P.N.ZOYTLOW

On a day as close to the Summer Solstice as could be arranged by this Observer and The Driver (who happens to be a geographic romantic), an exploratory effort was launched to get to the Truth of the Matter Concerning the Geographic Center of the North American Continent. To do so meant to spend long hours on the roadways of North Dakota, a place of ineffable mystery unusual in the United States. Many may look to Monument Valley of Arizona or the Staked Plains of Texas as American Loci of Mystery. The most consistent mystery is the near entirety of the State of North Dakota, a topic too broad for a Field Report.

The small city of Rugby in the North Central region of that state, population at the last census approximately 3000, was founded in the 1880s as a point on the Great Northern Railroad. The oddly English name reflects the tastes of railroad executives of the time who wished to attach European connotations to places on the frontier in hopes of reassuring immigrants, the hoped-for developers of the Great Plains. Rugby became a center of Scandinavian and Germanic settlement as did most of North Dakota.

What does it matter just where the center of a continent is?  In this case, one must be curious about curiosity itself, for there seems no other reason for anyone to bother finding the midpoint of a continent other than its merely being there.  We must assume that the United States Geological Survey had a reason for establishing, in 1931, the middle of the North American Continent. That reasoning is admittedly flawed, for many authorities agree that the middle of any continent is quite likely impossible to determine. To do so one must assume that the continent is a flat disc, like a dinner plate. Imagine that you must now balance that plate perfectly on a nail. Probably you would hold your breath and avoid moving your hands too quickly lest some wisp of moving air disturb the project. But these are minor problems when it comes to balancing a continent. Still, at Rugby, there stands a stone monument with a golden ball on top which might, in theory,  suspend a static and centralized continent at its midpoint. Forget about the disturbing questions: just what are the boundaries of North America?  What about islands off-shore thought to be part of the continent? What happens if the shape of the continent changes due to geological activity such as volcanos, earthquakes, or deposits at river deltas?  The unsatisfying nature of this “center” was underscored by a nearby directional sign which pointed out that the visitor stood 1450 miles south of the Arctic Circle in Canada, 2090 miles north of Acapulco in Mexico and, respectively, 1100 miles east a point in Washington State and 1500 miles west of a place on the coast of Maine. Purists would want to know how Panama and Alaska figured into this calculation.

One has the sense that Rugby has made its peace with these questions.  At the Cornerstone Cafe, on whose parking lot the monument to the Center stands, this Observer, assisted by The Driver, attempted to interview some locals as to the significance of sitting scant yards from the balancing point where the mass of cities, rivers, mountains, swamps, and suburbs that made up a continent might by perched on the golden metal ball.  However, authentic locals were not in abundance. One learned that the Cornerstone Cafe was run by a family recently arrived from California and lately self-reinvented as Dakotans. An employee (from the South) refilling ketchup sqeeze bottles grumbled about the cold winters and the coldness of Dakotans. She spoke of a forthcoming visit to the hot and humid lands back home where one could acquire a “savage tan” as she put it. These people had little interest or affection for Rugby’s fame as a singular geological place excepting the three elderly men seated in a booth, throwing dice with a leather cup. Yes, they nodded, this is the place, though one recalled how the monument had once been on the other side of the highway and had to be moved during some construction to widen the road.  It did not seem to matter where it was placed. These gentlemen were reluctant to talk much about this feature of their hometown, perhaps an indifference born of many years of answering questions from oddly intrigued visitors from the non-centered portions of the continent (meaning everywhere else).   Furthermore, added one, a deeply-tanned man with a Cenex Oil cap, the true center wasn’t in Rugby at all: it was to the south, somewhere near a place called Balta.

This was not news, but you did want to hear it from the locals. Their diffidence disappointed the Observer who had hoped for a sort of swagger by these True Centrists. It begged a question: why this concern for geographical centers anyway?   Nowhere in the literature of the various earth sciences was there any suggestion that any of it mattered in any sense.   A zero.

To the Rugbyites who spoke of the matter at all, the duality of sharing the truth and selling mementos about Rugby-as-Center was not a problem. At the tourist office across the highway from the cafe, the polite staff readily concurred that the Center was near Balta, specifically in a lake west of that community. Supposedly there was a marker in the lake which might be visible if you had a boat and if the water was low enough this year. They were most helpful and even provided a small map which would direct purists (which we were) to the spot.  Whatever Rugby really was, it was not the home of charlatans and cover-up artists.

So, on to Balta. Fifteen or so miles south along the corn and wheat and we were there. Population about 62 and declining. No humans or dogs were in sight. Noted as one enters the town was a sign announcing “Balta. Gateway to Adventure and Beyond.”  Of the village’s four or five streets, three were named after places in Poland (Lublin) or Ukraine ( Kiev, Volga). At the crossroads, a tavern, and down the street a church without a name, presumably Catholic.  A small concrete figure of a seated African American holding a potted plant was the only representation of a human being in the place. [Digression: why does a town which the census reports as 98.6% Caucasian have a Black garden statue as its most singular adornment?] The Black man with the red hat and the blue shirt at the Center of the Continent!  Who would have imagined such an arguable incongruity there, holding up the center of things? But, recall the earlier statement that North Dakota is a place of mystery.

Yes, Balta is as desolate and as stunningly empty as much of North Dakota. Quiet to the point of soundlessness. Lingering in Balta is uncomfortable. On the southwestern corner of tin the center of this village stands an old school bell mounted on a slab of concrete. “Balta, Home of the Bobcats” and the inscription:

“Balta School Bell. Dedicated To All Alumni Who have Answered  Its Call and Carried Its Message Throughout The Years”

With all this signage at the main intersection, would one not have also hoped for some show of interest in Balta’s critical location in the grand scheme of planetary relationships?  Nor were there any signs pointing the way to that swamped marker in some shallow pond somewhere west of town, the area that must be the “beyond” that sign announced. Beyond: there be Monsters in those Parts. Somehow, walking into the Balta Bar and Grill on the corner across from the school bell seemed intrusive and not likely to yield any more Centrist boosterism than Rugby had shown.

The time was up. Most of it had been spent in that false center, Rugby, and not much more seemed required in the disturbing solitude of Balta. In the souvenir shops in Rugby one learned that the abstract center was a draw for tourists, those crossing the vast continent who wanted to contemplate, in some way, their momentary centrality in time and space. It was less than that for those who lived there.

Returning, away from the Center, The Observer and The Driver were again  immersed themselves in the expansiveness of the landscape. The shadows of small plump clouds in procession across the fields, the flatness and occasional undulations of this open country, the earth-toned ribbons of roads under a sky so vast that you knew this was a planet, a ball in the cosmos.

Las Vegas is a rich in the mythology of America. Located unexpectedly in the bleak desert of southern Nevada, it is nevertheless a magnet for many and its reputation for electrical excess and overpowering sensory glitz is unparalleled. Those living there know other facets to the city of more than half a million population: university town, retirement destination, family neighborhoods, and natural areas. But for most who come to visit by the millions each year, “Vegas”  means shopping, gambling, and entertainment.   Dozens of iconic casinos dominate the urban landscape, their names (Caesar’s Palace, Bellagio, MGM Grand, Tropicana, and so on) as familiar as those of baseball teams.  “The Strip” is an American cultural Mecca which many feel obligated to see once in this lifetime. To do so gives one that special edge of sophistication: “Sure!  We’ve  been to Vegas!”

For this particular Field Report, the focus is on one of the many magnets that the visitor may have in mind when visiting Las Vegas: eating. Really eating. More specifically, the Las Vegas Buffet. Every major casino features a Buffet, usually Lunch, or Dinner and sometimes Breakfast.  So do less magnificent venues of gambling, the result being that on any day somewhere between 70 and 90 Buffets are offered as an attractant to those who would not only eat, but hopefully gamble as well. The gambling industry attempts to appear generous in the bestowing of benefits and rewards while at the same time skimming cash out of the wallets of  patrons who sit before the slot machines or at the gaming tables. Naturally, casinos compete on all levels to draw in the guest: plush rooms and service, fantastic architecture, big-name entertainment, sex, and food.

Using the customary scrupulous standards which govern these Field Reports, this Observer chose a particular casino, Tumbleweed Junction (name changed) to visit a Dinner Buffet. In keeping with the strictly established time constraints, seventy-five minutes of research time was allowed.

The Tumbleweed Junction is not in the prime location of “The Strip” the favored two or so miles of Las Vegas Boulevard with its replicas of famous structures from Rome, Paris, Venice, New York and the pyramid that is the Luxor Hotel. Rather, it is a satellite casino, built several miles further out and easily seen because it dominates its neighborhood.  Tumbleweed Junction is a sprawling, fiercely illuminated complex of stores, lodging, and places to eat. Central to it all is the casino, a series of great chambers whose floors are devoted to gambling. These are noisy places, for the slot machines give off a great bubbling  brew of sounds which may include train whistles, hit tunes, carnival sounds, or various electronic beeps, warbles and hoots. The sound level, while not exactly painful, has the effect of entrancing those who sit hunched in front of the consoles, observing the mad rollings and pulsations of the machines. For those with the will to look elsewhere,  there is the appeal of being in a Mediterranean setting with Italian Rennaissance faux-building fronts all around. You are in a Venetian piazza filled with a carnival of slot machines. And, should you look up, there is a most pleasant ceiling, the colors of the evening sky with a few puffy clouds to convince you that, after all, you are living on a lovely day in a gorgeous world.

Tumbleweed Junction has a number of restaurants and snack bars, offering different cuisines at different prices. The centerpiece is the Buffet and to reach it you must pass through lanes and avenues of slot machines and roulette or poker tables. The management hopes you will be seduced by this hedonism to stop and play. Can you really just come to the Tumbleweed to eat? They are betting you can’t.

The Dinner Buffet may begin as early as 4:00 PM and serve late into the evening to accommodate the starving. No one wants to stand in line, but that is what most must do if arriving at five or thereafter. In the case of the Tumbleweed, the wait was ninety minutes, a long ordeal given the din of the nearby machines. But ahead lay the seated bliss of unlimited food in a less raucous setting.  Once the patron reaches the head of the line a number of clerks process the cost of the Buffet, a type of negotiation whose variables included whatever coupons, reward certificates, or special privilege cards (for “loyalty” to the casino) one might have. In this case, the normal cost would be $18.00 per person. A Buffet on the Strip at a “luxury” casino would cost more.

Such is the volume of guests in this huge space (perhaps 300 to 400) that the hostesses communicate  via two-way radios. “I got four. (Over).”  “OK, almost ready in Section B. (Over).  Six coming up, need two highchairs. (Over).” “Got it. (Over and Out).”  Still chattering away, the hostess will lead you to the table which now becomes a kind of Operations Center for your presumably voluminous feasting.  An unspoken rule: If you don’t intend to overeat, don’t come here! A Las Vegas Buffet differs from a cafeteria in that one does not push a tray along from point A to point B. Rather, one may address the food from any angle, point A to point Z.

