justice. In order to allow digestive processes to catch up, we walked about town, listening to our genial guide’s enthusiastic tales ot Erlangen, for centuries famous for its Mintz, or Makers of Coins. However, this lucrative business was stopped during a certain period of 100 years or so by the government at the instigation of nearby Nurnberg, jealous of the smaller city’s power. Dr. Wintz’s hobby is old coins and he has written a book of note on the history of Erlangen coins? How has he found time to carry on this hobby to such perfection is a mystery, adding only a little more to our admiration for his achievements. The French influence is strongly felt in Erlangen as one sees a few remaining one-story houses of French design, and the main square Protestant church built by the French Huegenots in their migration to Germany at the scrapping of the Nantes Edict. Ted and I wonder if some of our Huegenot ancestors included Erlangen on their eventual way to America. Dr. Wintz’s work with is fully appreciated by Siemans, the world’s leading manufacturer as well as developer of this equipment. They keep the Doctor supplied with the latest in development so that he can test and criticize. Because the plant is in Erlangen, Dr. Wintz secured permission for us to visit it, a privilege granted to only a few of our level of technical ignorance. There we saw the world’s finest X Ray machines in the making, described to us by Dr, King, a young Englishman who is working there in order to know the products he will be selling in England. The mechanical side was all very interesting, but seeing the men at work and observing their working conditions brought us the most satisfaction. Uncle Bert might be interested to know that the Siemans’ latest development is the portable X Ray apparatus and is a chromium sheathed bell almost 12 inches in diameter. The biggest demand right now is for their ultra short-wave machine, easily the finest in the world. Dr. King’s comments on the factory and men were most interesting. An aim of the Hitler government is to improve the workers’ conditions, thus combatting communism, Factories must make certain improvements, as Siemans is doing, in building recreation fields, improving shop environments, and constructing up to date eating halls. Drinking beer, however, seems to be the main recreation for the working men, as they build portly stomachs to fill their leather shorts and thus keep them from dropping, as do ours without the hosentrager in place. Pay runs about 150 Marks with 180 as the maximum, about $70 at the present exchange rate. Government taxes which are applied before the wage is passed on to the worker, are terribly high, accounting for the lower pay. The men are really making close to nothing, as they spend anything left over for beer. Mr. King enjoys working with the Bavarians for he finds them fine work mates. A goodly number of women are employed and a large number of boys around 14 are completing apprenticeships of six years, preparatory to specialty work. The whole two hours we spent there were filled with information, for their engineers are unsurpassed in initiative and ingenuity. However, from our experiences with bike breakdowns, and there have been plenty of these, we are sure that the least informed and most uncreative Germans are in the bike business. They know only their German makes of bikes and lack the insight and experience to figure out our French contraptions. It was pure comedy the other day to watch one man putting my brake on backwards time and time again, even though I tried to show him the right way. In the end I did all of the work using his tools while he gave up in disgust. My German vocabulary did not include his under the breath mutterings. Five o’clock found us in Dr.Wintz’s ultra modern home, situated ideally on the heights above town. He has several acres and in the center is his house, designed primarily by the Doctor himself, to house his valuable art collection. Coffee was super, but those German short cakes hit the spot, served in a most unusual dining room as Indirect lighting give just the right effects on old religious carvings fit perfectly in panels in the dark polished woodwork walls. After this delightful repast, we spent a good many minutes admiring the collection of old coins, even weighty Roman ones green with age. As a remembrance of our visit to Erlangen, Dr. Wintz presented to each of us a German coin, their faces worn but still showing their mint dates, 1609 and 1604. We will treasure these not for their worth but as a reminder of our warm Erlangen friend and the few wonderful hours in his company. As “privileged plutocrats” for the first time in many a day we were driven back to Nurnberg in the Doctor’s slick Packard touring car manned by his chauffeur in green livery. With our noses high gave only passing glances and made bored comments about the bicyclers we were passing, leaving them in the dust. We made the 29 kilometer run in real style. With rough cobblestones once again under foot in Adolph Hitler Platz we were reminded that we are still staying at the Jugendherberge and not at the Hotel Castoria, and that only a few minutes of daylight remained, so we hurried to a few chosen spots taking some snaps while just a glimmer of sunshine persisted. Ice cream and confiture filled supper’s requirements before we returned to the hostel and tried to do a little writing before bed. This business of trying to write in the Jugendherberge is some experience, the people are so good nattered and they must talk with us, sometimes in English and also in Deutsch. We sat down to write (”Zuschreiben”) this evening at 7 and finally completed our first paragraphs at 7:30. The group around us seemed satisfied for the moment. These folks here at ‘Bailsheim Jugndherberge” are really super, though. The jugendherberge “Mudder’ has just brought us a pitcher of steaming hot tea and asks us to send you, Mother, their greetings. The Father is keen too, a school teacher who speaks English well and was planning to show us the town tonight, but it rained, of course. We simply can’t help liking these people as will you someday. If a few Deutsch words slip into our writing you can ascribe them to herberge mother’s enthusiasm as she tries to make us understand her German comments explained regularly in my left ear. I think I had better give this up as a hopeless job, for this motionless pencil can’t possibly compete with my host’s good nattered outbursts. An orchid to you if you are still awake. After China and Japan these letters must be terribly dull. Every time lightening flashes, the lights dim and we hold our breaths hoping they won’t keep us in the dark, We are still planning to be in England about the 10th of August. Dick 29 Crailsheim July 5 What a glorious feeling it was this morning as the early sun woke us up. No clouds, just beauty. As Dick went out to look for photos I hunted up a liter of milk in the store nearby. The horse drawn milk wagon had just left. so the milk was fresh and unusually good. With it we enjoyed bread and jam from the previous day. Dick had a puncture. among other troubles, all of which took time but about 9 we got started. The valley where our hostel lies is truly beautiful, and even more so in the happiness-giving sunshine. From one spot along the river bed, we discovered an intriguing picture. The steam formed the center fore ground; an ancient bridge held the center; and above, rising from the ridge and the level of the town was a round stone tower, perfectly framed by the green trees along the river bank Up in Rothenburg we found some good pictures. It was vastly different from the Sunday afternoon before when the tourist hordes were loose. Our advice is to see such places on Monday, for then the inhabitants are busy about their work, and the chance to see normal town life is possible. Surroundings are of course picturesque, though we are tired of that descriptive word. Can’t we do better? The place looked as though it might have been a monastery, with a fountain where pigeons were bathing. The wooden staircase leading to the battlements spoke for itself. As we walked though the cobbled streets lined with unusual houses from every century, we gained a new impression, and were sorry to see the watchful guard towers disappear as we rode on to Dinkulspiel. That short trip was a joy. We are sorry that nothing we can say will do the countryside justice. Sheep raising is important here, though not on the huge American scale. Forests cover much of the land and grain fields are abundant, while vegetable plots appear here and there. Along the road we pass hay wagons and lumber carts, not to mention the half pint autos that fly by as we look down from our high seats and eat their dust. Into Dinkulspiel we coasted through the northeast entrance tower, and there on a municipal building we found a map locating the Jugendherberge. Once signed in, we washed up and went out to dig up food, our first procedure wherever we go. Milk, bread, marmalada, and bologna taste good as we ate in the shade. Our surroundings were picturesque, and can’t we come up with better descriptive words? The place looked as though it might have been a monastery, wish its fountain now dedicated to pigeons and their bathing. Apparently it is a State Home for old people who sit around contentedly. After lunch we started out to see the town. The “Hand Me Down” said to be sure to walk around the town outside the wall, so we started. It was one of the loveliest walks we have taken in many a day. The vine covered towers were in two styles . One tower was round with a tapering tile roof, and the other was square but both of the same size. The sturdy wall extended between the towers and around the town. In these towers were doors and windows for they had become homes of peasants, and outside, at certain points, there were extensive vegetable gardens, no longer requiring protection by a now unused moat. What marvelous photographic opportunities. One such was a large quiet pond. or perhaps a small lake, and mirrored in the water with sky and clouds behind, was a corner tower with shaded wall. As if this was not complete enough, a swan glided by to make all absolutely perfect. As we were walking just inside the wall and seeing the city from above, one of us spied two storks perched in their