Golf was in the air last week with the 37th Ryder Cup being contested in Kentucky. This biennial event pitches the best men players from America against the Europeans. It’s all great fun.
Out of sight but not out of mind has been the Women’s Professional Tour or the LPGA. Last week the LPGA dropped plans to suspend players who are not conversant in English by 2009. About 120 women players are foreign born – many from Japan or Korea.
Without sufficient English they can’t handle interviews, talk to fans or ~ worse yet ~ appear in commercials to promote golf balls, pantyhose, toothpaste and the other essentials of modern life. In other words, if you wanna play for us ~ ya gotta speak English.
The intention of the LPGA English-only policy was to help Shi Yi, Mi Hyun Kim, Ying-Yang and others enhance financial opportunities for themselves, their sponsors, TV stations and the tax coffers of various nations.
Under pressure from civil liberties groups the LPGA has now dropped this policy. Has anyone thought of asking the half dozen well known golf commentators to learn Korean or Japanese so they could do a quick simultaneous translation on the air? Just 30 seconds or so about the tee shot they hooked (fore!) or the tricky cross wind around the 15th hole? That’s it.
This would show respect to the individual players and their native language and dazzle monolingual American viewers with some bilingual conversation ~ which is the norm around the world these days.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The etiquette train
It’s tricky business riding European trains these days ~ as I found myself doing last week.
Modern carriages have a single aisle down the middle with two seats on one side and two opposite. You only have to rub elbows with one neighbor. Open your newspaper and that’s that.
However, you might also board an older train with compartments ~ each with 6 places. Passengers push each other down the narrow corridor checking out the compact compartments for the best seating. This is group travel, after all.
In #3 a scruffy old man is asleep, an unlaced shoe half off. A party of teenagers sprawled over each other occupy the next. A family with big suitcases and crying babies are in #8.
I settle for #12. Empty in Eindhoven where I begin my journey. Soon the compartment fills up. An attractive young lady sits opposite me by the window. She’s dressed smartly and carries an expensive laptop case. She’s wearing a black pendant hanging against her white blouse.
Several students get on and talk ceaselessly in Dutch and French. One girl is wearing an Islamic headscarf. An English businessman is up and down trying to get a strong signal for his cell phone. Nigel? It’s Ian here. I’m going to miss the meeting. My flight was cancelled in Frankfurt and they’ve put me on a bloody train. Where am I? Looks like Holland – lots or rain outside.
An elderly Dutch woman shoves her way into the vacant middle seat and announces ‘good afternoon’ to no one in particular. She’s dressed in walking shoes, a heavy sweater and is armed with a short umbrella. She smells of fresh air and pours herself a cup of coffee from a hidden source.
The social dynamics change at each stop. You almost need a little book of etiquette - not unlike the train schedules that people used to carry in their pockets. Soon the others are gone and the young woman and I are alone. I need to stretch my legs and in doing so I bump her foot. She looks over at me – her head bobbing with some tune in her earphone – smiles encouragingly and says something in Dutch.
In the long tunnel past Dordrecht, I nod off and doze. I imagine the two of us on the old Orient Express. The lights flicker and go out. Suddenly, there’s a loud noise in the next compartment and the young woman seeks comfort in my arms. In the middle of night we get off in some forgotten Balkan town where there’s a hotel behind the small station. There is one room available and I give the tired clerk behind the counter some crumpled Romanian bills from my wallet.
Rude, screeching brakes awake me from my slumber. The compartment is empty, my pretty, young companion and her pendant and fancy laptop case are gone. When did she get off? Outside it is raining and through the mist I see the sign for Rotterdam – my destination.
Modern carriages have a single aisle down the middle with two seats on one side and two opposite. You only have to rub elbows with one neighbor. Open your newspaper and that’s that.
However, you might also board an older train with compartments ~ each with 6 places. Passengers push each other down the narrow corridor checking out the compact compartments for the best seating. This is group travel, after all.
In #3 a scruffy old man is asleep, an unlaced shoe half off. A party of teenagers sprawled over each other occupy the next. A family with big suitcases and crying babies are in #8.
I settle for #12. Empty in Eindhoven where I begin my journey. Soon the compartment fills up. An attractive young lady sits opposite me by the window. She’s dressed smartly and carries an expensive laptop case. She’s wearing a black pendant hanging against her white blouse.
Several students get on and talk ceaselessly in Dutch and French. One girl is wearing an Islamic headscarf. An English businessman is up and down trying to get a strong signal for his cell phone. Nigel? It’s Ian here. I’m going to miss the meeting. My flight was cancelled in Frankfurt and they’ve put me on a bloody train. Where am I? Looks like Holland – lots or rain outside.
An elderly Dutch woman shoves her way into the vacant middle seat and announces ‘good afternoon’ to no one in particular. She’s dressed in walking shoes, a heavy sweater and is armed with a short umbrella. She smells of fresh air and pours herself a cup of coffee from a hidden source.
The social dynamics change at each stop. You almost need a little book of etiquette - not unlike the train schedules that people used to carry in their pockets. Soon the others are gone and the young woman and I are alone. I need to stretch my legs and in doing so I bump her foot. She looks over at me – her head bobbing with some tune in her earphone – smiles encouragingly and says something in Dutch.
In the long tunnel past Dordrecht, I nod off and doze. I imagine the two of us on the old Orient Express. The lights flicker and go out. Suddenly, there’s a loud noise in the next compartment and the young woman seeks comfort in my arms. In the middle of night we get off in some forgotten Balkan town where there’s a hotel behind the small station. There is one room available and I give the tired clerk behind the counter some crumpled Romanian bills from my wallet.