Like many Buffets in LV, the Tumbleweed features enormous quantities and varieties of food spread over hundreds of feet of counters where food is displayed and occasionally prepared (such as an omelet). More than one hundred choices were available at six major “stations:” Soups and Salads, Desserts, Asian, American “favorites,” Italian, Roasted Meats, Seafood, and Mexican items. An examination of the Italian station revealed:

tomato, artichoke & spinach pizza; sausage pizzas,  Canadian bacon & pineapple pizza, fettuccini Alfredo, spaghetti Bolognese, spaghetti carbinara and marinara with meatballs; baked penne pasta; chicken parmigiana; chicken cacciatore, cioppino; Italian sausage and grilled eggplant; several standard soups, roasted garlic, garlic toast.

Similar ranges of offerings could be described at other stations. The American station is usually the least interesting at any Buffet and features items that do not fit in other categories or are more suited for children such as macaroni and cheese, corn-on-the cob, hot dogs,  and some sort of pink gelatin fluff with marshmallow bits. The one surprise in this area at the Tumbleweed Station was a pan of steaming, buttered, ham-infused collard greens, a tradition in the South with origins in slavery. Although it is not the purpose of this report to judge the quality of the food, it so happens that this was a clear winner. Make a note of it.

Unlike a conventional cafeteria with guests standing in line, telling a server his or her choice to fill up a tray, here each guest fills a plate, takes it back, eats, goes back to the line, fills a new plate, repeats the process as many times as may be required to be sated. There are very few servers to observe one’s choices: your over-indulgences are your private business alone. The wise eater begins with a survey of all that is available, evolve a strategy for where to put the early emphasis, e.g something like Chinese barbequed ribs, and what sort of secondary choices, e.g crab legs will be chosen. The experienced eater will avoid bread or other filling carbohydrates. The worldly eater will choose only those rare offerings which may be difficult to obtain elsewhere, emphasizing those victuals which are more costly in the market.  And remember, you will eat until you cannot do so anymore. Leave room for several deserts. The crude amateur will attempt to eat something of everything offered and may be overheard to say to others at the table, “I didn’t see the eggrolls;  gotta go back.”

Tumbleweed Junction’s Friday Buffet (and this was in the time frame known to Christians as Lent) had a focus on fish and seafood. The big draw this evening was the ever-popular crab legs, dispensed from a huge mound by a kitchen worker. Next to him stood a woman wearing surgical gloves as she scooped up fistfuls of boiled peel-and-eat shrimp. This section of the counter was the only one at which guests had to wait, The rest of the offerings were easily accessed.  Nearby was a pile of raw oysters, Oysters Rockefeller, and clams. Further down the line, hidden among the Asian and Italian offerings were variations on salmon and tilapia. Nearly every table had at least one guest cracking and ripping apart crab legs.  Purists in the know will point out that there are several species of  “snow crabs” and the name is used carelessly to disguise use of less costly ones. No one at the Tumbleweed was interested in such details.

In addition to the kitchen staff, the hostesses with their radios, and the payment clerks,  the Buffet also had a crew of overworked wait persons whose principal tasks were to serve the drinks (water, lemonade, coffee etc) and to clear away the plates that piled up between guests’ trips to the food counters. During the period of observation for this Field Report, the help plainly could not keep up with the volume of consumption and tables began to accumulate tottering plates of food that had, in many cases, been only partially consumed. Wasting food is a strategic and inevitable necessity in keeping with the culture of excess that is Las Vegas.

By inconspicuous wanderings through the place, a number of conclusions were possible. Due to time and space limitations here, only three tables could be examined. Of course, extreme discretion was mandatory here as no one wants to be a research subject during something as personal as gorging.

Table 1.  A couple approx. 40 years of age. On a third chair was placed a large stuffed elk-like creature. The man had consumed two plates of crab legs, a plate of turkey and gravy on white rice,  spaghetti, and had two glasses of ice water in front of him. Corn on the cob was also in evidence. His companion, a woman with tri-colored hair, had a plate of clams, several slices of meat-covered pizza, and a slab of prime rib with sweet potatoes on the side. She drank a carbonated soft drink.  None of the clams had been eaten and  had been pushed to the side.

Table 2.  Lone man, rather young (30-35) but very obese. No seafood except for a plate of uneaten clams: mainly Italian pasta with marinara sauce, sliced ham, chicken cacciatore, beef tacos, and two wedges of pie, apple and cherry. Pink lemonade and Diet Coke.

Table 3.  Older couple with grandchild. Grandparents working on a large plate of boiled shrimp, taking turns leading child to the counters. Evidence of Chinese egg foo young. Many dishes with soft-serve ice cream covered with chocolate sauce. Bowl of bisque of tomato soup with sourdough bread and peanut butter.

Table 4, Woman with an oxygen breathing device: Crab legs, Polish sausage, vanilla pudding, cheese tacos, chocolate brownies, macaroons, strawberry gelato, clam chowder, Cantonese stir-fried vegetables, corn muffins, meatloaf, prime rib of beef, roasted jalapeno peppers and iced tea.

These are cursory impressions of what had been selected whether consumed or not.  As such, they are imperfect samplings. Nevertheless, some theoretical conclusions are possible:

People will not eat the clams even if they are, like the crab legs, a target item.

People intuitively know their American Literature and can recall and take to heart Mark Twain’s advice: “Part of the secret of a success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.”  In particular, suspend all notions of what goes well together. Operate under the assumption that it’s all good, but avoid the clams.

People put aside their Fear of the Lord at a Buffet for they recall and then ignore, even during Lent, the Biblical advice found in  Proverbs 23:2 “Put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony.”  Eat the clams and a knife may not be necessary.

Ah, there’s the word. gluttony, derived from the Latin for “to gulp down.”  Is that what the Buffet is about? Most likely, absent burst stomachs or fierce vomiting, all we can assume here is a flirtation with true gluttony.  Or the Grim Reaper. We gamble with this particular sin, as we gamble with the machines that call to us outside the dining hall.  Only the fortunate will glance up to see the rosy clouds in that classical sky.

A word like “transhumance” is irresistible. It means the seasonal migration of herding animals, chiefly sheep, goats, and cows. Cows ignore this word in their chatter on the meadows, and so should we.

The site of this business of seasonal movement was the village of Elm, Canton Glarus in an obscure, narrow valley, the Sernftal.  This is Deepest Switzerland. Each year, Elm celebrates the end of upper meadow grazing  by parading its prized Brown Swiss cows, bedecked with floral crowns and great bells, through the village. Another season in the Alps ends and the cows will winter in barns in the village. The villagers, proud of these beasts,  use the event to draw attention to local products, Alpkäse, a cheese from the high alpine meadows and Schabziger, the curious greenish cheese sometimes called sap sago elsewhere.  And so, while the cows were the main event of the day, the local heros were the herders who had kept them safe in the high meadows and the brawny cheese-makers who had turned bovine grazing and ruminating into a renowned and profitable product.

A word about the High Seriousness of this social science research: it is not a lark undertaken by a dilettante lacking in method and purpose!  Those familiar with this series of occasional Field Reports already know that the author each time lashes himself to the mast and allows no more than seventy-five minutes of observation time rendered onto no more than four pages of typescript.  And so, the first task was to determine which particular seventy-five minute sampling of an all-day festival would nail this thing.

Here a debt must be acknowledged to Frau R. who patiently suggested a number of options. The owner of a small hotel, she had witnessed many such October days in the village, though she acknowledged that most of them were ruined by bad weather with fog in the morning and then sleet and cold the rest of the day. Would such weather not interfere with the passage of the cows down from the meadows?   But Frau R shook her blond curls and dispelled this notion: the cows were already down from the meadows. What!?  Yes, it was the law of the Swiss Confederation that ALL cows MUST  descend by September 30th without fail. To wait longer was to risk entrapment by early snows. Well, no matter, the cows would march through the town, however symbolically, beginning at 2:00 PM. They assembled some miles up the valley, moved through the village, then turned back and disappeared from where they came from.  Frau R. suggested that one should wait for the procession in front of her hotel and then follow it down into the village.

That first Sunday in October in 2008 was bright and cloudless and almost warm, conditions greeted with amazement by many villagers.  By ten in the morning, the village was in the midst of one the best “descent-of-cattle-from-the-upper meadows” i.e transhumance [such an economical word!]  parties ever. Since this is a small nation, it takes little effort the check the weather over breakfast and then drive an hour or so to Elm from the larger cities. By noon when the sun had warmed the beer tents, several thousand visitors were present.  By two in the afternoon, great anticipation was building in Elm.  People were leaving the eating and drinking venues and lining up along the main street. Faces appeared at the windows of the home for the aged and limber octogenarians came out to the street. Old women, dressed in cotton stockings and clunky shoes, their hair pulled back in a bun. Old men, curved pipes in hand, squinting up the valley. How many such parades had they witnessed in their years in Elm?  “Gruetzi” or at least an abbreviated “tzee” sound, the conventional greetings, were heard everywhere and all were in a very fine, even welcoming mood.

What was keeping those cows?  “Are we on the right street?” asked the visitors?  [Elm has two streets.]  Frau R. had divulged that the cows do not like to get festooned with flowers and bells and fuss quite a bit. Perhaps that was keeping them, an outbreak of bovine crankiness.  Then, down the  street from the south they came. First, a faint thumping sound, hard to define, perhaps like a Roman legion banging its shields with stubby swords. Louder and louder, until several dozen cows came into view, each with a large bell and most decked out in floral arrangements. Soon the sound was loud enough to drown out all conversation below the level of a shout.  Through the town they clanged, towards the parade’s terminus where the largest crowd would be waiting. At times, the Running of the Bulls at Pamplona came to mind as one or two cows ran to the sides until a herder expertly waved a staff and the cow returned to the parade. Who knew, maybe you could get gored by a flower-bedecked milk cow in a little village in Switzerland.  You might slip and fall underfoot on the excrementally-splattered cobblestones. Maybe you could even die there, a choice piece of 10 PM news in your hometown.  At the end of the route,  two miles from the start, the herders simply turned the cows and retraced their steps. Twenty minutes later they were out of sight. Many people, wanting more, followed until the road got steep and curved out of the village.

With less than an hour left for research, an observer has to struggle against the impression that once the cows had passed the party was beginning to deflate.  But no, here were the wrestling clubs from neighboring villages, the members dressed in baggy canvas shorts as they worked lethargically to flip each other onto piles of sand trucked in earlier.  Then the booths of the cheese makers, samples of “alpkäse” both mild and aged and also sales of the green cheese, “schabziger”, for which Canton Glarus is known. As noted, cheese makers are celebrities, proud families who are known for their many years of skill.   The greenish schabziger has been around for a thousand years and was officially established as a unique product with its own official specifications in 1463. This cheese was originally created by monks. [And by the way, did you know that St. Fridolin, who brought Christianity to Glarus, was Irish?!]   Both of these cheeses  (shabziger and alpkäse) get their unique flavor from the herbs present in the upper meadows in summer. The key herb is a local variant of fenugreek and many health benefits are ascribed to it, including an alleged ability to lower cholesterol. That alone would make Alp cheese unique among cheese anywhere.