nest on the top of the tallest chimney. We wondered what would happen if a fire were started below. It was fascinating to see the storks strutting and cleaning themselves. At last we have seen the site where babies really come from. From here we got down to business in seeing Dinkulspiel. I have many impressions in my mind, but unlike most, these cobblestones were really worn, making it hard to ride on. And what is characteristic of all the places we have been is the disorganized pattern of the streets. But that is better for the photographic eye, for the eye does not wander into the distance but tends to examine what is close by. Alternately placed around town are the fountains where we so often stopped to drink. It was hot and everyone was taking their time about their business. How different appearances seem to be from the Sunday before. Now the inhabitants were about their work and paying little attention to the few visitors, a goodly number of them Americans. The women in black with a cloth over their heads were like those we had seen working the fields. While we stood in the center of town, two wagons passed one another, and one mischievous horse took a big hunk of hay from the passing vehicle. The driver looked round just in time to see the two horse team dividing the spoils. We laughed heartily. Unlike nearby Rothenburg, we found quite a bit of industry, mattress making, wooden shoe manufacturing, blacksmithing and other small interests make this a true working town, not relying on tourists. That short trip was a joy. We are sorry that nothing we can say will do the countryside justice. Sheep raising is important here, though not on the huge American scale Forests cover much of the land and grain fields are abundant, while vegetable plots appear here and there. Along the road we pass hay wagons and lumber carts, not to mention the half pint autos that fly by as we look down from our high seats and eat their dust. Into Dinkulspiel we coasted through the northeast entrance tower, and there on a municipal building we found a map locating the Jugendherberge. Once signed in, we washed up and went out to dig up food, our first procedure wherever we go. Milk, bread, marmalada, and bologna taste good as we ate in the shade. Our surroundings were picturesque, and can’t we come up with better descriptive words? The place looked as though it might have been a monastery, wish its fountain now dedicated to pigeons and their bathing. Apparently it is a State Home for old people who sit around contentedly. After lunch we started out to see the town. The “Hand Me Down” said to be sure to walk around the town outside the wall, so we started. It was one of the loveliest walks we have taken in many a day. The vine covered towers were in two styles . One tower was round with a tapering tile roof, and the other was square but both of the same size. The sturdy wall extended between the towers and around the town. In these towers were doors and windows for they had become homes of peasants, and outside, at certain points, there were extensive vegetable gardens, no longer requiring protection by a now unused moat. What marvelous photographic opportunities. One such was a large quiet pond. or perhaps a small lake, and mirrored in the water with sky and clouds behind, was a corner tower with shaded wall. As if this was not complete enough, a swan glided by to make all absolutely perfect. As we were walking just inside the wall and seeing the city from above, one of us spied two storks perched in their nest on the top of the tallest chimney. We wondered what would happen if a fire were started below. It was fascinating to see the storks strutting and cleaning themselves. At last we have seen the site where babies really come from. From here we got down to business in seeing Dinkulspiel. I have many impressions in my mind, but unlike most, these cobblestones were really worn, making it hard to ride on. And what is characteristic of all the places we have been is the disorganized pattern of the streets. But that is better for the photographic eye, for the eye does not wander into the distance but tends to examine what is close by. Alternately placed around town are the fountains where we so often stopped to drink. It was hot and everyone was taking their time about their business. How different appearances seem to be from the Sunday before. Now the inhabitants were about their work and paying little attention to the few visitors, a goodly number of them Americans. The women in black with a cloth over their heads were like those we had seen working the fields. While we stood in the center of town, two wagons passed one another, and one mischievous horse took a big hunk of hay from the passing vehicle. The driver looked round just in time to see the two horse team dividing the spoils. We laughed heartily. Unlike nearby Rothenburg, we found quite a bit of industry, mattress making, wooden shoe manufacturing, blacksmithing and other small interests make this a true working town, not relying on tourists. A LOST Page it. 31. Heidelberg July 8 D I know it is difficult to amass all of your strength as you lie beneath a Diablo sun, basking at the lake’s side, but here is some more dope from your “bike bums”. We are sitting at one of the small tables in the Jugendherberge yard at Heidelberg. The evening is super, and we are enjoying every breath. Clouds still come in from the south and telling of more rain, we fear. We’re far from saturated yet, but are desperately hoping for sunshine on the Rhine. A troop of marching girls just assembled outside the hostel and have marched off, singing lustily. Their uniforms are simple-a black shirt and white middy and a black tie. Almost all have a braid of hair hanging over each shoulder. This evening’s marching seems to be a regular function in the “Hitler Youth Program”.. We were feeling sort of low this morning, a result of the many strenuous days and trying hours in the rain, we think, so we left Heilbronn early to ride as far as possible in the refreshing morning air, arriving here about noon, tired and hungry. The trip was not uneventful for rain managed to get its usual licks in, making things tough for a good many kilometers. Before and after the downpours, however, we enjoyed the country to the fullest as we meandered along and with the Nechar River. We are for sure in the wine country. Vineyards cover every hillside and “Weinstube” appears as frequently as “Bierkeller” in Munich. Our river side road took us through many a quaint old village where the highway narrowed to an alleyway width and rough cobblestones knocked everything loose. We expect that the rear ends of our bikes will drop off any day as we bounce about. So far, mine takes the cake. Pedals, seats, and gears have all bitten the dust, due to the rain that gets into everything, making mince meat out of ball bearings. Pictruesque castle walls and towers come in to view every now and then, telling us that we are for sure in the Rhine country. The Nechar is a scene of constant water traffic, its numberless ultramodern locks opening and closing for tugs and their barges. It was just beyond one of these engineering systems that rain loosed its wrath upon us, forcing us to seek shelter in a roadside Gasthaus where we sipped bottled “Fizz water” lemonade to refresh nerves and feelings. From there on we limped in a constant drizzle to Heidelberg, for my bike simply loses all interest in life when the chain is soaked Straight for the American Express we headed and there joyfully found packets of letters waiting , forwarded from Berlin. It took exactly a cool one hour and a half to eat lunch across the street swallowing whole your welcome ureters, including one from Bob Undrwood and a card from Wins and Sue Henshaw, both written in a San Francisco cafe. The Jugendherberge was promptly found, that unusual, in the opposite side of town from where we entered, that unusual. Our process for locating the hostel is this. We simply ask any likely looking individual, and then strain to understand the rapid fire orations. Eventually we get there. It’s a great life if you don’t weaken so we keep our strength up with that pasture champagne, milk, milk, and more milk. Please ask Elizabeth to have the frigidaire full of applesauce and milk waiting for us soon...D . 31....Stahleck Castle ..D It’s now almost 5 PM as we write here in the Kropsach Room of the finest youth hostel in Germany. Once badly demolished at the hands of French invaders, Stahleck Castle has been rebuilt expressly as a hostel in modern style, a fine sense of harmony being preserved between the old and the new. It is located high on a bluff and commands an impressive view of the Rhine, its sloping banks covered with a patch work of vineyards. The black slate roofs of Bachrach are directly below as are the Gothic ruins of an 18th century chapel, while up the valley to the rear vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see. This day has been very uncertain, as sunshine and rain competed. However, a north wind is blowing for the first time in many an eon, so we have high hopes for good weather ahead. As things look now we will take the train to somewhere near Almelo. Holland, forced to by the distance of almost 300 kilometers and by lack of time. We hope to hear from Mr. Bruening in Cologne as to future plans, but now to get on to present pressing business. Heidelberg, July 9 The morning dawned dull and rainy as usual, so after a breakfast of milk, jam, and too many “brotehen”, we spent the time writing, making the most of the impossible weather. Ted had picked up a bad cold which settled in his head, and was far from feeling top notch. Since scribbling does not produce a great appetite, a bowl of soup and milk sufficed for lunch at the hostel, after which we started out to see the sights, taking advantage of spasmodic showers and sunshine. Business came first. Ted’s black shoes had lost complete interest in life, but you would too if you had been stepped on for two yes, and the ”shuh” man said that they were irreparable, so we purchased new ones to keep the Lyon caravan on the move. We then walked up the Hauptstrasse and passed many student taverns so dark and cozy, their ceilings hung with decorative horns such as were used for drinking in :”the good old days” at the University, internationally