Bahrain is an island country, half way up the Persian Gulf. It shines like a white pearl in the shimmering blue water, almost in sight of the Arabian coast. Before the discovery of oil, pearl- diving was its main industry, and pearls still figure prominently in its culture. Continue reading
When USS Little Rock (CLG-4), the Sixth Fleet flagship pulled into Tangiers, Morocco at the end of January, I had a more important mission than building US-Moroccan relations (which I helped do anyway). This was one of the few ports where my wife Carol (a singer with the Sixth Fleet Music Show) would not be with me. She had issued clear-cut orders to come home with a handmade wool Moroccan rug. Not some little runner for the hall, but a full-sized beauty to lie beneath the entire living room ensemble. Continue reading
This week I tell a tale of two cultures in the same country. Not counting port visits during Mediterranean deployments, I have lived in Italy four times: 1956-1965; 1972-1974; 1985-1988; 2015-present. Returning to live in Formia almost 30 years after living in Pozzuoli and more than 40 years after living next door in Gaeta has allowed me to consider what has changed in the country where I grew up – and what has not. Continue reading
When I was four and five, Mom was the buyer for a national toy company. As you can imagine, we had obscene Christmases, because she could get the latest toys and games for wholesale or less. 
I remember having a pedal-powered Austin car identical to that of Prince Charles (his was green; mine was cream-coloured), and such luxuries. Continue reading
I
n the summer of 2012, I got an idea, to test whether my clients knew or cared where I worked. For about a year, I had been spending an ever-increasing percentage of my time away from the beautifully appointed, but windowless, office in the basement of our home. Coffee bars of all kinds (but mainly Starbucks) were my venues of choice.
I loaded my bicycle and the two panniers into the car and drove up the East Coast of the United States. I also carried my recorder teacher, Gary Porter and her luggage, because we were going to the Amherst Early Music Festival in New London, Connecticut. After a week of fun playing instruments no one sees in a classical orchestra anymore, I drove Gary to the New London train station, so she could return to Charlottesville. Then I drove to Old Lyme to visit my stepmother and my brother Jack and his family for a while.
On the 21st of July, I loaded the panniers on my bike, left the car and the rest of my stuff with my family, and headed north to Andover, Connecticut. It was an unusually hot summer, but I found that the mature trees that line Connecticut’s secondary roads spread out over the road, provided shade for me and the asphalt. I did not suffer much. My sister Louise and her family lived in Andover.
From Andover, my brother Bob tossed the bike and me into his brand-new Ford pickup truck, and left me in the country at an intersection on US 20. I took it to Brookline, Massachusetts, where I stayed with my friend Matthew. While in the Boston area, I took a bus to Brunswick, Maine, and rode to Harpswell to visit my cousin Peter and his wife Candi. 
A ferry took me from Boston to Provincetown on Cape Cod. From there, I rode to Brewster, Hyannis, Fairhaven, Newport, then back to Old Lyme. The trip covered 661 km and took three weeks. I wanted to take a longer tour, but a teaching commitment back in Charlottesville cut short my plans.
There were long stretches of truck-heavy asphalt, tailwinds among the sand dunes, and the smell of pine and birch on wooded country roads. I had no smartphone, but I stopped at coffee shops and eateries advertising WiFi to clear my email, and to work a little. 
Each night at eight different stops, I worked on whatever had come in. During those three weeks, I delivered three translation assignments, reviewed a scholarly journal article, and translated one of the letters for the Retirement Series of the Papers of Thomas Jefferson. Not once did anyone know or care where I was.
It was this trip that confirmed for me that I did not need to stay in Charlottesville to provide quality service to my clients. One year later, the Freewheeling Freelancer set out, and the rest is history.
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Trip update: On Sunday morning, the 5th of June, Alan and Christina and I had 
breakfast, then walked next door to Saint Thomas’ Church. Holy Eucharist included a Baptism. I enjoyed being back in the familiar liturgy, surrounded by an acoustically resonant building, harmony in the pews, and beautiful surroundings. The church would seem to be an ancient Gothic cathedral, but it was only built in the late 19th Century, as a mission from the Cathedral to the then-poor rural areas north of Wells. The parish still serves three villages, and the spirit of outreach seems very alive.