A thousand visitors sat at tables eating and drinking. Served on white plates, the food itself blended right in–all of it was white: the bread, sausage, noodles, potatoes, cheese and so on. Even the most popular desert, a meringue, was white.  The place was dense with the odor of cheese.  Several accordions and a bass fiddle struck up old yodel songs, but there was little actual yodeling. Now and then the bass player gave out a yodelesque yelp much to the delight of the crowd. Clearly, it resonated with them. Just what kept them from letting go in Alpine ululating was not explained. Despite this lapse, had this not been a perfect day with the rest of the troubling world far beyond this green valley with its snowy peaks on all sides?

Unfortunately, the answer to that question, so rhetorical, must be no. Although everyone seemed in the best of spirits here in Elm, it would be careless to not comment further on the cows who had provided the Main Event. From the viewpoint of the principal actors [the cows] this had to be a less than perfect day. They must have wondered [Alert! Do cows wonder? Do they ponder? We are on unfamiliar ground here!] but verily they may well have wondered about this day. Roused from their village pastures or barns, they were assembled at a point outside the village, had huge bells strapped to their necks and floral crowns attached to the heads. Some of the bells must have required the efforts of two adults to attach. Their horns were polished. They were washed and wiped of any unsightliness on their posteriors.

Then it began, the clamorous march through the town with hundreds of humanoids lining the road. Behind and beside them walked their familiar herders with long sticks. There would be no stopping and no way out. Those who saw a break in the crowd and bolted were quickly directed back by the stick-wielders. What was all this?   None remembered this pace from the time in the upper meadow. What is this thing on my head?  And that heavy and deafening bell many times larger and deeper in tone than the ones worn to work.  The shame of it: no place to stop for the frequent urgencies of bladder and bowel.

And another thing: at intervals these parading cows passed fenced pastures where other cows were grazing;  how shameful to be prodded up and down the village in front of these loafers!  The grazing cows moved to the fences and stared at their marching sisters. Curious or sorrowing, who could tell what may have passed between them?  Lumbering amongst the  human gawkers in the lane and arriving at the turnabout point, a beer tent reeking of bratwurst and cheese–what self-respecting cow did not smolder at the injustice of the day?  Those sharp and shining horns!  What murderous impulse had these festooned cows suppressed by centuries of dull duty to the happy folk of Glarus?  Was life fair?  A question beyond the limits of the present research, but one not likely to be answered in the affirmative by these festive cows.

Oetzi (or Ötzi)  is our most famous Very Old European. So famous that it is unlikely that anyone reading this report will not have heard of him. A few words of review will bring it all back.  On September 19,1991 a couple, the Simons, hiking at over 10,000 feet on the border between Austria and Italy, discovered the frozen and ice-encrusted body of a human being. This was Oetzi, nicknamed for the valley (Ötzthal) near which he was found. Subsequent testing determined that he had lived and died some 5300 years earlier. From this point on, many themes could be developed here such as (1) the remains were initially suspected by some as being  a hoax, possible a Peruvian mummy placed high up in this Alpine setting for some obscure purpose; (2) the Simons, Helmut and Erika, claimed “discovery rights” which set in motion lengthy litigation in Italian courts;  (3) the counterclaims of others, including a woman who testified to having spat on him in hopes of later offering proof of discovery by means of DNA testing; (4) that Oetzi the Iceman has a curse due to  a number of deaths among his discoverers or investigators; and (5) the conflicting theories as to the life and death of this ancient gentleman who happened to expire, probably due to wounds after a fight, some 93 meters or  just over 300 feet into Italian territory. Had he been found before 1919 he would be Austrian (and on display in Innsbruck) as the province of South Tirol was annexed by Italy after that date.  Of these future geopolitical distinctions Oetzi was blessedly unaware; he had his own problems, yet the wars and diplomacy of the last century determined his present resting place: the South Tirol Museum of Archeology,  Bolzano (once Bozen), in the Italian region known as Trentino-Alto Adige.

There is nothing new this Field Report can add to Oetzi’s story. Nevertheless, it seemed worth a visit to Bolzano and the Museum to see how he was doing and what sort of arrangements had been made for him.  Furthermore, what can we say about the encounter between Oetzi and his descendants?

The usual seventy-five minutes of research time was allotted to this report, beginning with the time just before entry into the museum and when finished viewing the subject.  This proved to be exactly the correct amount of time though nearly half of it was spent standing in lines. It would be simpler to write about standing in a queue and what happens to the mind during such episodes. The first of these queues began to form half a city block from the entrance to the Museum itself.  Small groups of twenty or so entered at a time. Much of this particular line consisted of local school children speaking (officially) Italian and (also officially) German. The precise cultural character of South Tirol/Alto Adige is still in the works. This in itself was interesting to observe, especially when the line passed the window of an upscale bakery which featured Sacher Torte in three sizes, ready to be mailed for an astonishingly steep price. What a bargain to pay ten dollars to see an old brown corpse instead of arranging shipment of a ten-inch sixty-three dollar chocolate cake, famous or not.  The children were inspired by the Sacher Torte, but only along the lines of who had actually eaten a piece and was it really so special?  The consensus was that there were better things on the market.

Once inside the Museum, the visitor leaves one line before joining another.  “The mummy is up those stairs and to your left,” said the young woman who took the admission fee.  Mummy? This was the first notice that our Oetzi was a mummy. Not in the brittle, desiccated Egyptian style, but a “wet mummy” because this individual was still full of moisture, meaning ice. He lay in a chamber which  duplicated  the frozen conditions of his lengthy burial in the Alps. The Museum kept him at 21 degrees F. and with an ambient humidity of exactly 98.65 percent. Not to do so would risk alteration of his condition and a deterioration of his value to science, and of course, his appeal to a paying public.

The second floor and a new queue.. This one would take another twenty minutes before the subject could be viewed. The first half of this wait moved along a corridor lined with useful information about Oetzi. Then the line took a hairpin turn into a darker hall where, eventually, each visitor had a turn in front of a small window set into the wall of a frozen chamber. This was where one viewed Oetzi. There was little to do in this darkened room except watch the people who had come to see him. Despite the darkness, this researcher was  able to check a wristwatch to measure just how long people stood at the little window and pondered Oetzi.  Nine visitors were timed in this manner, with the result ranging from nine to seventy seconds. The latter figure corresponds to a woman with three small children, each child being lifted up for its share of observation time. The nine-second visitor was a man in a ball-cap who peered into the window, crouched briefly to get a new perspective, shrugged, and  moved on. I assumed that a dead person found in ice after more than 5000 years might inspire a variety of reactive sounds, but the observers were mostly quiet except for two children who complained that they could not see a man in the window. The problem turned out to be that what they saw did not look like anything familiar.

In life Oetzi, was a 5’4” tall male weighing about 132 pounds (other estimates have him at 110 pounds) and thought to be about 46 years old. His bones showed traces of arsenic (from copper smelting?)  and analysis of his innards revealed much about his health and day-to-day circumstances. The intestines, for example, still contained evidence of several kinds of wild meat (deer, ibex) grains (notably spelt) and a number of unidentified vegetables and berries. Oetzi had many tattoos, but nothing with a familiar shape. [Digression: in early 2007, the acclaimed American actor and general celebrity, Mr. Brad Pitt, was discovered by paparazzi to have Oetzi’s outline tattooed on his left inside forearm.]

What happened to Oetzi?  Forensic scientists are certain that he suffered a back wound which bled, causing loss of consciousness and death at 10, 540 feet. Frequent snows covered his body and before long it was encased in the ice, ultimately preserving him for examination and display in our own times.

Finally, the murmuring of the crowd and the shuffling sound of the slowly moving queue ahead was gone and Oetzi’s window belonged exclusively to this researcher. The half-minute spent (three seconds more than average) gazing at the Iceman was not as matter-of-fact an experience as anticipated.  The lighting was dim and what you saw was a small, shrunken, brown-colored figure. Genuine flesh and bone, no synthetics as with Lenin or Evita, and such meager flesh as there was did cover the bones. The most dramatic aspect was the left arm stretched across the chest as if Oetzi had once backhanded a tennis racket.  He lies like a large glistening insect on a grey steel slab in this private morgue. Kafka comes to mind. If Oetzi had been found a century earlier the dissertations linking “The Metamorphosis” with the Iceman would have been plentiful and tiresome.

What was this all about?  While it was easy to accept the known, proven, or even some of the surmised details of his life, death and discovery, there was less to conclude about the experience of seeing him in his lightly frozen flesh here in Bolzano.  Oetzi is the Big Ticket Item for the Museum; what else do they have that compares? Now time was up, the seventy-five minutes had been nearly exhausted and the last ten or so were spent looking over the gift shop and its modest souvenir offerings of Oetziana.  Then it was out on the street again, passing the Sacher Torte merchant on the way to some strong coffee to clear the head after all that standing in dimly lit lines on the way to see the Oldest European. [Digression: the  Bianchi Oetzi is a mountain bike model you may buy if you want to pay an enormous sum.]

At breakfast in the Gasthaus the next morning. Only a few tables are occupied. The guests smile and nod at each other. Across the room another guest trombones with his nose, great vibrating blasts which cause the quiet talk at the tables to become difficult. Between blasts, a woman at the next table asks what things we did yesterday. Visit Oetzi.  Is that an ape-man or is he human like us? Very human, he could be your ancestor! Another blast on that horn.  She turns to her husband, should we go and see it?   It?  Would “it” have produced similar nasal tones?  Too late to know.

Why do we go to gawk at Oetzi?  Or Egyptian mummies?  Or the roasted citizens of Pompei?  Perhaps surveys could be conducted on people waiting in those lines. “I was curious. I heard it was interesting. My girlfriend wanted to see it.  Just something to do.” One can theorize that, at bottom, our own sense of mortality inclines us to inspect those who have gone before us. That chocolate and caramel mess on the table, could that be me?

And what would Oetzi say?  Who expects to be murdered and surface again on a slab in a museum thousands of years later? Perhaps he would have been pleased: the people who volunteer their flayed cadavers to be “plastinated” and posed as athletes in the popular Body Worlds show are said to be keen on such public immortality.  Oetzi did not have this choice, though his circumstances today are similar.  We know nothing of his sense of the cosmos or of his place in it.  He was a man with enemies who died a solitary death. Perhaps he would appreciate some sympathy beyond the casual gawking. Or would he have preferred more millennia in the ice?

In its bleak setting in an arid basin, Quartzsite is peculiar and yet not unique. Centuries and even millennia ago, such places were familiar on the trade routes of the deserts. From afar, bartering folk came to offer their wares–camels, ponies, textiles, tools and whatever else was worth schlepping. Or these were the places where future brides came to the attention of suitors. Think of Timbuktu there on the edge of the Sahara or the Great Khan’s annual fairs held in the Gobi.  [Digression: similarly, Quartzsite in the SonoranDesert is also associated with camels, introduced in the 1850s by the U.S. War Department. No information available on maidens and swains, then or now.]