famous not only as the oldest university in Germany, but as the leading institution of the world for the studies of medicine and chemistry. Its one main old administration building consumed our interest, its “student prison”: taking first prize. It seems that many years ago students who ran afoul of the law were locked up in these five or six rooms for various lengths of time according to the seriousness of their offenses. Their fare was supposedly bread and water, but friends brought them delicacies in honor of their escapades. The center of life seemed to radiate from this “heir heaven”. Everyone wished to be arrested at least once so that they could write their names and leave their photographs on the walls. You weren’t “one of them” unless your name could be found on the wall or ceiling, all in bright colors and illustrated with a candle smoke silhouette or photograph framed in wax. Many famous names are thus preserved, put there by youthful violators, and now are held in reverence. A few Americans managed to get their “John Henrys” there, of course, along with those of other nationalities. Inscriptions cover the place including one from Virgil, with that gentleman’s name placed beneath. The prize boner of the day came when a portly American lady in our group expressed great surprise that Virgil could have been imprisoned in this very cell. The University assembly hall was impressive for its deceptions, including memorials to the founders, Elector Ruptecht I and Carl Friedrich, giving the college its name of “Rupeto--SCarlo”. Plaques bearing noted Heidelberg professors’ names including that of Bunsen of “burner” fame, gave the room a real historic flavor. At the University office, we secured John Lyman and Bill Lang’s addresses and then called on them. No such person as Lang lived at the address given, and Lyman was not home, so we headed for the Castle of Heidelberg to see it while chances for sunshine were still good. The Friederichsbau or Castle of Heidelbrg is situated on a spur of the Konigstuhl just above the town and commanding a fine view of the Nechar Valley as it stretches out to meet the Rhine at Mannheim. Grounds are well laid out and beautifully kept, a super setting for an evening promenade. The castle was built in 1601, destroyed by the French, and partially restored of late. Its grand old gate and crumbling walls interested us, especially one big piece of fortification which had broken off and lay covered with moss and vines in the foliage-filled moat. The court yard in Italian design of the Renascence seemed strangely lonely, decorated with many staues and standing silhouetted against a black sky, the building’s interior having been entirely destroyed by fire. Preparations were in progress for the annual festival starting on July18th to be held in the castle courtyard. Middle age plays are presented there with all the necessary pageantry, and workmen were busy painting stage settings and costumes. Of the most interest to the the Lyon brothers was the great cask or “Heidelberg Tun”, largest wine barrel in the world. In fact it is so massive that a small dance floor has been constructed on top, with plenty of room for the orchestra inside. Its cellar room is built especially for it, and I’ll bet that it would have some grand stories to tell if its dust coated top could speak. Retuning to the Jugendherberge for a good night’ sleep we stopped for a moment to look a a sticking monument, telling of war and strife like so many we have seen throughout our journey in Germany. The German eagle stands on a marble pedestal on which is cut “Saar”. A broken chain hangs down, the other end fastened to an iron ball resting on the pavement. This represents the the recent reunion of “Saar” to Germany, referring to Alsace Lorraine, their chains to France having been broken. We find this spirit of hatred and desire for return of pre-war holdings kept alive in the youths everywhere in such monuments and wall inscriptions, even in the Jugendherberges. America has arrived in Germany. We see more Americans every day, including many boys in the hostel. Two brothers from River Forest, Illinois are pedaling a tandem through here, and they complained that they had not yet found a barber shop in Germany. This struck us as awfully funny because streets are lined with “Friseurs” barber signs, their shining silver and gold letters always proclaiming their trade. Dinner calls and I must hurry and close. Ted is screaming for sustenance. Your birthday cake was good Mom. Hope you take an extra piece of angel food for each of us D 30.... Heilbronn July 7 D It is just past 6 o'clock as we sit here in the Jugendherberge yard, penning our experiences and impressions. This day has been really hot, so hat the sultry air, even here in the shade, keeps us perspiring. A large group of boys and girls has just come in, seating themselves here at this long table. All of the boys are about 13 years old and are dressed alike, including “Sing Sing “ haircuts-real sons of the soil. The girls with braided hair resting on their shoulder are equally as ruddy and hardy. We think that they are probably a group of orphans out for a few day’s trip. As we ride through the country or mix with the youths in the evening, and observe their lives and habits, we can’t help offering silent prayers of thankfulness for our living in the grandest country on earth, where freedom and peace go hand in hand. Seeing these kids eating their evening meals of brown bread and doubtfully fresh milk make us appreciate even more the grandest little fireside on earth. American boys are truly the luckiest in the world, and I know of no two who will more fully appreciate our “land of youth and freedom, beyond the ocean bars” after seeing how the other half of the world lives, where “freedom” is not a word to be even thought about. July 8th, Starting out like a lion and ending up like a lamb. In other words, rain soaked us all morning and then sunshine made life worth living again in the afternoon. The least said about the morning’s ride from Nurnberg to Ansbach, the better. We awakened, of course always hoping for a fine day, only to find a drizzle keeping everyone in a constant state of dampness. Luck seems to have been against us until now as far a photography is concerned, Nurnberg sadly included. We had to have some remembrances of that grand city, so we took a few snaps in the rain before leaving. All of the way the rain beat against our faces, letting up a little now and then, but with a torrential; climax, soaking shoes and socks, just as Ansbach came into view. Trouble with my bike chain again, due to my junky set of gears, added to the already trying conditions. Rain surely puts a cramp into things, but oh how it makes us appreciate a little sunshine. One tiny roadside church reminded us of our super one in Piedmont. We’ve visited Japanese temples, Italian basilicas, and German Cathedrals but we’ll take the Piedmont Community Church any day. Lunch was good in the small town Gasthof as we managed to swallow a mouthful every now and then between questions from the usual number of “beer barons” always found in such places. The sun was shining as we struck out again, our stock in the world soaring to new heights. Ansbach to Rothernburg, just 34 kilometers was such a pleasant ride. Our road took us through tiny dusty towns every few minutes, streets lined with aged wooden pumps, their long handles propelled energetically by country maidens, their arms strong from years of such exercises. Of special interest were the house front decorations, trees trained right against the plaster in the fanciest of designs, shutters hung at all angles and in all stages of disrepair. If busses filled with Sunday sightseers didn’t roar down the town’s one and only main street, I’m sure everyone would be sound asleep, lulled away in this drowsy atmosphere. Our first view of Rothenburg’s walls and spires came as we crossed a heavily wooded hill some five kilometers away. Anticipation put wings on our heels, sending us easily up the grade to the town. To find the Jugendherberge and clean up was an absolute necessity in order that we might view this historical town in the most receptive mood, so we noticed nothing while inquiring the way, although our first view of the grand old gate, as we wobbled beneath its arch over the cobblestones is one of our most pleasant memories. My tire went flat just as we reached the main platz so that a long walk was my lot to the hostel which we dissevered finally to be by the River Tauber winding its way well below the town. As it turned out the hostel location was quite wonderful on the river’s edge and in the shade of evergreen trees. Its porch opened out on a lovely garden and there we ate our dinner, drinking in the peacefulness pervading everything in these quiet Bavarian countryside's, An old waterwheel with only a few of its spokes remaining to tell its story is covered with moss and not a few tin cans. Beds were long and comfortable for our footage and with such a superb location, Rothenburg’s Jugendherberge went to the top of our list. Once more aright with the world as we cleaned up, we hiked up the steep valley side path to see what surprises were in store for us in this most famous of preserved “middle age” towns. ”Rothenburg Aub Tauber” is laid out along the edge of a plateau dropping abruptly to the River Tauber, which winds below in great serpentine coils. Well preserved walls and towers and battlements rise forbiddingly above the precipitous valley side and surround the town completely, telling glorious stories of the past. Practically invulnerable to attack on the river side, the city must have experienced some thrilling times along the plateau ramparts. (Heidelberg) We are now inside. A terrific wind is bringing clouds and rain with the speed of an army attack. Hope the tank runs dry before long. People are running every which way, trying to find shelter before everything cuts loose. Ah-summer in sunny Gemany! Back to Rothennburg Rough roadways of cobblestones rounded with wear and thus jolts announce to the visitor that he is living not now but in a town 500 years ago, and a quaint one it has become. Once through the double arched gate dominated by a massive stone tower unchanged through the centuries, one finds himself in a tiny world unlike