Rude, screeching brakes awake me from my slumber. The compartment is empty, my pretty, young companion and her pendant and fancy laptop case are gone. When did she get off? Outside it is raining and through the mist I see the sign for Rotterdam – my destination.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Passing by Tilburg
From Rotterdam the train runs south over the busy Maas River which itself is dwarfed minutes later by the wide expanse of the Rhine estuary.
North Sea weather moves quickly over these waterly lowlands bringing alternate sheets of rain or bursts of sunshine. There is a cool touch of autumn in the air today.
The train curves gently to the east leaving the mainline behind. In the distance a church steeple marks a small village. Green fields rush past the window. This one is full of tall corn ready for harvest. Big, fat cows occupy the next stretch, laying heavily in the damp grass, tails twitching.
Near Breda the fields give way to a new industrial park built in the Dutch style: low-impact, glass and chrome, each building separated by a small canal. Order and balance.
Beyond Tilburg, the woody terrain of eastern Holland begins. A lazy river meanders between the trees. A lone fisherman sits huddled in his waterproof cape. Geese rise up at the noise of school boys riding bikes along the path. On the horizon a bank of dark, ominous clouds signal a rainy evening.
North Sea weather moves quickly over these waterly lowlands bringing alternate sheets of rain or bursts of sunshine. There is a cool touch of autumn in the air today.
The train curves gently to the east leaving the mainline behind. In the distance a church steeple marks a small village. Green fields rush past the window. This one is full of tall corn ready for harvest. Big, fat cows occupy the next stretch, laying heavily in the damp grass, tails twitching.
Near Breda the fields give way to a new industrial park built in the Dutch style: low-impact, glass and chrome, each building separated by a small canal. Order and balance.
Beyond Tilburg, the woody terrain of eastern Holland begins. A lazy river meanders between the trees. A lone fisherman sits huddled in his waterproof cape. Geese rise up at the noise of school boys riding bikes along the path. On the horizon a bank of dark, ominous clouds signal a rainy evening.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Route 66
Last week was truly a busman’s holiday ~ fitting in a trip between other trips. Frequent flyer miles waiting to be redeemed and that most precious of all commodities ~ time, the last of the summer-time, as it were. And a few days out west.
The West.
Those two small words conjure up high romance for a boy brought up in New England. I can vaguely remember my parents talking about my oldest cousin Margie who married a New York salesman in 1955 and then moved “out west”. Such an unimaginable place back then. Beyond my small mind ~ even beyond the Connecticut and Hudson Rivers, both of which I had seen as a boy. Margie and Ralph settled in California.
So there we were last week in Northern Arizona ~ the West (for us eastern Floridians). A few drinks at the Zane Grey Bar on Saturday night at the old Weatherford Hotel in Flagstaff. The rodeo is in town so the restaurants are full. Go west young man ~ now quickly on I-40 ~ across the high hills around the San Francisco Mountains. Driving west you cannot miss ~ every 20 minutes ~ the long trains of the Santa Fe railway running next to the ribbon of a small track ~ the Mother Road ~ old Route 66.
This road was a major path of the migrants who went west during the first half of the 20th century. John Steinbeck and his Tom Joad would have gone this way. People doing business along the route did well due to the increasing popularity of the highway and the affordability of the automobile. Not so much anymore.
We stopped in Seligman, a place which nicely reflects the glory days of the old road, parked by the tacky ‘Road Kill Grill’ ~ still doing business, thank you, and by several cheap motels. Now there’s Angel Delgadillo’s memorabilia store with the classic ‘Texaco T’ gas sign.
Angelo is there to greet you with a big grin and handshake. He helped found the Historic Route 66 Association and half saved these small, lovely towns. He was born in 1926. Angel and his brothers and sisters grew up watching the traffic flow by on America's Main Street. It was a dirt road then.
A poster in his window, of an antique cars show, philosophically pronounces: the road is it – the road is America.
The West.
Those two small words conjure up high romance for a boy brought up in New England. I can vaguely remember my parents talking about my oldest cousin Margie who married a New York salesman in 1955 and then moved “out west”. Such an unimaginable place back then. Beyond my small mind ~ even beyond the Connecticut and Hudson Rivers, both of which I had seen as a boy. Margie and Ralph settled in California.
So there we were last week in Northern Arizona ~ the West (for us eastern Floridians). A few drinks at the Zane Grey Bar on Saturday night at the old Weatherford Hotel in Flagstaff. The rodeo is in town so the restaurants are full. Go west young man ~ now quickly on I-40 ~ across the high hills around the San Francisco Mountains. Driving west you cannot miss ~ every 20 minutes ~ the long trains of the Santa Fe railway running next to the ribbon of a small track ~ the Mother Road ~ old Route 66.
This road was a major path of the migrants who went west during the first half of the 20th century. John Steinbeck and his Tom Joad would have gone this way. People doing business along the route did well due to the increasing popularity of the highway and the affordability of the automobile. Not so much anymore.
We stopped in Seligman, a place which nicely reflects the glory days of the old road, parked by the tacky ‘Road Kill Grill’ ~ still doing business, thank you, and by several cheap motels. Now there’s Angel Delgadillo’s memorabilia store with the classic ‘Texaco T’ gas sign.
Angelo is there to greet you with a big grin and handshake. He helped found the Historic Route 66 Association and half saved these small, lovely towns. He was born in 1926. Angel and his brothers and sisters grew up watching the traffic flow by on America's Main Street. It was a dirt road then.
A poster in his window, of an antique cars show, philosophically pronounces: the road is it – the road is America.
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