Perhaps it is a fool’s errand to go to Quartzsite in hopes of making sense of the place.  And yet, readers of these Field Reports know that thanks to the stubborn and unslaked curiosity of the Social Sciences, something can always be found that seems to be at least mildly interesting even if forgettable.  Additionally, there are few places or events that are not worth 75 minutes  (the mandatory limit) of this Observer’s time.

Quartzsite, Arizona is west-centrally situated near the border with California.  It is indeed in the desert, barren, dull colored, and sparsely inhabited during the torrid summer. At that time, the focus is the gasoline stations, fast food restaurants and other services geared to the passing traffic on Interstate 10 connecting Phoenix and Los Angeles.  But in winter, this same little nexus swells to a community of 300,000  (some claim more) temporary settlers and visitors. The habitation of choice is the motor home, a massive, costly thing on wheels sometimes referred to by the more archaic term,  “coach.” Like many places that exist for purposes of commerce, Quartzsite is ugly, an unpaved parking lot made of desert earth in which many thousands of vehicles (motorcycles, autos, trucks and the always dominant coach/motor home) are spread randomly for miles. Quartzsite also features many large white tents or open canvas shelters not much taller than the prevailing roofline of the motor homes.  From the air Quartzsite must appear like a colony of bacteria, some round and others elongated.

The winter months bring the snowbirds, mainly retirees or tourists from the colder parts of the US who merely want to sit in the desert and gloat over the weather reports at home. Others are attracted by the commercial lure of selling equipment for the motor homes, much as a blacksmith might have wandered to earlier horse-powered gatherings. Then there are scheduled exhibitions, under canvas, and of these the most common are the gem and rock markets. The existence for Quartzsite has much to do with earlier mining and as a place where rock collectors and gem enthusiasts might gather. Place a major highway nearby and add mild winters for motor home dwellers and Quartzsite makes sense. Besides minerals, the array of other consumer goods, antiques, curios, and food items add up to more complexity than would be apparent to those stopping only for fuel or the use of a restroom.

As it was, this particular research in Quartzsite was linked to the Observer’s brief visit with persons looking for old engines, tractors and the like. These were not research associates, but focused and serendipitous companions who had business there. For 75 minutes of observation (strictly adhered to!) a few of Quartzsite’s secrets were gently probed before some unexpected questions arose.

Leaving the Interstate, and turning into the community, pavement immediately gave way to sand and chaos. There were few signs as to what was where. The heightened danger of collision either with humans or something vehicular meant maneuvering at a crawl.  Soon you are lost, dependent on the occasional person who looksed like he or she might know the answer to the question: where is the engine and tractor show?  The first informant wore a cap announcing that Jesus Is Lord! There seemed more menace than love in that and especially by the yellow T-shirt worn by his female companion. Printed boldly in dark green, it featured a lengthy paragraph with words like  “rapture” and “righteous” and “castigate” in bold type. Reading the whole thing would have meant staring at her bosom for much longer than good “judgment” (another word inscribed thereon) required. Besides, she had already nudged him with her elbow; what did that mean? The couple stood at the opening of a narrow cul-de-sac of soft sand and tire ruts ending at a tabernacle/tent. A banner hung over the entrance: “God’s Voice in the Wilderness Is Awesomeness in the Desert.” They had no idea of where the engines were and likely cared not.  How deficient we must have seemed to seek such crass worldliness while declining the “awesomeness” at hand.

After another quarter hour winding through the labyrinth that is Quartzsite, past other self-appointed traffic directors proud to move the turgid flow along with authoritative hand signals, our dusty cars, like tired pilgrims, arrived near the land of small and ancient coughing engines. The travel companions, devotees to such matters disappeared, leaving this Observer alone to ponder why he had come toQuartzsite. [Digression: contrary to the usual pattern of social science methodology, the Observer has always leaned towards the theory that sooner or later, something turns up which will justify the research, whatever it is.] With the moments moving along, some research design was needed and soon. The one chosen was elegant and classic: sample the place. In this case, imagine a circle and examine its contents, seeking the essence of a locale that so far had revealed only dust, fumes, and vehicles. Not forgetting the background coughing of ancient and venerable engines. Within the sample circle having an approximate radius of 40 meters, the Observer noted the following:

1. A dealer in Tibetan paraphernalia, mainly religious icons and a hand-lettered sign which promised “Cultural Revolution Kitsch” meaning those hard-to-get Mao Zedong posters. Also featured was a large barrel of crude ten-dollar heads of the Buddha. No two alike, the work of unknown workers in an unknown land.

2. True to its Quartzsite’s reputation, there were several vendors featuring samples of rocks, minerals, gems made into hundreds of objects or simply left in their natural state. Agates! Meteorites! Geodes! Dinosaur dung!

3. Clothing: everything for the visitor who wanted that macho Quartzsite look, a mix of rancher/miner/biker with a touch of NASCAR or something boldly patriotic for the shirt and cap.

4.Covering nearly a quarter of the space within the sample area were food stands emitting the seductive odors of funnel cakes, hotdogs, corndogs, chilidogs, and strawberry-flavored cotton candy. This was an American smell, a happy smell. “Proud to be an American” said the hand-lettered sign on a lemonade stand.

All of these elements came together at one of the small raffle events held in an impromptu (and what wasn’t?) arrangement of folding chairs and tables. For one dollar, said the man wearing camouflage pants, a chance to win one of a number of mystery items hidden behind the red curtain. Sixty or so persons, older couples, northern toads, the obese, the desiccated, a mix, an American mix, a happy mix, smiled and bantered with each other, waiting to see if they were winners. Western gear was what they wore—that Quartzsite look. A number wore clothing advertising his or her devotion to Jesus, a football team or a dead race car driver, but no one (odd in this political year) wore anything partisan. Nothing promoting candidates (for this was and election year) One can either surmise that these were an apolitical lot, or that revealing one’s partisanship would somehow spoil the quiet bliss that Quartzsite seemed to bring to those present. In this particular raffle, the winner collected a tub of plastic picnic dishes to the warm applause of the audience.

Just then a small incident took place which dramatically changed the focus of this research. A man of middle years in a straw hat approached the Observer and inquired as to the location of the restroom, the bathroom, the comfort facilities, etc. The field notes fail to record just which of our euphemisms he employed, but he did not say “toilet.” Few people do. Interesting. Since he appeared to be a foreign tourist judging by the accent and other subtle features such as the slant of that hat on his head, it would have been useful to record his choice of words because that is what social scientists are supposed to do. As noted, one of the permanent features inQuartzsite is a McDonalds, and since this stood a short walk away, that was the best suggestion to give the man. After all, McDonalds is globally recognized for many things including restrooms for the public, no questions asked. He took the suggestion, expressed his thanks by tapping the brim of his hat (likely influence of John Wayne movies) and headed for McDonalds.   [Digression: In fact, this Observer had already noted that the Quartzsite McDonalds features an unusually large “restroom.” It is generally known that MacDonald’s restrooms are small, and while adequate, not restful. They tend to get crowded and at times, tired. But here, the restroom had 50% more porcelain per square foot (PPSF) than elsewhere.]

With a rush only a rare insight (even flawed ones) provides, the Observer knew why he was in Quartzsite!  A great Truth had descended upon him from somewhere, like a voice roaring in the desert: “No Sewer, No Civilization!” Where were the sewers of Quartzsite? How did this mass of humanity take care of that without which there could be no Los Angeles or Phoenix, and maybe no Timbuktu? Time to find out, but time was short: less than 17 minutes left of the allotted 75 minutes research time. Did everyone go to McDonalds?  Answering that would entail observation, mathematical models, a team of research assistants and perhaps lawyers to fend off a threat of litigation from some unexpected source. No doubt there were those familiar portable pit toilets e.g. Porta Potty, somewhere in the twisting maze of Q-town, but who knew where? Motor homes/coaches contain their own solutions (unavoidable pun) by means of capacious holding tanks. Without sewers in Quartzsite and only vehicular tanks of diverse capacities, would this not demand an export of ordure on an unprecedented scale? A motor home or coach, by definition, could start its engine and drive to a so-called dumping station. Already the Observer had seen motor homes e.g. coaches lining up in Blythe, the nearest town, at the public dump station to manage these humble logistics. If all the coaches in Quartzsite went to Blythe, the nearest town, one could, mathematically, anticipate a scenario of long and urgent caravans seeking relief, thus revealing the slender grasp that Quartzsite had on any claim to being civilized! If, indeed, lacking sewers, it had any such claim!

“Things are both simple and complicated at the same time.” The Observer learned this from a fortune cookie in North Dakota some years ago. True, day visitors did go to McDonalds since they would not be welcome on the toilet of a stranger’s coach. And, obvious or not, there had to be mobile potties somewhere. These would be emptied (pumped out) by the very same technology that saved the motor home populace from drifting to Blythe: a mobile trucking service making the rounds with its tanks and hoses and relieving them, with regularity, of their accumulations.  These are known by many vulgar terms, the mildest euphemism being “Honey Dipper.”  Oh, how unlike a sewer is the foundation of this tenuous civilization called Quartzsite!!  When the Romans built their great sewer, the CloacaMaximus, transferring effluent into the Tiber, people were proud of yet another confirmation of their amazing degree of civilization. This set the state-of-the art standard for many centuries, but it took a long time to regain the glory that was Rome.  Quartzsite is keenly aware of this: leaving the place, this Observer spotted from the highway those fat water pipes widely used to establish or expand sewer systems. If Quartzsite wasn’t a civilization, it was an emerging one. An interesting and worthy topic: how civilizations evolve, but too late for this Field Report. The allotted time had elapsed.  What could have been a major contribution to scholarship appears to have lapsed into a mere footnote on sewers.

The Boar’s Mochi

NOTE: Rules for these Field Reports, mainly the 75-minute observation limit have, of late, been conscientiously recalled. Thanks to those of you, forbearing readers, who expressed your concerns about recent lapses. Be assured that this Report conforms to the highest standards currently available for the sciences (the social ones).  There is every expectation that this incoming Year of the Boar will be fortuitous for these Field Reports.

.  .  .

Being even briefly in Honolulu tends to inspire interest in the Japanese. They are a long-established and generally prosperous group, especially on Oahu, where they make up 25% of the population. Honolulu is also a huge magnet for tourism from Japan. Their motives are varied: warm weather, a customary place to get married, and a chance to visit the United States in a culturally comfortable manner e.g. you can shop at Prada, Gucci and Nieman-Marcus and someone will speak Japanese as will the bus drivers and hotel personnel.  Restaurants cater to these generally cautious visitors who prefer the familiar foods of Japan.

Japanese tourists fascinate. Whether they are honeymooners from Osaka, trios of willowy Tokyo secretaries, or graying retirees from some far-flung prefecture, they are the dominant life form along Waikiki’s main shopping avenues.  The things that astonish social scientist observers may include: Japanese make no eye contact with anyone other than their immediate familiars.  It is quite common to be in a place with a dozen or more of these visitors and have that odd sense of non-being, as if one has become invisible. The women may wear flip-flops but more typically torment themselves in high-heeled shoes. The men take enormous amounts of photographs even in sub-marginal conditions. They are a quiet people, evidence of a presumed cultural preference for remaining unnoticed. As the saying goes, “the nail that sticks out must be hammered back into the wood.”  Detractors of Japan have (unkindly) called its people “robotic,” unless chemically altered (alcohol) to promote euphoria, drop the self-effacing mask, and, fleetingly, cause eye contact.  So the theory goes. But how paltry a set of impressions for so venerable and vital a people!  Is there not more that can be said?