anything seen before. Narrow byways extend right and left along the towering wall’s inner sides, made even narrower by piles of wood and faggots stacked high against the solid rampart. Rickety battle galleries of weather beaten timber surmount the walls with loopholes for cumbersome muskets and deadly cross bows, all framing a lovely countryside for one who wishes to clamber up. Once inside the town we completely forgot such things as guides to tell us what to see and why. Rothenburg is truly a topsy-turvy town, for houses lean and sag in every direction. One would wonder if he had exceeded his limit with the last beer, as he stands and surveys the the tipsy array. High swooping roofs of thin tiles are a convention in this medieval village, with lovely gabled houses to be found in every square. Timber designs on the upper exteriors are covered partially by clinging vines, with flower boxes in every window filled with bright, cheery geraniums and peonies, and with wise old faces gazing placidly from their flowered bowers at the never ending passing show below give Rothenburg an irresistible appeal and flavor. Flowers wreath the fountains that are found in the grand Platzes’ completely enclosed with “roofy” old structures housing a Gasthaus and modern millinery shops , each with its own shining grillwork sign suspended over the street. Butchers, bakers, and broom stick makers walk lazily about in modern dress, but the past is far from forgotten, for if one is patient he is sure to see a peasant woman marketing in rustic dress of black , ankle length, and head protected from the blistering sun by a three cornered bandanna tied in a consistent style . Rattling hay wagons rumble continually over the aged street with colossal loads that barely scrape under and through gateway arches, as peasant women in working attire with white head coverings expertly control the swaying blubbering oxen-tractors of old Germany. Streets shoot perilously this way and that in the town’s lower reaches. each one filled with some bit of life found only n in byways steeped with age and color. Peeping through gateway cracks on almost any street one finds the quaintest of miniature barnyards filled with chickens strutting over the ever present pile of manure, above which sag barn roofs and walls. If one is interested in Rothenburg from the historical viewpoint, he will be amply rewarded by a visit to the Rathaus, steeped in drama and pageantry, for it was there that momentous decisions were made during the “Thirty Years War”. A magnificent Cathedral should satisfy fully the church lover, remodeled in the strict Gothic of its earliest years. Nearby is a lovely old “oriel window”, its window panes of early rough glass supported with lead molding. It was in these protruding corner glass enclosed balconies that the village gossips could watch three streets at once by merely turning their heads. There is much more to tell about medieval Rothernburg, for one can wander about for days, stumbling on something new with every turn. Our few short hours simply unfolded to us the most common of secrets which any traveler may find with little exertion. What lies behind those flower garlanded house fronts must be left until another time when we can snoop about with that genuine photographer’s cursedness which only develops through experience. These is just a brief survey of a grand old town described as we saw it on a Monday morning at an hour too early for the tourist hordes. Unfortunately, arriving on Sunday as we did, we found the town burdened with sightseers loaded to the hilts with cameras and tripods, so useless in a crowd. Busses loaded to capacity roared in and our all of the time. Our first impressions of Rothernburg in the press of humanity were disappointing as you would imagine, but how wonderful it wa early the next morning with not a tourist in sight and inhabitants going about their work just as has been done for centuries, with a few modern improvements of course. Evening in the Jugendherberge was grand. After a homemade supper we hiked to the summit of the hill opposite the town and enjoyed a gorgeous sunset as it tinted Rothenburg’s roofs with gold. The Cathedral dominated everything as in all of these villages and from our point of view, houses are dwarfed by the edifices’ spires. While sitting on the hostel balcony we managed to write a little before going to bed, taking time out to admire the old bridge in the evening light as it spans the Tauber. A few yards away, kartoffle and wurst (potatoes and weenie) are getting cold so I must close, and eat...(Completed in Heidelberg) 31....Stahleck Castle ..D It’s now almost 5 PM as we write here in the Kropsach Room of the finest youth hostel in Germany. Once badly demolished at the hands of French invaders, Stahleck Castle has been rebuilt expressly as a hostel in modern style, a fine sense of harmony being preserved between the old and the new. It is located high on a bluff and commands an impressive view of the Rhine, its sloping banks covered with a patch work of vineyards. The black slate roofs of Bachrach are directly below as are the Gothic ruins of an 18th century chapel, while up the valley to the rear vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see. This day has been very uncertain, as sunshine and rain competed. However, a north wind is blowing for the first time in many an eon, so we have high hopes for good weather ahead. As things look now we will take the train to somewhere near Almelo. Holland, forced to by the distance of almost 300 kilometers and by lack of time. We hope to hear from Mr. Bruening in Cologne as to future plans, but now to get on to present pressing business. Heidelberg, July 9 The morning dawned dull and rainy as usual, so after a breakfast of milk, jam, and too many “brotehen”, we spent the time writing, making the most of the impossible weather. Ted had picked up a bad cold which settled in his head, and was far from feeling top notch. Since scribbling does not produce a great appetite, a bowl of soup and milk sufficed for lunch at the hostel, after which we started out to see the sights, taking advantage of spasmodic showers and sunshine. Business came first. Ted’s black shoes had lost complete interest in life, but you would too if you had been stepped on for two yes, and the ”shuh” man said that they were irreparable, so we purchased new ones to keep the Lyon caravan on the move. We then walked up the Hauptstrasse and passed many student taverns so dark and cozy, their ceilings hung with decorative horns such as were used for drinking in :”the good old days” at the University, internationally famous not only as the oldest university in Germany, but as the leading institution of the world for the studies of medicine and chemistry. Its one main old administration building consumed our interest, its “student prison”: taking first prize. It seems that many years ago students who ran afoul of the law were locked up in these five or six rooms for various lengths of time according to the seriousness of their offenses. Their fare was supposedly bread and water, but friends brought them delicacies in honor of their escapades. The center of life seemed to radiate from this “heir heaven”. Everyone wished to be arrested at least once so that they could write their names and leave their photographs on the walls. You weren’t “one of them” unless your name could be found on the wall or ceiling, all in bright colors and illustrated with a candle smoke silhouette or photograph framed in wax. Many famous names are thus preserved, put there by youthful violators, and now are held in reverence. A few Americans managed to get their “John Henrys” there, of course, along with those of other nationalities. Inscriptions cover the place including one from Virgil, with that gentleman’s name placed beneath. The prize boner of the day came when a portly American lady in our group expressed great surprise that Virgil could have been imprisoned in this very cell. The University assembly hall was impressive for its deceptions, including memorials to the founders, Elector Ruptecht I and Carl Friedrich, giving the college its name of “Rupeto--SCarlo”. Plaques bearing noted Heidelberg professors’ names including that of Bunsen of “burner” fame, gave the room a real historic flavor. At the University office, we secured John Lyman and Bill Lang’s addresses and then called on them. No such person as Lang lived at the address given, and Lyman was not home, so we headed for the Castle of Heidelberg to see it while chances for sunshine were still good. The Friederichsbau or Castle of Heidelbrg is situated on a spur of the Konigstuhl just above the town and commanding a fine view of the Nechar Valley as it stretches out to meet the Rhine at Mannheim. Grounds are well laid out and beautifully kept, a super setting for an evening promenade. The castle was built in 1601, destroyed by the French, and partially restored of late. Its grand old gate and crumbling walls interested us, especially one big piece of fortification which had broken off and lay covered with moss and vines in the foliage-filled moat. The court yard in Italian design of the Renascence seemed strangely lonely, decorated with many staues and standing silhouetted against a black sky, the building’s interior having been entirely destroyed by fire. Preparations were in progress for the annual festival starting on July18th to be held in the castle courtyard. Middle age plays are presented there with all the necessary pageantry, and workmen were busy painting stage settings and costumes. Of the most interest to the the Lyon brothers was the great cask or “Heidelberg Tun”, largest wine barrel in the world. In fact it is so massive that a small dance floor has been constructed on top, with plenty of room for the orchestra inside. Its cellar room is built especially for it, and I’ll bet that it would have some grand stories to tell if its dust coated top could speak. Retuning to the Jugendherberge for a good night’ sleep we stopped for a moment to look a a sticking monument, telling of war and strife like so many we have seen throughout our journey in Germany. The German eagle stands on a marble pedestal on which is cut “Saar”. A broken chain hangs down, the other end fastened to an iron ball resting on the pavement. This represents the the recent