After Church, I took the Bath road to the city by that name. Climbing to the ridge north of Wells, I looked back to admire Wells sitting in its valley, regretting that the summer haze precluded a good photograph. On both sides, intense green pastures and fields spread out over rolling hills. The farm smells were stronger than the wildflowers, but that was still more natural than the occasional exhaust pipe that drove by. As on the way to Wells, I had expected headwinds and rain, but the day proved sunny and mild all the way. I arrived at the Saint Christopher Inn hostel at 1400, three hours ahead of schedule.
Bath has been a destination for tourists and travellers for more than three hundred years, and a major city since Roman times, with good reason. With an extra afternoon available, I decided to take a double-decker bus tour to see as much as I could quickly. 
Basking in the sunshine as I rode to all the major stops, I enjoyed the same information that I would have read in a collection of guidebooks. After the tour, I walked around the city centre, and had supper in the restaurant under the hostel.
I had planned to tour Bath on Monday. The bus ticket entitled me to a Skyline Tour, so I rode that, too. Then I walked to the Abbey and the Roman baths for some photography. The wandering also gave me my bearings, which I needed the next morning to ride our of the valley to Salisbury.
Tuesday morning, I was up early. I am still getting used to the length of the daylight in the northern latitudes. At 50° N, this part of England is getting more than 16 hours of sunlight already. Of course, they can get a good night’s sleep in the winter.
By 0845, I was on my way. National Cycle Route 4 was interrupted just outside Bath for towpath maintenance, so I rode the Warminster Road (A36) 7 km to Monkton Combe to regain the towpath along the canal to Warminster. Traffic was not light, but it was mostly going into Bath, so I did not hold up any frustrated commuters.
About six km of gravel path awaited me along the canal, but the path was well surfaced and very flat (of course), so I was able to clip along and enjoy the view, without struggling to avoid holes and loose sand and other hazards. I left the towpath at Trowbridge, then followed the A350 to Warminster. 
The National Cycle Route 24 took me 22 km through rolling farmland far from traffic all the way to Wilton. This charming village was only 13 km from my destination (Firsdown, 8 km beyond Salisbury). It was the first village or town with anything open since Bath, so I stopped for an early lunch. “Nachos with chili con carne” turned out to be a substantial meal in the upscale pub, and I enjoyed to difference, as well as the rare chance to eat something spicy (the Thai and Indian restaurants in Bath were both closed).
I arrived at Andy Beckett’s home so early, that I had time to ride back into Salisbury to visit that marvel. Andy rides several hundred miles each week and, being a freelancer, can call his own schedule. He rode in with me, showing me a direct route through the fields and villages that I never would have guessed.
I had wanted to visit Salisbury Cathedral since childhood, and I was not disappointed. The extra height, and the immense (but detailed) stained glass windows held my breath. But there was an extra treat for me. The organist was working, and I was able to experience the acoustics of the space, which my musician friends (including son Daniel) have raved about. I stood in the acoustic centre of the space and let the music wash over me.
I did not know that the Magna Carta is kept in the Chapter House of the Cathedral, but I was able to visit that exhibition, too. Andy and I rode back to his house, and I took him and Carrie to supper.
Wednesday, I had the day free, so I rode to Woodhenge to take some photographs. Andy coached me on the easiest way to ride there, and it was indeed easy and pleasant. I expected rain, but the forecasters were not having a good day. The sun came out while I was taking pictures, and stayed out the rest of the day.
I remembered Woodhenge from a visit my family made to the site in 1985. We also visited Stonehenge, but since then, the more famous site has restricted access and too many tourists. Woodhenge held more interest for me, and it seemed unchanged in thirty years. Sheep grazed around the site. Access was unrestricted, and I had the place to myself.
Alan and Carrie were perfect hosts for a freewheeling freelancer. Everyone got their work done, and we still enjoyed each other after work.
The next day, I east towards Robertsbridge, my final destination for this week. National Cycle Route 24 got me as far as Winchester, along back roads and country lanes. About 5 km from Alan’s house I noticed a strange sound in my crankset. 25 km later, the right side of my crankset was clearing wobbling and about to fail. I stopped for lunch in the charming village of Shawford, and had a gourmet croquet-monsieur at the Sacher and Strudel pastry shop. 