Before observing the crucial focus of this Field Report–a New Years celebration– a modest preliminary probe into the Japanese cultural marrow occurred at the Fuji Ramen, a noodle house frequented by Japanese tourists. This effort yielded nothing. Not to say there was nothing to learn there, but whatever it was must have been throbbing at a wavelength far too low for this observer.  All except two of the twenty-seven patrons were Japanese.  The other two were white folks who, according to their ball caps and t-shirts, had also once visited Illinois. The place was studiously quiet except for an occasional clatter of pots or exclamation from the kitchen. Noodles were the focus; noodles were consumed; that’s all.  And they, the Japanese, were lined up outside the place, awaiting a chance to sit at the counter for ramen with egg, ramen with octopus, ramen with shrimp, ramen with beef, ramen with tofu, ramen with teriyaki chicken or ramen with tempura of one sort or another.  A profound event, no doubt suffused with precious revelations about the authentic Japan, but hardly the sturdy stuff of Field Reports.

By chance, an item in the Honolulu Advertiser called attention to what had to be an opportunity to uncloak the missing cultural insights. A “New Year’s ‘Ohana Festival” was set for a Sunday in mid-January at the Japanese Cultural Center.  A big event, all day, everyone welcome and bring the family. The word “ohana” means “family” in Hawaiian (not Japanese) and looking back this was a crucial clue (missed!) about the event. The sponsors and participants were largely Japanese who had lived in the Hawaiian Islands for at least a generation or more. They were assimilating, borrowing words, and already distant from Japan in numerous ways.  In other words, Japanese Americans.  Authentic Japanese tourists were not here; they were miles away doing what they had come to Honolulu to do.

Since the Japanese had been in Hawaii, especially on Oahu, for well over a century, they are now well established as immigrants. Hawaii’s two U.S. Senators are Japanese-American. So, no surprise that the Japanese Culture Center was a prosperous-looking five-story building, headquarters of an important organization very similar, as it turned out, to ethnic organizations whether Irish in Boston or Polish in Chicago. Such organizations are deeply dedicated to preserving pieces of the cultural past. Though they were not the original focus of this research, surely observing Japanese who were not tourists but locals could reveal something? More than anything the event resembled a folk festival/carnival, a mix of whatever the community chose to recall about the past blended with elements common to Anglo-American county fairs.  In the latter case, you could get a ride on an antique fire engine, eat hamburgers, send your children to roll and jump on a series of inflated shapes that looked like generic European castles, etc.  To lean more towards the Japanese side of your bicultural being you would chose activities suggesting fidelity to older traditions. Mochi pounding was one of these.  But we will come to that.

Looking over the events in the Cultural Center and adjacent Mo’ili’ili Field, it made sense to visit those places where the largest number of visitors had gathered. These events were:

Gyotaku.  For kids.  Take a fish (dead) out of a cooler. 

Daub poster paint on it. Take a piece of paper and press it against the fish to make an impression. An old art form. It is said that an elderly artist somewhere “on the windward side” of the island will do large ocean fish for you as a trophy.  Not cheap.

Keiki Kimono Dressing. For $70 your child will be carefully dressed in the most                   exquisite traditional style. Samurai outfits for the boys, kimonos for the

girls.  Photos extra. Very well done.  An emotional gift for the grandparents.

Animé.  A joint effort by several high school animé clubs to spread the word about the famous Japanese cartoon genre.  Soft-spoken, dignified teen-aged advocates politely offer to tell you what to look for as you stare at the videos. Sample: “Sir, do you know animé? May I show you a few things about it?  It‘s very compelling.”

Tea Ceremony. Not for everyone. Requires at least a half hour and legs which do not cramp and fall asleep while kneeling. You must attempt to read non-verbal hints as to when to bow, in which direction and how deeply.

And so to Mo’ili’ili Field and the event that had the largest crowd, mochi pounding.  On the way, $6 and ten minutes spent waiting in line to buy okonomiyaki (“sizzling, nutritious, Hiroshima-style, topped with Otafuku Okonomi Sauce”).  Noodles, eggs, cabbage, eggs, pancake and more. Indefinable? Kind of an omelet?  Overheard: “What makes ‘em Hiroshima-style anyway?” Excellent question, the voice of the skeptic.

Mochi pounding (mochitsuki ) seemed as if it might be the climactic event, the one in which was most probably galvanic for persons whose origins were in the Land of the Rising Sun.  Mochi is made from a specific rice that is highly glutinous, sticky, and slightly sweet. The supermarkets in Hawaii feature it, small lumps of smooth rice flour.  But those commercial mochi are made with machines. Real mochi, the kind associated with New Years, are made traditionally. Mochi pounding drew the biggest crowd, maybe because of the taste, more likely because of the significance of the dramatic way in which it had always been produced in the old days.

From a distance it looked as if this ethnic festival had borrowed one more attraction of American carnivals, the event where hopeful machos smack large clubs in hopes of making a bell ring. The difference was that three men were coordinating their blows and despite this massive effort, no bell rang. They were striking a huge ball of cooked mochi rice in a massive stone basin and with each blow walloping the sticky ball into a rubbery paste in which, soon, no grain of rice was visible, only a silky dough which would be eaten in small portions, either plain or filled with something sweet like red adzuki bean paste. Teams of three took up the large mallets, each one a yard long and with a striking face four or five inches across. Since alternating strikes were delivered, the coordination of the three was critical. To strike the hammer of another, to hit the rim of the basin, or to weaken and interrupt the pattern was bad form and bad luck.

For this session on this Sunday afternoon, young men of the Tenrikyo Church, each wearing identical deep-purple t-shirts, pounded mightily while a large crowd watched quietly and occasionally moaned when a blow missed the blubbery mass in the basin.  A radio personality, apparently known to the audience, narrated the event, offering encouragement, but often betraying an impatience as the bludgeoning went on for nearly half and hour.  A short distance away, stolidly patient, were the women of Tenrikyo Church, whose duty it would be to pounce on the prepared mochi and pinch it into small portions to be passed out to the expectant crowd. Old-timers pointed out to the youngsters that “this is the way it used to be done” and other sage observations. In contrast, the radio personality, joking into an overly loud microphone took the trouble to tell his captive audience that, no kidding, this was the first time he had seen this done. Way cool!  Hey, didn’t mochi come only in packages in the supermarket?  The crowd ignored him and his banter, another irritation he must have suffered during the long wait for that mochi to be pounded to meet the standards of Old Japan.

The sweating Tenrikyo men saw it differently: mochi pounding was a “self-purifying or self-reflective act” something usually done in December to prepare for New Years in January.   The pounding of mochi attracted good fortune. Small cakes of mochi would be placed in the family shrine or “in some other prominent place for households without a shrine.” A flexible approach.  The Tenrikyo Church believes in a god that “created human beings to live a joyous life and to share in that joy.”  As they see it, the deity lends our bodies to us, but our minds belong to us alone.  Fair enough.

Eventually, but without exhausting the patience of the onlookers (though a few white folks had politely departed) the mochi was complete, pronounced good, passed to and filled by the women, and shared with everyone.  The radio personality had gone on to the next event where he made much of asking an old woman in a kimono for assistance in pronouncing the name of a drum group due to perform next.  And then he stumbled through it. “Wish I could say it like she does, folks,” he laughed in the mindless way of radio personalities everywhere,  “but, you know me, I’m American-educated.”  Since he was ignored, the question must be asked: did he exist at all?

Mochi may be timeless, but the 75 minutes allowed by the immutable laws of social science field reports were soon exhausted. It would have been a fine thing to take a seat and relax while the drummers thundered away, but it was time to go forward, satisfied with the quality of this research and the promise of good fortune into the Year of the Boar.

. . .

NOTE: At that moment, dingy wisps of doubt appeared, plaintive moans of woodwinds, the odor of funereal blooms and so on.  Standing at a bus stop, this observer noted (nearby) a number of karaoke bars. The wisps of doubt thickened into a dismal fog.  Karaoke is wildly popular among the Japanese, so much so that it is thought to be an irrefutable key to their world.   Without it a researcher could surely expect derisive giggling and worse,  braying anathema.  But, alas, the 75 minutes were gone and the bus arrived.

Field Report # 9: Tasting Wine

Where there is wine there is wine tasting, and the Mosel Valley in Germany features dozens of small communities with hundreds of shops and vineyards where one may sample.  Some tastings are free, some charge a modest price, and all sell wine by the bottle, the case, the carload. This is an age of great glut in viniculture;  all over the globe wine is plentiful and cheap. Though use as biofuel for engines may offer a way out,  most producers prefer to compete with each other and convince the consumer of the excellence of this wine, that vineyard, the quality of the soil and sunlight: but, please, do buy a few bottles and help us to get rid of it!

Finding a place to do a wine tasting that met the extraordinarily high standards demanded by these Field Reports was no easy task, but suffering in the name of science is always a pleasure. After a tedious search along that valley,  the Weingut Einhorn (trans. something about wine and unicorns) appeared in the village of Pockenfels. An easy choice, for who among us is not familiar with the proud insignia of the vineyard: a unicorn, nibbling at grapes, with a golden goblet balanced on its back?  It was mid-afternoon and the staff was setting traditional glasses on long tables covered with blue and white cloths.  In the middle of each, a  basket of bread cut into cubes.  The next tasting would begin in twenty minutes.

The host of these tastings was Herr K. a vintner at mid-life whose degree in oenology from the University of Ulm was prominently displayed in the reception room of the winery.  He was costumed as a sort of forest ranger, spoke several languages impeccably, but failed to illuminate either the history or the metaphorical sense of the unicorn/goblet theme which could now be discerned on everything from napkins to the carpeting.

It must be admitted that until this moment the Field Report seemed to be about nothing so much as the banality of wine tasting. However, Herr K. revealed how busy this day would be and that the first group to visit would be 42 German tourists arriving on a bus, followed in rapid succession by 34 English tourists arriving by river boat, and finally,  just before the dinner hour, 17 Belgian chemists, some with their spouses, on bicycles heading towards home. Now,  it was clear that this Field Report was not about wine, not the Mosel River,  nor the postcard-worthy town of Pockenfels, home of the Pockenfelser Kabinett Riesling Spaetlese,  a noble wine which might fetch $18.00 a bottle in upscale districts of America.  No, it would be cross-cultural research, about Germans and English and even biking Belgian chemists. Three key nationalities of the European Union put though a wine tasting, rodents facing a maze of vintages, of mouth-feel and finishes. How would they react and what conclusions about the future of Europe would be revealed?  And, not unimportantly to this researcher, what prestigious journals would not clamor and yowl to have this seminal piece of social science research on its fine pages?