reunion of “Saar” to Germany, referring to Alsace Lorraine, their chains to France having been broken. We find this spirit of hatred and desire for return of pre-war holdings kept alive in the youths everywhere in such monuments and wall inscriptions, even in the Jugendherberges. America has arrived in Germany. We see more Americans every day, including many boys in the hostel. Two brothers from River Forest, Illinois are pedaling a tandem through here, and they complained that they had not yet found a barber shop in Germany. This struck us as awfully funny because streets are lined with “Friseurs” barber signs, their shining silver and gold letters always proclaiming their trade. Dinner calls and I must hurry and close. Ted is screaming for sustenance. Your birthday cake was good Mom. Hope you take an extra piece of angel food for each of us D 32 Bachrach July 11 T Yesterday was Mother’s birthday and you are in our hearts with wishes for a happy one. To celebrate the day we bought a small chocolate frosted cake and took it with us into the Ratskeller last night for dinner. The Ratskeller in Mainz is not large, just plain and with a pleasant atmosphere. The beer was not good, but the food excellent and the lady in charge the same. And after the meal we called for knives and plates for the cake, but before she could fetch the plates the cake was almost finished. We carved into the chocolate, “Happy Birthday Mother”, but unfortunately there were no candles. We didn’t finish the celebration, however, but walked to an ice cream shop and enjoyed the rest in real style. Today we’ve been feeling the effects of that rich indulgence, but if Mother enjoyed this birthday that is all that counts Have many more please. In Heidelbgerg where we were two nights ago at the hostel, we were anxious to contact either John Lyman or Bill Lang from Stanford. Unable to find Lang we left a note at Lyman’s place and awaited results. Nothing turned up until yesterday morning. . As we finished breakfast, and were preparing to leave, John showed up. It was good to see him again. Although he is Zete but always lived in Encina Hall as the head counselor, I had met him at Stanford, yet I knew little of him, but he and Dick began slinging it right away. It is too bad that the Olympic officials deemed it necessary for him to return to the States in order to try out. He feels it isn’t worth it although he’d be a cinch for the shot-put. Well, he invited us for breakfast, our second, and we accepted. He uses a bicycle all of the time going to and from the chemistry lab where he works. John has an excellent location, a small room and he says it’s the best in Heidelberg. He is living with a family at home. We fully enjoyed our second breakfast of coffee, bread, jam, and fruit. He gave us a few tips on eating, for we’ve been consuming a lot of cheap bread and no butter, a bad idea. From now on we will watch our menu more carefully. It was interesting to talk with our host, swapping opinions and exchanging notes from home. He told us of a duel he saw where instead of using the long blades, the fighters used wide blades of an entirely different style. Both duelists were well covered up, except for hands and heads. The same was true for each second standing behind the duelist. The antagonists may hack or strike at each other four times in a round, at the end of which the seconds step in and halt things. There are about sixty of these rounds in the fight John saw, so it is long and time passes slowly. The boys get a bit cut up on hands and faces, but those scars seem to be the last word in good looks good over here. John told us that we have just missed the cherry season and it is still too early for grapes. What luck! He says there is very little student life, so romanticized in the past. Of course he drinks beer and wine with the boys in the inns around town. After a good hour’s visit we had to be moving on, so he escorted us a short distance, with an “Aufwiedersehn” as we left Heidelberg Our first view of the Rhine was had at the bridge at Mannheim. There it is just a big river with small steam tugs working upstream, but it was a bit of a thrill to us after all the days we have been riding toward it, We were starting into the wine country and wine houses increased as did vineyards Tomato and other vegetable plots with orchards of cherry and apple trees covered every inch of ground. We had lunch of milk and bread and a couple of oranges at Worms and moved on. We notice the towns becoming more plain and modern. From Worms to Mainz the river meanders down a wide green valley. Golden grain fields offer a contrast, willows and poplars along the banks, and silvery clouds pass along behind, always moving from south to north. It makes for unusually fine pictures when a steam tug chugs up the river in the foreground. We reached Mainz at 5 o’clock and found a room in a shabby Gasthaus, we e determined to get at least one good night’s sleep in peace and quiet. The beds were long and looked comfortable and we could not ask for anything more. After cleaning up we hiked into he city. Mainz is the capital of the Province of Rheinhessen, with 100,000 inhabitants. It is the center of the wine trade. It is also important industrially. We first went to the old market where numerous patrician houses stand, and then walked to the State Theater near which is the statue of Gutenberg. As we walked we realized that this is a very large city Usually the highway leads us into the center of a town, and if one wants to see the sights he must go off the beaten track. Here fine stores surrounded us no matter where we stood. We find the backeral windows enticing all of the time, just as the ice cream improves all of the time. After failing to find a means of entering the Cathedral, we looked for dinner and found it in the Rathskeller, there to fete Mom’s birthday. While in Mainz we became more aware of the military atmosphere. These people over here really mean business. From a bystander’s position it is all very interesting and perhaps disturbing Back to the Gastof and comfortable beds, although only a feather quilt covered us. Washing in cold water in the basin isn’t very good but if our clothes can take it so can we. Ted 34 Bad Godesberg July 12 D Our stay at Stahleck Castle Youth Hostel was a real treat. After one of the best night’s sleep in many a day, I was softly awakened this morning by the soft strains of music, evidently a radio or recording in the office. They are very strict in these hostels that way. Breakfast consisted of milk, bread, and jam. The hostel father showed us around the castle in a group. just as we were leaving and all packed up it started to rain. We ducked into a shelter until things let up, and then started off down the Rhein. We soon left Bachrach and its castle and towers behind and were pushing over the cobblestones and with special scenery everywhere. The castles are so situated that as one disappears behind, another shows up ahead. They are picturesque with battlements and a Nazi flag flying from the topmost parapet, sometimes silhouetted in the or against the green background of a vineyard wish we could have inspected each one in turn. but instead had to picked out one, the Stolzenfels Castle near Coblenz, just to give us an idea of what we re missing. It started to rain again bout noon, so we hurried back to a small town for the usual lunch of warm milk, bread, jam, pastry and ice cream. The strawberry ice cream seems best in this neck of the woods. About three o’clock we reached the entrance to Stolzenfeis. A handsome porter wanted to soak us 30 pfennings to watch our bike. We got him down to 20, and then had another older gentlemen keep them safe for 10. The entrance is beautiful. The buildings are on a hill overlooking the river and in order to reach it we took a path through a natural forest. The gate with drawbridge had the storybook appearance, and that was a perfect start. The guide told us in broken English that the place was built in 1252 by Archbishop Trier and then was destroyed by the French and rebuilt by Friederick Wilhelm IV in the 19th century. First we stepped into a lovely chapel, decorated with the finest of materials, and then we turned immediately into the wine cellar which looked more like a dining room with Gothic vaulting and valuable antique plates scattered around. From many points we had grand views of the Rhine Valley and framed glimpses of another castle across the way. We passed from the well-kept garden court up through Gothic arches and more vaulting into the main room where we had to put on large slippers over our shoes as in Japanese temples, and thus protect the floor. There were more rooms filled with exquisite pieces of workmanship, presents from Royalty to the Royalty that lived here once upon a time. There were inlaid tables shining golden goblets, carved ivory boxes, ancient beer mugs. and a mutated of equally interesting things. The guide kept throwing a bunch of dates and names at us, but these went over our heads as we tried to remember just the items themselves. We liked one room especially and were sorry we couldn’t get a picture of it. It was a sitting room in red, from the upholstery to the ceiling. The word “Royalty” seemed to be spelled out on every object. We saw the music room, the reception room, and the King’s bedroom but I wouldn’t have traded places with him. Even I slept diagonally, my feet would still stick out. These must have been small people, important or not. We passed through rooms around the courtyard and on our way out the guide pointed out the Coat of Arms of the Royal family After a short rest on the watch-tower, with its view, we walked back down the shaded path to bikes and then pedaled back on the cobblestone road. For various reasons we didn’t bother to linger in Coblenz but continued close to 5 o’clock and Bad Godesberg. We had met a kid on the road who was a good fellow and he directed us to our lodging, placed behind the city. Bad Godesberg is a watering place and health resort with a good climate. During the holidays the place is packed with √isitor taking the baths and the cures. By the time we got settled in the hostel, which is another model one, we were ready to eat. The lady in the kitchen said she would fix us up, so we sat promptly down. There was a real holiday crowd of from