While waiting for the sandwich, I found Hargrove’s Cycles in Winchester. They had the Shimano Tiagra crankset in stock, as well as the bearing sets for the bottom bracket. I rode there and they had me on the road in an hour and a half (GBP 37, including labour).
The rest of the ride was very beautiful, with no traffic, no noise but my own tyres, and the thick smell of privet, holly, and ivy. Who knew that those three quintessentially English plants could dominate the olfactory landscape. They rested on a base of rich, earthy compost, which provided a pleasant counterpoint for my nose.
With the additional time to ride into suburban Winchester, I was still able to keep my schedule, but I could not stop in Petworth as I had hoped. My phone and power cell also ran down with the extra time on the road. I camped outside Petworth, at the Graffham Camping and Caravanning Club. I pitched my tent in a clean site with a combination of sand and dirt that was easy to drive pegs into, but which also held tightly.
On Friday, I rode into East Sussex to visit Darvell, where my brother David lives with Sally and the remaining children at home: Joe and Maria, Corwin and Kathy, and Joe’s sons, Evan, Lester, and Tom.
After a frustrating direction from Google Maps to take a unpaved bridle path, I pushed my way to the street through a hedge of stinging nettles and regained the road. I continued zigzagging among the farms, which was not only more pleasant, but cut as much as 15 km off the ride. Still, two 110-km days in a row left me ready for bed Friday night.
I was not surprised to see that the Bruderhof had located in fertile countryside. In addition to the factory (Community Playthings), they have gardens, sheeps, crops, and the freshest air one could ask for. In fact, the site used to be a tuberculosis sanatorium back in the early 20th Century, when the only “cure” for TB was fresh air.
Next week, another piece on living and working abroad. Until then,
Smooth roads and tailwinds,
Jonathan.
In the summer of 1967, I was given my one shot at leadership ashore while at the US Naval Academy. As a Midshipman Second Class, I was a squad leader in a cohort of other 2/c midshipmen (rising college juniors, for those needing a conversion) going through summer training. At the Naval Academy, the summers before our Third Class and First Class years were devoted to afloat training, the 3/c filling enlisted billets on ships and the 1/c trying junior officer roles. Continue reading
Madonna di Riposo
Last time (23 April), I wrote that Mom bought us bicycles for our birthdays in August of 1958. I turned 11 and David 9. We had moved to a comfortable, ground-floor flat on the Via Aurelia, in the Madonna di Riposo neighbourhood, located at the top of the hill near where three broad, dual-carriageway avenues Via Gregorio VII, Via Baldo degli Ubaldi and the Circonvallazione Cornelia met and intersected the Via Aurelia. Continue reading
It was a very different time and a very different place. 
The Marshall Plan was still helping to rebuild the countries of Western Europe devastated by World War II. My first memories of Rome as a nine-year-old boy were of broad boulevards with almost no automobiles. Those who did not take public transit rode bicycles, and the well-off had mopeds, which were just bicycles with a friction motor on the front wheel. Continue reading
Gaeta, Italy. Most mornings when the US Sixth Fleet flagship is in home port, I coast down the steep hill from our apartment building on the very top of the Monte Elena. I stop my bicycle at the kiosk in the town square, and buy the daily papers from Naples, Milan, Paris and Rome. Then I ride to the ship.
the office building
The first thing I do in my office is read the papers and type up a short précis about what the press in Italy and France has to say today. I send copies to the Chief of Staff and to the Intelligence Officer (N-2). It’s just a little thing I do, since I am reading the papers anyway, and the Admiral and his staff find the summaries interesting.
my office
One afternoon, the N-2 stopped by my office with a wry smile on his face. I looked up from my work, but it would have been awkward to try to stand up for him in my cramped space.
“Can I help you, Captain?” I asked.
“London called on the secure phone this morning,” he said. “London” meant CINCUSNAVEUR, the Commander, US Naval Forces Europe. “Washington wants to know why we keep reporting so much activity in Libya when we don’t have any people on the ground.” It had been a while since Col. Qaddafi had evicted all Americans from the country. Obviously N-2 was forwarding my little reports up the chain of command.