The 42 Germans. They were uncommonly gregarious, having done one wine tour in the next village already, so one learned easily enough that they were warehouse employees for a plumbing supply distributor. Herr K. met them in a courtyard facing the steep vine-covered slopes.  “Riesling!” he shouted in a heroic tone of voice and with a wave of the arm, “brought by the  Romans to this valley and it is all we produce here and all we ever hope to produce! Very beautiful!  Gift of the gods or of the One True God, one or the other. Follow me, please and mind your feet and your head.” With another confident flourish he led the group into a  passage  beneath the shale hillside on which those godly vines were growing.  Soon daylight seemed far behind us; our light came from the bulbs which Herr K. switched on as we advanced. The cold and humid air quieted the bantering of the Germans.

Herr K gave a quick overview of the equipment that stood in the dimness before us, the various filters, bottle-fillers, and hoses. “All hand work! No automated lines here! This is old-fashioned wine and it comes from the earth so it is not for us to interfere.” This remark remained obscure and certainly no one cared ask for an elaboration. Most of the group was now showings  signs of impatience with  the chill air and the likely unease from being in this unexpected place with its attar of damp crypt. “Oh, let me show you this one.” said he pointing towards a device that turned out to be a corking machine. “I must tell you that we have to make sure of our product and the only way is to taste it.  All employees taste the wine. You see the wine glasses here.  We must be sure. But it sometimes happens that the vintage is so good that the person operating the corker has been known to put five corks into a single bottle. When that happens we know that it is time to put another man on the corker and make the wine samples smaller!”  This was a joke, but not  well-received beyond a few obligatory grunts and  a “Ja, Ja” from somewhere in the gloom.  Perhaps this we due to a collective sense that the sooner this was over, the sooner one would be in the a brighter, warmer, life-affirming tasting room.

The tasting room with its blue and white covered tables seemed especially inviting and it may be that the extremes of the wine tour, the dismal cave and the warmth of wine tasting, is part of some arcane hades-to-heaven ritual used since Roman times. But to what purpose?  Certainly, the Germans seemed overjoyed to have reached this place; they became loud and there was a lot of shifting about for chairs.  One became aware that some of the couples were resuming a pattern of flirtation that must have slowed in the cold cave. The walls were decorated with proverbs, every one of them a humorous justification for wine consumption along the lines of “Wine is the sunshine that brightens the dullard’s head.”  or some such thing, These now were used as jibes by the guests, e.g. “hey, Manfred, this one is for you…just read it, hoo ha!” And so on.

Herr K. had a difficult time with  them, they were like school kids who had lost patience with learning anything. He fairly yelled over the din as the first serving of wine was placed before them. These were generous portions, more than a sip, more like several swallows.  Actually half a goblet.  Given the clowning demeanor of the group, this seemed a very risky business.

“Hold it  up to the  light!”  Herr K. demanded.  “You will notice a slight  greenish cast. Smell it!  You will smell  the earth of that hill and all its minerals. Take a generous sip!  Push it around with your tongue, up  against the palate.  Now chew it, really bite it!  Yes, go on! Then snuffle it over the tongue, under the tongue. That’s how you taste our own fine Riesling!’’  Those who were paying attention tried to follow this sequence, but most were distracted  at the sight of so much exaggerated chewing and gurgling.  And then a florid-faced woman called out that she would be happy to buy any bottles with more than one cork in it.  Loud laughter for a bit of humor that had failed in the dismal cave. Then four more Rieslings to sample. Herr K hurried them along a bit; the English would be arriving soon. Much to his relief, these festive Germans bought 138 bottles of various dry, semi-dry, and full-bodied wines.  “No broken glasses, no throwing bread, no arguments,  good sale.” said he with a smile as he watched them leave.

This researcher was able to establish a number of criteria by which groups could be compared: demeanor in the cave, behavior in the tasting room, and number of bottles purchased per capita. The Germans could be assigned a 3.28 on this basis.  Later on, it was shown that the English did a more modest 1.63 and the Belgian chemists a paltry .77, due most likely to the limitations of bicycle travel.  Such data, generously supplied by Herr K. strongly reinforced the early expectation of excellence for this Field Report.

Alas!  These hopes would be dashed. While it is true that the English did show up promptly, their behaviors along the lines of this cunning research model were not accurately recorded.  Just how this happened  was the result of a mix of circumstances, a tangled web of variables, and, it must be admitted, the shortcomings of the researcher himself.  Critics will quickly assume that no matter how promising this research model was, it likely could not withstand the ravages of alcohol. This researcher was seated unobtrusively in the shadow of an oak post where two smiling maidens wearing wreaths of wildflowers on their heads to stunning effect served the samples. Perhaps they pitied the relative isolation imposed by this research (of which they had no suspicion) but the samplings were excessively generous. And there was no stopping them nor  explaining the most elementary requirement of this project,  maintaining a steely-eyed objectivity.

The English were river boat people and ancient mariners at that. Looking in the distance towards the Mosel one saw  the sleek vessel which had that morning brought them from some port on the Rhine.  They had four hours on land and had chosen the option of doing the wine tasting. Very old people, neatly garbed in dark blazers for the men and pastel cruise-wear for the women. Quiet and dutiful, they gave their host close attention and conscientiously chewed, snuffled, and palate-pressed their Riesling. They smiled at the joke about the bottle with too many corks and a few indicated mirth by letting their breath out through the nose. All this was uninteresting  to observe from the  margins until one woman, possibly during the second sampling,  the one reputed to be from a particularly good year, turned to her husband and whispered loudly,  “Oh, Socrates, now I, too, have drunk my hemlock!”

It was a stunning remark, powerful and transforming. From here on, this report could no longer be concerned with Riesling, but with hemlock. With so many places to sample Mosel wine, the mind, now wrestling with a despairing monotony here at the Einhorn, yearned for a place that advertised hemlock tastings.  Oh, for shame, arguing monotony for so pleasant a pastime as sipping wine along the Mosel. But it is not the wine nor the sipping thereof that’s the problem, it’s that it is such an  uncommonly tedious thing to write about: folks standing around, looking thoughtful, murmuring to each  other, rinsing the palate between this ounce or that ounce. That quick glance over the shoulder, has someone noticed how poised we look, how bored we are?

Hemlock tastings, carefully done, would provide the honest drama that wine tastings invariably lacks. Hemlock is indigenous to Europe and it isn’t a tree.  It is a bush with leaves similar to fennel or parsley;  these leaves, crushed, smell like parsnips or like mice. Yes, “mousy”  bouquet would be one of the sought-after attributes for the hemlock connoisseur.  Hemlock tasting opportunities in Europe would be state-of-the-art for years to come, far superior to those offered  only years later in upstart California. The experienced purveyor of hemlock would be mindful that,  depending on your faith in Hellenic medicine,  small amounts of hemlock would be delightful in a variety of therapeutic uses. Arthritis comes to mind. However, the margin of error is slight and once the line is crossed, the consequence is a dramatic lack of bowel control,  some paralysis,  and then death.  Socrates and death! These are the very qualities, lacking with the juice of the grape, that makes hemlock tasting so much more interesting.

Preposterous, the idea that anyone would encounter Huns today. Franks maybe, or Visigoths, but Huns?   Attila the Hun comes to mind, appearing as a subject of films and even as a political marker  (“Cheney?  He’s to the right of Attila the Hun!”). Finding Huns in Germany seems even less likely since that was the term used during World War I to stigmatize Germans as savage beings who had forgotten how to conduct their wars like high-minded gentlemen.   But that is what is happening, there are Huns in Germany and they are showing some expansionist tendencies as was their habit in the 5th Century when, on horses and armed with the Hunnish bow, they made a mess of Europe. More than any other historical group they have attracted the label of “barbarian.”

[Note: In 2005 a group of Hungarians numbering over 2000  individuals petitioned their government to be declared an official Hun minority group  The request was denied. Who needs that kind of trouble?]

Huns are most easily found in pre-Lenten revelries along the Middle Rhine Valley.  There may be more agglomerations elsewhere, a topic that should be researched by others.  It has been harrowing enough for this researcher to identify the phenomenon, much less hope to inspire younger social scientists to cut their academic teeth on the disquieting gristle of German Hunnishness.

The first encounter with Huns was unexpected. This researcher was impressed with (note academic jargon) “the thickness of Rhineland Carnival as a pervasive overarching cultural artifact”  of the region and was keen on investing his customary seventy-five minutes of field work into this phenomenon.  Observation of the carnival would be best as it intensified in the week before Ash Wednesday after which all Christendom hereabouts would abjure having any fun any more whatsoever (never again, no sir, not me! ) until Easter Sunday; in other words, they were fixing to have a blowout before Lent. All signs suggested something orgiastic was in the air and so 75 minutes of unbiased observation seemed like an easy task. [ Note to those who may be reading a Field Report for the first time or who need reminding: no more than 75 minutes of actual field work takes place. However, a lifetime of rumination about the implications of this stuff is not discounted.]

So: the Carnival. Many avenues of research presented themselves.  Some Big Ideas might be :

(1) the tension between hedonistic Fasching (as Carnival time is called) and pious Christian fasting.  This has already been tirelessly ÿstudied from New Orleans to Rio de Janeiro. The world of flesh has many students, maybe envious Protestants smugly noting Roman Catholic public sinning.   Still, it’s a compelling theme especially if you regularly hear a song here along the Rhine which states (loose translation) that “we  believe in dear God, but my, we have a lot of thirst!”  Wait!  Was that a drinking song from a Major World Religion?  However, following this line of research would only encourage  resentment towards Martin Luther by those among his high-spirited devotees who want to let go and get silly but have lost the knack over the long cautious centuries since the Reformation.

(2) the military angle: many towns pride themselves on  elegantly dressed and bewigged troops (Stadtsoldatencorps) recalling the Napoleonic Era  Their behavior is mostly a parody of military seriousness. whether French or Prussian. They march sloppily and their maneuvering is apt to cause slapstick collisions. Old rifles may have carnations in the barrels. Interesting stuff in a country usually thought of as wild for snappy militarism.

(3) the self-concept of the Rhinelander as a joker, the funniest folks in all Germany, even more than Bavarians. Their specialty:  playing the Fool (Narr). Most comedians use the Koelsch dialect to do their Fool schtick.

(4) fasching eroticism,  present with the glamorous and stunning women always in traditional outfits of red boots, short full skirts, white blouses,vests and huge smiles. They make a grand and astonishing entrance at the head of any soldier corps by being carried while seated on a man’s hand, high above his head and then for as long as it takes to get on stage. Observers might be thinking: does he have a brace under his sleeve to carry out this feat?  More likely other observers are thinking something else.  Still, is it all superficially innocent as it seems, or is there a subtext of the flesh?   These women are special features of Carnival season and much esteemed.  They train a long time to do their energetic routines, a hybrid performance of drum majorette, acrobat, and free-form dancer.  They are called Funkmariechen,  “Sparkling Little Marys” literally, but who would risk a guess at deeper interpretations?