farms in the next room, and they had a band going full blast, a base drum setting the pace. It wasn’t the best atmosphere for eating, as the couples spun around the room, waltzing dangerously. There was a young fellow who decided we needed company, He sat down uninvited and started talking in German about his brother in Los Angeles, showing us photos of him. We wanted to eat but if we even looked his way he would immediately break in German that we didn’t comprehend. It’s difficult for us and frustrating when someone keeps asking us questions in German or talking in German when it must be obvious that we can’t understand. We're probably angry with ourselves for not doing a better job with the language. This crowd danced and was having such a good that the beer had to be given the credit. Two were cooing to each other in a corner and they were tight as ticks. The meal was good wish plenty of gravy as usual. For dessert we bought an ice cream across the street and then started for home before the door was locked, as usual, dead tired 33..Cologne July 14 T We arrived in Cologne yesterday afternoon after a short ride from Bad Godesberg. We got up early there, had breakfast with two amiable Englishmen, cleaned our beds and room, and started off just in time to hit a strong shower of rain. When it let up, we took a back road for a few miles through beautiful forest country to Bonn, where Beethoven was born. From there the road was mostly cobblestone but we still moved right along anxious to get to Cologne and find letters from home. As we were riding into the city, I was dreaming along at a good rate behind Dick. I was actually thinking about the coins Dr.Wintz had given us when on the dirty slippery pavement my bicycle dropped into a groove of a street car rail, and I was next off balance and on the ground sliding under the bike. Fortunately I wasn’t hurt beyond a few bruises but I looked up to see Dick turn around to look at me and he met the same fate. He was for sure a Lyon “on the ground”, lying on the ground(Pun?). As we picked ourselves up and rode on at a more careful pace, we thanked our lucky stars that we remained whole. At the American Express we found mail and eagerly read. I don’t know what we would do without this mail from home. Without a second look at the Cathedral or anything else we crossed the river and rode up to the hostel. As we pulled up at the door, there were two Americans near by so we talked and soon discovered that these same boys had crossed the Atlantic with Carl Barrow and Tim Sullivan. It was good to get the lowdown, and the letter from Carl sent to us by you, gave us the turn of their plans. They said that there is a blonde mixed up in Carl’s case so we will tread lightly. After a refreshing lunch at the hostel we walked across the bridge into the main part of town. Cologne(Koln) has 735,000 people, is the largest city in the Rhine Province and is one of the leading German trade centers. In our minds tourists also play an important role in the economy, for there are so many such. I think the River is most interesting, with truly grand bridges and busy steamer traffic carrying coal, lumber, and other cargoes moving against the stream. It is odd the way the tugs have to tip their funnels backwards in order to pass under the bridges. And there are two large bridges here. Historically, the Hohenzollern Bridge ranks first for it is the line the Allied troops passed over on their invasion, but from an engineering standpoint, the Hindenburg Bridge takes the cake. It is green and is constructed in so simple a fashion, at least to our eyes, that basic engineering principles take on the aura of art. Of course the Cathedral was quite wonderful. W had heard every form of opinion on from those who have been here before, but to it is great. The exterior is a mass of fancy decoration discolored to a dirty gray, but the inside is excellent. It took three generations of the same family to finish the work, and now, finally, decay is being found in the stonework from the sulfuric acid in the smoky gasses blanketing the city. Repairs are under way. The rest of the afternoon was used up attempting much and accomplishing little It was my turn to be outfitted. My blue sweater, which at last broke my fine job of patching the elbow, had to be replaced. But we looked in vain for a sweater, so back to patching. At the hostel we enjoyed a good dinner with our friends and then walked a block to see the sunset over the Rhine and the city. It made a wonderful sight with bridge, cathedral spires, the Rathaus tower, the rest of the jagged sky line, and last and most colorful, the river boat lights passing below. I forgot to mention our haircuts. Dick was firmly set on getting a short one so I followed suit by asking the barber to give me one that would last a month. But I got one that will last for two months. It’s a real “Deautscher.” While we were in the shop, one big fellow came in for a head shave, so common here. It was funny to see him rub his hand over his smooth head, hunting for bristles or peach fuzz. There are a lot of youths parading about the city. It seems so unusual to us to see the girls) (maedchen) in a standard dress, marching and singing a stiff yet spirited song. It is just too bad! We realize every day what a fortunate people we Americans are in matters of this kind. By the way, we came across another aggravating American tourist in the Cunard office. He didn’t know anything and didn’t care whose precious time he was taking up. He evidently felt he had enough money to allow his actions. All of the American, Danish, English, and other foreign boys have the same room here, so that is good. And good night. ?...Heilbrunn July 7 T I am writing in the Jugendherberge while fellows are reading and writing, or eating dinner of bread, butter, sausage, and bottled citronade. Outside there is a drama going n in the form of another terrific storm. Fellows have been coming in wet clear through,and it looks as if we are again in for it. This morning at Crailsheim we slept late, had breakfast of leftovers from dinner and got started in the morning sunshine at nine o’clock. The ride was not difficult but as the morning progressed we ran into some good sized hills and had to a lot of pumping. During this period we passed through the town of Hall, a truly lovely place with an old church, plenty of worn cobblestones, quaint blind alleys and river scenes with bridges and towers. We may have been heard to exclaim “Boy, isn’t this great!” as we explore such places. As noon came and passed we made the mistake of not stopping for lunch, but continued on in the hot sun until one o’clock and reached the town we had been heading for. I was really tired. My mind wasn’t clear, and I was thirsty! But after a good lunch and rest on a bench, I felt better. As we rode slowly and leisurely we entered many small hamlets, and there were others around us on each side. A barn, a fountain, a grilled work sign, a pump, cobblestones, hay, empty wagons, and a “cocky” rooster strutting over his domain, all combining to form a masterpiece of life. In the afternoon we saw our first corn, hogs, and vineyards. We are getting into the wine country. At four o’clock we approached Heilbronn, after a long coast down from the plateau we had been riding over. Some of the views were quite special. The patchwork of the fields over the rolling hills is always a joy to see. In Heilbronn the hostel was as usual on the other side of town, and after a lot of inquiring, we found it. We got settled after our usual standup wash and a good many drinks of cool water. Then, out into the town for fruit, our only desire at the time. We found apricots and oranges and enjoyed them with zest. You know, today it struck us that we have been away a very long time It will be mighty good to get back to America. The hostel father has just given us our beds. Nighty night...T 10 Brussels July 29? We’ve been in the first city of Belgium for only two hours, but how these two hours have been spent. Your letters forwarded along with some from Sally Ammen and Jean Booth were welcome and just the tonic we need as we enter a strange and somewhat bewildering city. We must look even stranger to the hurrying crowds for we were eyed and gaped at as though we had just escaped from the Ripley Believe or Not Museum. We must have looked especially comical today as we bounced over Brussels’ cobblestone main thoroughfares, damp and bespotted with mud with our packs ready to fall of at any moment, so loose have they become on the racks. Ted’s German shoes and my sandals stump them, not to mention the blue and red sweaters, just what the well-dressed gents do not wear here. These sweaters give us away at once to vendors who know tourists, even in Bavarian lederhosen and speaking German, so that English newspapers are thrust at us by these canny salesmen. Yellow sport shirts with hosentrager and leather shorts are a dead giveaway. But you know something? We are damned proud to be Americans, disreputable or not. 2 hours later with cheese and bread from the corner store before us we set to work. Tonight we sleep in real beds, after completely relaxing and, incidentally, getting cleaned in a hot bath. Jugendherberge life is temporarily over until we get to England so we are enjoying a new bit of comfort not at all hard to take. We must be in condition for Paris. Madame is expecting us for a few days, she writes, and we are looking forward to seeing this “entirely different city”. Outside it’s pouring cats and dogs but” So What” as we snuggle in our pension suite. 