“Is it something in my daily summaries?” I asked, worried that I had crossed some unwritten boundary in the shady world of intelligence collection.
“I explained what you do. They were just surprised that we had such high-quality information before the regular intelligence agencies. It all gets confirmed or at least corroborated by satellite, and I think it’s driving JCS and NSA nuts.”
working a rig in Libya
“But Libya is local news in Naples,” I said. “There are thousands of Italian engineers working there, not to mention the Italian reporters who follow what is happening with them. Their families mostly live in Naples, and they read Il Mattino.”
The N-2 smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “Just keep the translations coming, Jonathan.”
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Trip update: Sunday I arose refreshed, had breakfast, and locked up the flat. I walked 800 m to the Formia train station, pushing the big four-wheeled suitcase that I bought in Miami last November. It’s my only piece of “normal” luggage. At 1122, the Intercity 590 took me to Bologna is a little under five hours.
It was an overcast day, but warm. The brilliant spring-time green around the Bisenzio River between Prato and Bologna completely hid the fact that a miserable winter with snow and flooding had plagued this beautiful valley since Cheryl and I had ridden this way last summer.
Monday, I took a painful, one-hour bus ride to the Bologna Book Fair. I could have walked it faster, but the crush of passengers kept me from even getting off. The traffic moved at a snail’s pace to the Fair. After taking the bus back in the evening, 
I immediately rented a city bike near the train station. Getting around was much easier after that, because Bologna is a flat city, with many bike lanes and bike paths.
The Bologna Book Fair overloaded my senses. I had wanted to visit the largest children literature event on the planet for more than 30 years, but I had not been in Italy in April until now. I only expected to walk around and check things out, because I was a “newbie,” but on the first day I met two self-publishers and found myself discussing an exciting translation/adaptation project with a publisher about a brand new non-fiction book. 
My friend and colleague Denise Muir arrived on the second day. It was her fourth Bologna Book Fair, so she was able to answer some questions. We shared a few of the many sessions.
The Fair wrapped up on Thursday afternoon. Friday, I took the Frecciarossa train to Rome, where Nando Marcucci had my sport coat and two pairs of trousers ready for me. I have had suits made for me, but they were extensively modified garments that had already been cut out. These were made from the cloth that Cheryl and I selected last September. The afternoon train brought me back to Formia. Today I am out riding, trying to recover from the relative physical inactivity of the last week.
L
itfire, a self-publishing firm in Atlanta, Georgia, passed out free bags at the Book Fair, with a saying that I found particularly fitting. Here is another one of my million.
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I hope to be rolling north in three weeks. Next week, I would like to examine whether I am really living on the road, and how my original plan has morphed over the last two and a half years. Some of you have been following me for all or most of that time. What is your impression?
Smooth roads and tailwinds,
Jonathan.
We had been living in Rome for three years when the brand new Pope, John XXIII, stunned his own cardinals and advisers by announcing that he would convene an Ecumenical Council. No one really understood how historic it would be, on so many levels. Three years later, in October 1962, 
more than 2,000 Bishops and major prelates converged on the Eternal City to answer his call. It was the first time that an Ecumenical Council included outside observers (17 denominations of Eastern Orthodox and Protestants). In my opinion, it was the first true Ecumenical Council since the Council of Trent in 1563, because Vatican Council I only had a minority of bishops (Italians and some French) in attendance by the time that Garibaldi crashed through the Porta Pia on 20 September 1870 and scattered the assembly. Most of the cardinals and bishops were still on their way. (“Ecumenical” means everyone.)
Rome was crazy with colorful clergy of all types wandering around. The American delegation was struggling. To their great surprise, there were no interpreting services at the Council, because every priest was expected to be fluent in Latin. 
This was not a dead language for me and my classmates taking Latin IV at school. We were using it every day, interpreting for delegates or just helping with conversation practice after serving Mass each morning.
Mom and I operated the sauna and steam bath concession in the basement of the Cavalieri Hilton Hotel, which had just opened. As the first five-star, American-style hotel in Rome, the American prelates favored the Cavalieri Hilton, and many came down to our establishment to get over the stress of the day. The joke ran around the hotel, that our cool-down pool was full of holy water from the constant immersion of bishops and cardinals.