Easy to conclude, sitting and watching the proceedings that February night in a crowded hall in a small city, that the Funkmariechen was the best choice of the four for Field Report # 8.  Research  was immediately and daringly begun by observing the audience reaction to the prominence (one must conclude) of the lovely Funkmariechen’s underpants as she hopped, tumbled, did handstands, and kicked her right leg straight and high above her head.  Time to apply the litmus test of Eros: could a researcher observe any men in the crowd, pausing for a millisecond between gulps of beer or sausage, giving each other knowing looks?

It was now that the subject of this Field Report came into view.  Not men ogling the Funk-maiden, but hairy men costumed as weasels with caps and capes fashioned of animal skins.  Men (?) who left a hall during a Funk dance! There were perhaps as many as eight of them,  moving along the edge of the crowd and then disappearing again into a corridor.  This researcher (the Observer)  immediately put down the beer and the sausage which had been ordered  (merely to fit in, just another item in the research package) and followed at a distance.  The men, for they were all males, stood near the beer taps and looked like uneasy feral beings, rather like werewolves at an art gallery opening.  Since this is happening not too far from the original Neanderthal sites in Germany, it made some sense to assume that these were fellows who would spend Carnival as cave men.  This group had something that had (perhaps) not yet been developed by humankind during those neolithic times, a self-conscious and aloof manner.  They were, according to someone dressed like a British Redcoat, The Huns. At the sound of that word, all research on the Funkmariechen phenomenon evaporated.

Huns do not attend every event during Fasching. They seem to be selective in presenting themselves to the public. From the point of research with human subjects, they were a disappoinment and so much of the information had to be painstakingly collected in beer gardens and similar venues from disinterested third parties.

As far as is known today, Huns are indeed concentrated along the Rhine. How many bands exist is not known, but they do seem to be found in some of the major cities (Cologne, the capital of the Carnival season)  but more often in smaller towns with ancient names that suggest basic stuff such as worms, swine, ponds, stones and so on. The Huns see themselves as gathered into Hordes, but this is absurd.  You cannot have a Hun Horde of, say, thirty men and women.  Perhaps together these smaller units could form a horde capable of doing some real damage and even reversing the democratic directions of the European Union today. Surely they would work towards purging any remaining royalty.  They messed with European civilization 1500 years ago, more or less, so we know it is in them. Huns like to dress up as barbarians and their taste runs to leather, fur, and horn with some metal studs and clasps.   They especially like caps with borders of fur trim that suggest connections with the steppes of central Asia.

Huns make an annual appearance in fasching parades in a number of communities and they also have summer encampments with much eating of roast swine and drinking beer from kegs.  This latter event, even if observable,  might have yielded a better result for this report.  But, with Huns, you just don’t know. As it was, on the day of the fasching parade, chance revealed the staging area and therefore the preparations of the Huns to take their place in it.

The Huns had brought along a covered wooden wagonbed mounted on a small truck.  If Huns do spread to North America, this is sure to be dubbed a Hunmobile.  About 16 Huns stood around this conveyance, men and women,  gorgeously dressed for the day. Again, they were aloof and despite an effort to get them to engage in some small talk, they were notably disinterested in anyone except their own horde.  Even so, talk among themselves was sparing. The Greeks, who seem to have coined the word “barbarian” used it to signify those who did not speak Greek or whose own language was inelegant. This did not bode well for the much-needed centerpiece of this research, an actual interview with Huns.

An hour later, the parade was underway.  Along came several units of troops and one dragged a cannon which gave a sharp report from time to time. There were many other costumes, some benign (ice cream cones, milk maids, peasants, flowers) and others which would not have worked in a parade in the that sensitive land known as the United States, (“wild Indians” and African “cannibals” cooking up something in a pot).  A big part of the parade was the throwing and even dumping of treats towards the crowded sidewalks. Most of it was junky, but everyone expected that now and then you might get a really great item.   One man was handed something promising wrapped with ribbons in colored tissue:  it was an old and worn bicycle seat. He held it aloft, laughing at his foolhardiness and the crowd laughed with him. What fools these mortals be….

Then, towards the end of the parade: Huns!  Wooden vehicle creaking, the Huns strode along, impassive, not offering a thing to the crowds except for small pieces of yellow paper.  The one with the goat horns attached to his helmet seemed to be the leader, his body padded to increase its substantial bulk. People reached out the touch the Huns, and you heard the words  “die Hunnen, die Hunnen”  repeatedly until  they passed and some group dressed like Robin Hood and his Merry Men, dispensing beer in cups to the crowd, began to command more attention. The  Huns’ yellow paper was an insult note which you could put on the windshield of cars that had parked carelessly, taking up more than their space in a land where parking is mostly a challenge.   Basically, it was a diatribe regarding the stupidity of parking malefactors and ending in a vile, tasteless suggestion as to what you could do with yourself if you didn’t like it; not a pretty insight into the mind of the Hun.

The Huns did not hang around after the parade: you did not see Huns in the taverns as you did the soldiers, the princesses or the clowns or even the occasional couple dressed as parakeets or tubes of toothpaste.   It was Shrove Tuesday, time to drink up, eat schnitzel, and to stand in the loud and smoky bars, maybe dancing a few steps or maybe just kissing.  Remember,  tomorrow  it would be, so they said, ashes and fish, maybe even the confessional.  This explained the fervor of the folks, one would like to think.

Last chance to further this research on Huns. Had the revelers in the tavern seen any Huns around here? (No, only in the parade. ) And what did they know about them? (Not much, they were “normal”• folks.  You could be sitting next to one on the trolley.) Are the Huns politically motivated?  Were they Germanophiles hard at work with an agenda?   (No, don’t think so.)  Would you and your lady like to be Huns?  (No, not really.)  So, just like that, the Huns had presented themselves, inspired admiration, curiosity, and some disgust but leaving little to fill the notebook of this researcher. Anyway, wasn’t it stupid to try to do research in a bar on an extraordinarily hedonistic day?   The Huns had taken barely 75 minutes of  research effort and produced little for the annals of social science. A Funkmarienchen would have been the better choice.  Too late. Fool!

[PNZ felt the need to preface this FR with the following: “As usual, the strict and single methodological rule here is to invest no more (or less!) than 75 minutes research in the field. In this way, the writer seeks to honor the scientific method and to count himself in the Lustrous Company of Science.”]

Go to Bonn, lately the capital of Germany before reunification, now a receding political place, and you will find a earlier call to fame still in play. This is the birth city of Ludwig van Beethoven.  You will not forget this, since the city terms itself “Beethovenstadt Bonn.” Short of transferring his remains from Vienna, the town has done what it could with what it had of its most famous son. His mother lies nearby in the Old Cemetery, a surrogate for tourists who prefer graves to cradles.   No word on his father. Here and there are statues of the  wild-haired Beethoven, but he was out of this small city on the Rhine by 1790, gone to Vienna to try and meet Haydn and Mozart.

The streets of the old inner city, Beethoven’s neighborhood,  are packed this gloomy Saturday afternoon in February.  Somber clothing, the citizens’ preferred choice, deepens the effect. Brightness lies in the fruit and vegetables, hawked at the green market and with the baroque and pinkish Rathaus. Fat peppers, ruby beets, glowing oranges from Spain.  As a child on his way to St. Remigius Church (which proudly features the baptismal font where Ludwig became a Rhineland Catholic) he must have witnessed earlier versions of this market.  The mind  places him in these streets, though not in the Turkish restaurants or near cell phone kiosks.

What you have read so far is fluff.  Formal research for this field report starts now, upon entry at Number 9 Bonngasse, which the plaque announces as the birthplace, on December 16th (but maybe the 17th?) 1770.  This is serious: the composer of the Ninth Symphony, of “da-da-da-daaaah,” of history’s most ironic hearing loss (more on this later) beginneth here!  Right off you learn that the building facing the street, the one with the plaque, was nòot the place of birth at all. The Beethovens actually lived in a small, narrow three story slate-roofed house that was behind the other buildings, You would never know it was there unless someone led you though the houses on the street and pointed you towards it.

Up  the stairs, to the third floor in the back.  The floors creak.  Here is the only room none may enter, blocked off with a velvet cord.  Very small, and low.  Empty,  just a pedestal with a bust of  stormy-haired Ludwig.  A family with two young children peers into the room. “This is where he was born,” says the mother. “Who?” the daughter asks. “Beethoven!’ says her slightly older brother. They move on, making  room for the next visitors, a young Japanese couple taking their turn briefly staring into the near-emptiness. A man with a cane and a bandaged ear clumps to the door to takes his turn. He leans around the corner into the room: there musât be more to this! And up the stairs come two tourists, probably British, who, standing there exactly as the Japanese did, murmur something and move on.

Time to over-intellectualize, to squeeze the most out of this moment. Odd is it not, looking into that little room?  What do people think as they look in?  What are they supposed to think?  What is the significance of Significance? All anyone of any age or origin can come up at the doorway of Bonn’s most significant garret nursery may be nothing more than thinking: this is where Beethoven was born.   Everyone gets born is one thought, gets born somewhere. We already knew Beethoven was born somewhere, right?  Significance?  Watch out, the whole edifice of sight-seeing is leaning and groaning! Why is anyone here? Is there an air molecule of the master available for our own respiration?

Onward!  More floors creak in former family rooms filled with display cases featuring this and that.   Clavichords, violas, woodwinds,  note paper, and other items either used by Beethoven or often copies of the same. Much of the stuff here would not be familiar to them; it’s mostly from Vienna, brought here to fill the empty space of a house that was nearly destroyed a century ago.   On the second floor the subject of deafness appears. This draws a morbid knot of people to the display of ear trumpets, attempts to defeat his hearing loss. They are of brass and fashioned in various ways to capture and then augment sound. 1The largest resembles a device to make popcorn over a fire.  Nearby, two cuttings of his hair. Different colors. How can that be?  Then his last known writing, a codicil to a will in which he makes a provision for his nephew, Carl.  The German word for nephew is “Neffe” but Beethoven, a day short of his death, has spelled it “Neffffe.” Twice the number of “f’s required. This is unexpectedly moving.

Since entering this small museum, a visitor will have been informed, then reminded, then reminded again of the desirability of visiting a recent (2004) innovation: a place where one can (this from a brochure) “enter the new worlds of the Beethoven-House where past and future meet in a thrilling way.”  Scheduled once an hour, the “unique worldwide opportunity” is located in a vault beneath the house next door .

It’s an odd facility, this medieval artifact now made into a sleek/ birch-panelled chamber.  Along the walls on each side are benches for visitors. There were six of us in this chamber, experimental subjects ready to have that past and future collide.  A young woman in jeans tells us what to expect and what to do. What to do?  Quickly she gives us the plot of Act 2 of Beethoven’s only opera, Fidelio, then passes around a tray (also birch) with 3-D glasses, large dark ones. Strangers before, now we are bug-eyed strangers.  Before us, on birch pedestals,  (all this pale wood: IKEA?) are four interactive stations which would be operated by the walleyed insects. The object (we are told) by the young woman in jeans: to alter the image and  motion of the characters appearing on the screen. A dozen speakers are aimed at us, ready to present a standard recording of the opera.