11 Brussels July 30 We’re in another country and how different it is from the rest. As we look out of the window I see weather beaten tile roofs, chimneys, and murky clouds, and that has been my impression of Belgium during the last two days. Now and then the sun comes through but just as often it is raining. The other evening in Bruges we heard the story of Belgium in the War and no battlefield could have been described more horribly. Through his tears the innkeeper kept repeating in a choking voice, “Fifty-two months in the trenches.” How our hearts went out to him. In contrast to that we listened to the carillon bells from the Belfry Tower all night long in our hostel, and with morning we were ready to move on again. It was not long before our bags were packed and we were eating eggs on toast in a Swiss Patisserie. After taking a few pictures along the canals, we left the city and took the path along the main canal to Ghent. We had been told by an American that we would find houses along the way where we could purchase lace, but none presented themselves. After several unsuccessful attempts at different peasant houses, we found a place that said “dentelle”. From a small suitcase the lady brought out several patterns. We purchased two that seemed to the best, thanking her for her trouble. It was an interesting experience. Lace is used here a great deal in curtains, chair covers, table pieces, and in many other ways. The furniture and decorations seem to be all wearing out. The atmosphere is not clean and the people aren’t either. Houses are of brick or stone with several coats of whitewash, and the roof is tiled. Usually there are some semblances of a garden in front and always there is a barnyard at the rear. It looked to us like the genuine thing we were looking is where only a bicycle and canal boat could easily go, and the expected vibrant peasant life is rare to see. The canal ride was much the same all; of the way. Tall trees, dirty water and in puddles, green fields, and barges being towed are my impressions. I know that i was feeling rather low after days of riding and not very healthy eating, so I didn’t enjoy things as much as I would have if feeling fresh. Then the rain began so we slushed and dodged puddles all of the way to Ghent. About noon we arrived there. The first need was for food, and then to see the sights. We found a clean looking restaurant near the castle and fully enjoyed a good meal. However, we weren’t satisfied and had to finish off with some bread and butter in a nearby bakery. The first of our sightseeing tour ws the Chateau de Comptes de Flandre, a picturesque castle dating from the 9th to 11 th centuries. It is the best preserved castle that we have seen, and more like the one we dream about and now finally find. The torture room was the most interesting but a few looks at the guillotine blades, gruesome drawings, and bone-breakers finished me off. It was not the best thing to see after lunch. More enjoyable were the banquet halls and reception rooms, but best of all was the view from the roof of the city with its fancy medieval style tall church steeples, canals, bridges, dirty roofs and smoke. It was an unusual combination to our eyes. When the sun finally came out after a heavy shower, everything took on a more wholesome aspect as tower and battlements seemed to shine. Not far away on one of the main squares stands the Cathedral of St. Bavon, unattractive from the outside but with a wonderful interior. It reminded of a Rome church and we enjoyed seeing the familiar painting, ”Adoration of the Lamb,” so very famous. In the city once more we were struck with how “old” is everything. Modern buildings are absent and even the bicycles seem ancient. Only Oldsmobiles looked new. We bumped over the cobblestones and out of the city and took the poor bicycle path to Brussels. It rained a great deal of the way and my tire came down with a slow leak, needing attention every few kilometers. Now we particularly noticed how poorly dressed and unclean were the people along the road, cyclers included. A rough cap, a dark muffler, and a dirty sweater make the picture. Of the ride itself I remember that we were hurrying to get to Brussels and mail, and that there were hills making it harder without gears. And the cobblestones were overpowering. I often wonder where these stones have all come from. At bout 5 o’clock Brussels arrived and we waded through traffic to American Express. At the tourist office we read your good letters. How we look forward to them! However our clothes and shoes were wet and remembering the cold I had in Heidelberg from wet shoes, we hurriedly found a pension in the Hand Me Down and rode to it. The proprietor is OK and the price reasonable. And the room looked like a repeat of the night we spent in Bruges. A bath and clean clothes pit us back in the running. After a dinner which didn’t please our appetites we walked out and returned with bread and cheese for a follow up, which reminds me that Dick wishes it to be known that he now likes cheese. What a wonderful thing is travel. Our first impressions of Brussels have been unusually good. It seems much cleaner than the Belgian cities this far. There are scads of good looking American automobiles and the main boulevards are lined with sidewalk restaurants. The traffic is heavy, and well-dressed people make us think of Paris for it is so different from Ghent and Bruges. We notice that almost everyone speaks French, and French influence seems dominant. Perhaps this makes the difference. Well, in a day or so we’ll be in Paris. We received word from Mme. Chibou in answer to our not saying she is expecting us for a few days in her home. That is wonderful news. T 13 Brussels July 30 T Evening is coming on and we have our window open an can hear someone’s radio. We have been on our feet most of the day trying to absorb something of this large city. We wrote letters until 10;30 this morning. Then we started out to seek our fortunes. There is not a great deal to say about Brussels. One day of course is hardly enough to know the city. We have noticed many monuments to the dead scattered throughout the city. The buildings in the older part of town are even now decrepit, their dirty exteriors, still impressive and aristocratic. Big boulevards bordered by shops, cinemas, restaurants and large stores run for a good distance all through the city. On the morning wandering we visited the Town Hall and adjoining square. The Hall we liked very much for its Gothic style. and the whole square is considered one of the finest in Europe. In the Town Hall a French guide led us through highly ornamental rooms where Maximillian and other historic figures are portrayed. The Gothic hall with its Guild flags was colorful. Outside and surrounding other parts of the square are the Guild Houses, restored to their original medieval designs demanding an abundance of gold leaf. The small group of flower stands in the center with their colors added a great deal scene. Just of the main street we found a simple appearing restaurant, just a bar, pool room, and beer hall, and enjoyed good lunch. Ice cream and pastry around the corner served to satisfy us a bit more. These French meals are not as filling as the Dutch. After lunch we browsed, looking in shop windows. admiring the lace and wondering if it is really genuine. Earlier in the day we had tried unsuccessfully to contact the Rotary President, so again we tried and found him. After a short conversation in French he wished us “Good Luck” and we went on with our business. Railroad tickets, shirts, envelopes, iodine, black thread, a comb, and ice cream all took their share of the bankroll. Five o’clock found us in a restaurant of the big department store, having dinner in style followed by ice cream and the walk back to the pension. The ice cream here is good and we enjoy it like some people enjoy beer. On the way we purchased a good looking apricot pie and have just finished this delicious morsel in our room. Well, tomorrow it is Paris and hope it won’t disappoint us. T 15 Paris August 2 T You may be interested to know just where I am writing on our second full day in Paris. It is a long story on how we got here. Alone, in this comfortable attic room in this old aristocratic house we have an unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower and and the entire west section of irregular roofs. At night the Tower is lighted and to the right is the Seine, and the light form the gardens at the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine cut its way long ago. Below and cross the street one would suspect that there are lovely gardens and carriage yards within closed doors. Last night it rained again so we took a cheap hotel and made the best of it. This morning we got up early, cleaned our bikes and had hot chocolate and rolls at a counter nearby. Then we decided to get going on our business and introductions. We found Mr. Beranger;’s address to be near and were soon ushered into his beautiful apartment. We had come to merely pay our respects. In a few minutes Mr. Beranger appeared, dressed informally and with a bandage over one eye. He and his wife had been in an auto accident in Egypt. His wife is in Berlin, recovering slowly, and he has just been operated on here in Paris. It seems that in Egypt a native with no sense of the road threw himself in front of the car. Luckily the car was not going fast, but had to swerve and hit a tree as it missed the man. In the first few minutes of our meeting we were fully at ease. What a marvelous host he is. First he asked where we were staying, and then invited us to take two rooms upstairs in his house. No questions were needed, and we were overwhelmed. He also presented us with half-price passes to the Casino de Paris, Follies Bergere and others, all of which we will use. We were then introduced to his brother, Harry, who is also a swell guy, and we liked so much the woman secretary who set about looking out for us. Out host has his office at home, and he is a collector and connoisseur of oriental, particularly Siamese, antiquities. His rooms are so beautifully furnished in that style. We hurried back to the hotel to get our things, paid the bill, and returned. Before lunch we got into our rooms after a half hour discovering the keys. Finally, Shido the Japanese cook got us in and we flipped for the rooms. Dick took the upper and I the lower, both with wonderful views. We live on the top floor up 6 flights of back stairs and we love it. The climb keeps us in condition, for what we are not sure. Since the Japanese boy uses my room usually, it is nicely furnished in his country’s style. “Maintenant” we ate a most delicious lunch with our two hosts and a lady guest who is studying the art of makeup in Paris and who will later return to new York to fill an important position there. The broiled chicken, something far better than we deserve, was absolutely perfect and I shall never forget the final custard for it melted in my mouth. This Japanese cook has been in the finest kitchens in Paris and knows his onions