One night as I was closing up, I got a phone call from one of our regular clients, the Auxiliary Bishop of Newburgh, New York. He was a humble man, who did not like being called anything fancier than “Father.”
“Jonathan, could you come up to my room for a while?” he asked. “I have a document that we need help with tonight.” Thanking my lucky stars that I had finished my own homework already that evening, I took the lift up to his suite. He met me with a thick, typewritten manuscript.
“We were just given this today. I think it’s a draft Encyclical [major policy letter from the Pope]. The American delegation has a meeting right after breakfast to prepare our national response to it. But none of us can read it, especially something that thick in one night.”
“I can’t type or write that fast, Father,” I said, hefting the volume in my hands. He sat down at his coffee table, and pulled a large yellow pad of paper towards himself.
“I was wondering if you could read it to me – in English. I will take notes. I am hoping that will give us enough information to put something together in the morning.”
He was asking for a “sight translation,” something that court interpreters often do. Sight translation from Latin? Why not? I opened the manuscript and began to interpret, “Pacem in Terris…” Peace on Earth…
Today, I think that the first crack in the Berlin Wall appeared as I read, walking a circle into the carpet of his room. On Maundy Thursday, 11 April 1963, Pacem in Terris hit the world media, and the Cold War began to come to an end. It was the first encyclical not written to Catholics, but to all people. In it, Pope John blasted both sides of the Cold War, and told them to get on with taking care of their people and start working on nuclear disarmament and non-proliferation.
For more on both the Encyclical and the Council, check out https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pacem_in_terris and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Vatican_Council
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Trip update: Last weekend for Palm Sunday, I tested going to church on Sunday in Rome. Every time that I have shown up at Saint Paul’s within the Walls (http://www.stpaulsrome.it/), they have welcomed me warmly. Stefano Vasselli, the Music Director, even let me sing in the Choir.
From 1961-1965, I was a member of the International Teen Club, which met in the basement of the church for weekend dances. I was also the DJ and at the end, Vice-President of the Club. The church has since put the space to better use as the Joel Nafuma Refugee Center (http://jnrc.it/), but the Teen Club years lived on in corporate memory. The first Sunday that I showed up last autumn, I felt a little embarrassed by the fame that still attached to my role in the Club.
Making rehearsal at 0930 meant catching the 0822 train to Rome’s Termini station and a brisk walk. We rehearsed a wonderful collection of special music for Holy Week, so I decided to come back for Tenebrae on Wednesday and stay for the Triduum. I was back in Formia in mid-afternoon. I repeated the commuting act the next day, because the sport coat and slacks that Nando Marcucci was making from the fabrics that Cheryl and I bought this summer were ready for a first fitting. After the fitting, 
I went back to the Church for the regular Monday rehearsal of the Mozart Requiem, which a local chorus that Stefano directs would perform after Tenebrae on Wednesday. I had sung the Requiem twice before, so Stefano said that I could join them. I was back in Formia by 2330. Tuesday I rode to the Naval Support Detachment laundromat in Gaeta, and worked using their WiFi while the clothes tumbled around. 
Wednesday I rode by the ATM in Gaeta, then caught the afternoon train to Rome, with my bicycle. Tenebrae was a moving service, with music by Tallis (Lamentations of Jeremiah). The Requiem performed to a full church, and it went very well. We sang Mozart’s Ave Verum Corpus as an encore. On Thursday, I rode the entire length of the bike path along the Tiber before going to the Church, a 70-km day. The Triduum Liturgy (a single service in three days) began that night with music by Gabrieli, Blow, and Duruflé. It will conclude tonight with the Great Vigil of Easter. Saint Paul’s is a beautiful church. Like Saint Paul’s in Charlottesville, it has great acoustics, and provides a moving environment for special events that include music and ritual.
Next week, I will outline the Intercontinental 2016 tour. I am always looking for new topics to include in the blog. Do you have any questions or suggestions?
Smooth roads and tailwinds.
Jonathan
The Freewheeling Freelancer 