Lights out.  Darkness of the tomb. Sound.  The character Fidelio, is unjustly imprisoned by Pizarro, a Spanish jailer. They are represented on the screen by electronic imagery, emphatically non-human. So, the  thing that sometimes looks like a spiral pastry fashioned of white points of light is poor Fidelio, and Pizarro is four white sticks with blue ends like old-fashioned wooden matches. Leonor, wife of Fidelio who saves him from certain execution, is a tangerine blob.  All of these shapes were highly changeable (by us!), presumably to demonstrate action and mental states  (whose?), but that may be a stretch. The experts will note that there is a fourth character, but it really seemed not to matter.

So, there was poor Fidelio, singing about his hopeless state and spinning away like a vertical  conch shell with a sort of breathing tube snaking out and around him.  As such, he invoked no sympathy.  Pizarro just sort of swung there, looking like four bored rather than malicious matchsticks.  Leonor zipped here and there, but you would have a tough time deciding which side the little tangerine was on. Because we were wearing those glasses, these figures did seem to move in and out and towards us.  As the insect/visitors began to get their courage up and operate the tools on the pedestals before them these images moved up, down, back and more interestingly, forward so that they might appear close to you.  Maybe we were now in that prison with Fidelio and maybe we could affect their fate?  More likely that we did not care about these characters. Once it was over no one said anything. Tight smiles, no questions, 3-D glasses returned; all seemed to shuffle out of this dungeon happy for their release, just as Fidelio had been from his.

With just a few minutes of research time remaining, there is always the gift shop which provides an unintentional synopsis or even antidote to many a  museum.   Neckties, posters, t-shirts,  copies of manuscripts:  Beethoveniana in good taste. No hair samples, no reproductions of ear trumpets. Wait! Here are two plaster masks, copies of course, of life and death masks, items you may have missed on the upper floors.  In Beethoven’s time, if you re÷ached a certain stature in life, both masks might be required in the era before photography came along.  The life mask was made at age 41 and is a good counterpoint to those portraits which seem never to agree on what he looked like. The death mask was made shortly (12 hours) after his death, about the time the skull  was opened to see what had caused that horrendous deafness. Macabre fact-of-the day!  Not a casual memento, the two of them together can be yours for about $180.

Back out on the Bonngasse, the Saturday shoppers had thinned and this made the vegetable mongers cry out more loudly that two melons for an Euro was a bargain and did anyone want a few leeks to take home to the family?  The bakery wagon had its trays of earth-toned loaves and the sausage man was perfuming the air with wurst miasma.  Behind lay a significant and empty attic room and a medieval dungeon where, despite the best efforts of a digitally-engaged audience, Fidelio never gets out.

For nearly forty years, the town of Barnesville, Minnesota has celebrated itself and the potato on the last weekend in August. Why is this? There are the usual explanations having to do with this being potato country, just an excuse to have some fun, or a gimmick to boost the economy by attracting up to 14,000 visitors who reputedly come from all over the country?  Or is it the clear voice of Barnesville as it answers the Strawberry Days, the Apple Days, the Corn Festival, the Pork Fest, and the Blueberry Celebration of other small towns in the Upper Midwest?  But these are mere prosaic answers which do less than a teaspoon of dried potato flakes to stopper our hunger for deeper truths.  And Barnesville will not willingly tell you why it does what it does. So you have to go there and probe, to expose the tuber that lies beneath the subconscious soil of this usually unassuming town of 2300 inhabitants. Many scholars have treated the history and social influence of potatoes (Inca cities, Polish vodka, Irish famines, the curious potato gun) but none have devoted the required research effort to ask why a small town in Minnesota raises its annual song of praise to the potato.

Potato. Such a word. Potato Days, even better for its pleasant little beat. On radio and television, highway billboards, and with simple but omnipresent brochures, Potato Days seemed to create a drone, insistent, filling the mind: Potato Days! Potato Days! Soon it will be Potato Days!

Those familiar with these Field Reports will recall that they are governed by a severe methodology: no more that 75 minutes in the field. How would an extravaganza like Potato Days be served by such strictures?  A decade ago, this Visitor had gone to Potato Days for only the most crass reason:  to eat.  Recalled is a parade on Saturday evening with an abundance of farm machinery chugging down Front Street, Barnesville’s main street anchored at one end by the massive old Catholic Church of the Assumption and a bank near the other end. The six or eight blocks in between was where Potato Days really happens. Now, this year, the Visitor was no longer a callow tourist, but a shrewd Observer, tightly disciplined for this Field Report. Checking the schedule of events, it was quickly obvious how to spend the hour and fifteen minutes in Barnesville.  And the focus of observation? One word leapt off the pages of the Potato Days brochure: Mashed.  Three events featured mashed potatoes: Mashed Potato Wrestling in a field south of the Church on Friday afternoon and a Mashed Potato Eating Contest on the bandstand in the center of town and last, the Mashed Potato Sculpture contest in the Bank parking lot. There were no other events that could match this promise of drama, and that included Potato Car Races. Potato Sack Races, Miss Tater Tot Contest, Potato Soup Cook-off, or the Potato Peeling Contest to name a few.  When a thing is mashed, it must reveal.

Unexpectedly the road to Barnesville helped to set the context for this event. The visitor must drive there and, regardless of direction, the last 20 miles is a crossing on a disc of earth, horizons equidistant. No hills disturb this perspective, you are in one of the flattest places on the planet. On this day, great white clouds were marching evenly from the west and the fields looked healthy and green (the sugar beets) or gold ( the sunflowers or the wheat). No potato plants.  It is beyond this research to ask how it is that Barnesville has Potato Days without any in the nearby fields.  On those uncrowded highways, you might feel yourself floating, daydreaming, thinking of old stories in which the journey itself is the destination.

At the venue for the mashed potato wrestling lies a large blue tarpaulin lined with hay bales. A modest crowd has gathered early, sitting on folding lawn chairs. There is a problem. This wrestling area contains only a cream-colored depth of dry potato powder. Dry?  Two men are leaning against a truck, shaking their heads, waiting for the tardy fire department with a water tanker. While waiting we learn that the potato substance is “non-edible grade” meaning that it is usually fed to cattle and not people. Hence Barnesville cannot be accused of flaunting its potato plenty in the face of a hungry world. It is an explanation that will be given again at the sculpture event.  Still…one wonders if that which is about to be wrestled in or sculpted would not be seen differently in the famished regions of Africa?  When the water truck arrived, a dozen barefoot citizens slogged back and forth until the texture was  without dry spots or lumpiness. It looked more like a potato soup, a gruel but without the consistency sufficient to form gravy pockets.

First Disappointment:  the Observer had hoped to see large farmboys in overalls strip down to their swimming trunks and heave each other around with large gobs of potato flung out into the electrified audience.  And they would be followed by bikini-clad maidens, maybe even the daughter of the banker furiously shoving the face of the tractor dealer’s daughter into the starch.  Nothing like it!  Mostly young kids taking turns tripping each other until both were creamy with potato slurry.   One was declared a winner after five minutes of slopping about, then both reported to the truck where the fire department guys hosed them potato-free.

On the way to the next event, the Mashed Potato Eating Contest, the Observer passed the Dunk Tank where were manifested some of the class and sexual tensions so keenly missing at the wrestling.  A young woman, perhaps seventeen (who was in a bikini) sat on her perch above an unpleasant looking tank of dark water. For a dollar you got three softballs to throw at a target and if you hit it she would be dropped into the dismal tub. All the contestants and most of the bystanders were young males. They threw very hard, much harder than necessary and with scowling faces. Even when one of them succeeded they took no pleasure in it: some kind of score was being evened. The young woman seemed not to know these fellows and smiled unconvincingly as she climbed out of the tank and back on her perch. The hurling of softballs began anew.

Also on the way was a food vendor recalled from an earlier visit.  The church ladies of a nearby village served Swedish potato sausage wrapped in a sheet of Norwegian lefse. But they had temporarily sold out and a long line of the hungry was waiting for the next shipment to arrive. This was exactly what had happened a decade earlier. You cannot make enough potato sausage in a church basement to feed the demands of these faithful communicants.

Second Disappointment. At the Mashed Potato Eating Contest, one had to endure the music coming out of the speakers on either sides of the awning-covered portable stage. Was this potato music? In front of the stage were many picnic tables where the consumers of potato sausage, french fries, or lemonade sat with friends and neighbors awaiting the spectacle.  The contest was broken into age groups, and disappointingly it would be kids again. not four hundred pound men and women in bib overalls who would vacuum up the spuds with aplomb and then shyly retreat until next year, trophy in hand. The youngest contestants were six and the oldest sixteen. They were supplied with one bowl at a time of mashed potato (very white, stiff, and very edible) and allowed to bring something to drink on stage as they sat together at a long table facing the audience.  Note Rule # 1 :  No mixing your drink with the mashed potato!  The excuse given was that it created a mess, but it was easy to see that he or she who mixed up a kind of milk of potato would win by just gulping it down.  All you were allowed to add was butter and salt.   The mashed potatoes were late in coming from the Eagle Cafe just half a block away on Front Street. When they did arrive, they were plenty warm, almost too warm for the youngest contestants. But they were tough, these kids , who soon had clots of potato hanging from their mouths. Somewhere   paramedics must be hovering, wondering if insurance releases had been signed by parents. But this was Potato Days in a place called Barnesville where such intrusions from the more anxious world beyond the prairie disc were not in evidence. Except for one teenager who consumed four bowls, the event was quite discreet and one could say that most of the children must have fine manners drilled into them at home for they found it difficult to crudely shovel the potatoes into their innocent mouths.

The Mashed Potato Sculpture Contest was beginning a block away and I hurried to see the beginning. Contestants (and there were perhaps thirty including ten adults) were grouped by age once again. Each had thirty minutes to take as much cold mashed potato and complete whatever their inner Rodin dictated.  Alas, the Third Disappointment.  Not only were the sculptures small, less than a foot in height, but they were not of noble inspiration. I saw cats, dogs, pizzas, a radio, a sheep, numerous cartoon or Star Wars characters as well as five- pointed stars, and a candy bar. All made of mashed potatoes and often liberally adorned with food coloring or jelly beans. It took very little time to take all this in, but as this Observer was leaving he spotted a rough abstraction easily mistaken for the Venus of Willendorf.  He went to encourage the twelve-year old who had been working on it and to tell him that he should be awarded a prize. Where, one wanted to ask, did you learn about the Venus of Willendorf,? Just then he was heard to say to a girl working on a potato sofa for her Barbie Doll that he should not have attempted to sculpt a bullfrog; just too hard.

Crossing the great disc of the flat prairie again the Observer listened to the news and noticed a small quantity of mashed potato drying on a sleeve. The news was of the impending doom of distant hurricanes, of a soldier from some other place in Minnesota dead in Baghdad, and speculation over the ruinous impact of rising petroleum costs. Back in Barnesville, surely others were also becoming aware of small amounts of mashed potato in unexpected places.  But they had happily escaped the news of the day–was that why Barnesville does what it does?