and sauces, adding to his knowledge of oriental seasoning and cooking. After lunch, following our host’s advice, we took a walk to aquatint ourselves with the city. We started at the Gardens of the Tuillerries just across the river, where statuary and fountains and formal garden floral arrangements abound. At the Place de la Concorde, which Monsieur Beranger describes as the finest in the world of its kind we stood looking past it to the Arch de Triumphe, the obelisk from Luxor and at each of the four corners of the square the two figures representing the cities of France. Although all is changed since the Revolution, there is still a “mob” always encircling the square, not of people but of speeding taxis. From the “Place” we walked down the boulevard leading to the Arch. Formal shaded gardens give way to automobile display windows and sidewalk cafes, but fashionably dressed women and beret covered men were always with us. As we approached the Arch, it was like visiting an old friend because it is so familiar. Under the Arch we paid our respects to the Unknown Soldier of the World War. As we continued on towards the Eiffel Tower the clouds began to disperse and form beautifully behind it. What a mass of iron it is, almost 1000 feet high and dominating everything. We found our way back to our residence by use of our map and in a short time were eating dinner Mr. Beranger had ordered special steaks and fried potatoes for us. He is such a remarkable and thoughtful host. After dinner we walked again to t the Place de la Concorde, now brilliantly lighted and took some pictures. About eleven we stopped at an open air restaurant and enjoyed a hot cup of chocolate. But even more enjoyable and fascinating were the people around and going by us. That is what makes Paris unique, for you can order something to drink and sit there undisturbed by waiters for as long as you wish just ruminating. At midnight we walked slowly along the Seine and to our “penthouse’ and had little trouble dropping off to sleep. 16 Paris August 16 We are sitting high in our Paris garret roost looking out over a roof and chimney scene that was once the aristocratic center of this gayest of cities. Every morning Mr. Eiffel Tower is up ahead of us, greeting us each day in the same cordial unspoken manner while wading ankle deep in sedate old Paris. He seems like an old fried now, always the first to venture a “ Bon Matin.” All around us are grand mansions rising five and six stories, their sandstone exteriors now weather beaten grays and blacks, and to the casual eye of seemingly monotonous design. But if one were to peek through the massive timber doors opening into shaded streets, he would find lovely courtyards in kingly style with miniature gardens and trembling trees. It is in these city center courts that Paris aristocrats have their own tiny words, many still occupying ancestral mansions. AUGUST 2..... After a super night’s sleep in our chambers just seven stories up we enjoyed an even more super breakfast in the Beranger “salle a mange,” and in the saturated atmosphere of Beranger hospitality. “Petite dejeuner in this house hold is a premier experience. Mr. Beranger is just like a bouncing bal, always running about seeing to his guest’s needs. Shide, the unsurpassed Japanese cook, takes a real beating as he is kept continually on the run, fetching more croissons, jam, tea, or butter. What a picture this table is with the Beranger brothers in their dressing gowns both goading us on to greater eating records, to the accompaniment of chuckles and explosive laughter. And we enjoy each morsel of such delicacies as ham and eggs. These men are what we term “good guys” and what better recommendations can we give? With all his tremendous business responsibilities-he is head of Standard Oil for Europe-and banged up head, Malcom Branger (Bear-an jay) gets a real honest to goodness kick out of life and surely knows the avenue to a lad’s heart. Boy, would you, Dad and our host have a good time slinging it. At breakfast also was a Mr.Ballantyne, a leading London lawyer, and his ten year old daughter Jean. She’s a real little lady, and just about your speed Bruce. With real Beranger hospitality they have been put up for the weekend too and are among the lucky ones to take part in these morning breakfast festivities. Every chance we get we pump our friends on Intentional political and economic questions. A few minutes of wisdom from Mr. Ballantyne added greatly to our fund of information. It’s the break of a lifetime to be able to listen to such well informed men, Mr. Ballantyne being an authority on problems facing Europe. On the first Sunday of each month the fountains of Versailles play from 4 to 5 PM, so at 11 o’clock, Jean, Ted and Irma, an American friend of Harry studying cosmetics here, set out under the able guidance of Harry Beranger also of the hearty laugh, and well qualified as a guide, as just one the many professions he has delved into. I am sure that he slept well that night after answering our incessant questions such as “What period is this. and “why” questions for hours. The day was overcast as usual, again much to our disappointment, but hopes were high for a little sunshine when the fountains would play. A short train ride deposited us at the town of Versailles, were we walked about a bit before summoning a taxi to take us to the Gardens. The entire plan of city and palace grounds is a marvelous accomplishment. Louis XIV laid out a system of streets that should stand as a model in this present day of congested traffic. Three broad tree lined avenues lead away from the spacious palace courtyard, sufficed and designed as though expressly for heavy high-speed traffic. We found it difficult to picture the pomp and splendor that must have filled the rough cobblestone courtyard, so great were the throngs of people streaming through wrought iron gates into the palace grounds, for Versailles fountains displays are a rarity even for Parisians these days, There is so much that can be said about the palace and gardens that I can’t possibly even begin. It is all in the guide books and encyclopedias, though so I will sketch just a few of our impressions. Lying in h northern extremity of Versailles Gardens are the Grand and Petite Trianons, the first a palace built for Madame Maintenon by Louise XIV, and the second a palace for Madame du Bovery built by Louis V. Simplicity in exterior design sets the fashion in both miniature palaces. After a quick survey of the Grand Trianon’s furnishings all in keeping with the magnificence of that period, we strolled though the lovely palace gardens planted in the usual formal French style, but of unusual beauty, so harmonious now are the colors. Tiny fountains form center-pieces for each tableau, the entire display bounded by forests of broad leafed trees. After a few “snaps” and we then entered the Petite Trianon, now famous for the fact that Marie Antoinette chose this palace as her favorite residence. Style and design are forgotten as one enjoys just grandeur of what man has produced from a simple farm and forest land during the reign of Louis Quatorze. Of special interest to us were the forms of peasant houses built and used by Marie Antoinette when she tired of the court pomp and splendor. Thatch roofs and half timber designs, replete with balconies garlanded with flowers, a tiny mirror lake e slightly ruffled by geese and ducks, and a forest peacefulness characterize this loveliest part, we think, of the Versailles Gardens. Lunch in a down town cafe was another unmatched experience. Harry ordered for us what he called a real French meal. We ate everything from sausages of pig’s blood to pigs feet, not to mention the hoggish feeling this produced as we filled up. Our waitress informed us that the Tour de France, greatest of bike races, would pass by at three o’clock, so we lined up with the mob outside and waited anxiously for our bother cyclers to round the bend. At 4 o’clock they showed up working like Trojans over the cobblestone pavement as the final stretch to Paris begins. Two hundred kilometers a day to these fellows is duck soup and they seemed to need no encouragement, looking as fresh as daisies. All carried a spare tire around their chests, but from the closeness of the race, I am sure that “time to retire” was not in anyone’s mind, Lynch finally finished at four fifteen and we hurried off to the Chateau to inspect this home of unqualified splendor. We enjoyed every bit of the gorgeous display even though rooms and halls were packed to capacity with the Sunday crowd, including some 5000 Canadian legionares. Kingly chambers, and banquet halls all in gold leaf, and artistic masterpieces all seemed as fresh as the day they were created. Louis XIV ultra heavy designs dwindled almost to simplicity in the great “Gallerie des Glace” with all of the mirrors, a luxury worthy of only the greatest of monarchs in Lous Quatorze’ day. It was in this magnificent reception salon that many a bit of history has been made, including the signing of the Versailles Treaty the articles that have shaken the foundations of the world’s political and economic foundations. Fountains were playing as we stepped outside in the world’s grandest of gardens. Hardy had we taken three steps when the “pat,pat,pat” of raindrops announced stormy weather. However, we had come to see the fountains and a little bad weather would not deter are determination to enjoy the display. The fountains of Versailles are familiar to all of us and photographs will have to do. Bronze figures and pool floral displays add to the majesty at that moment, yet we are sure we saw Versailles in its most disagreeable mood, its paths crowded with people. With clothes and flowers dampened equally by the constant drizzle, we did the best we could to imagine the sight on a sunny day, and with just a few souls walking about. Pure fantasy for sure, but Ted and I are quite used to getting more than our money’s worth even if the price it too high when the product is wet. We hope we can return with the sun up but won’t count on it. Wet or not it has been a day to remember with friends and food the high spots above the water line. I must close now for we have a dinner engagement with Mr. Franck. There is still a lot more to tell. |
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