My Life As a Muckracker As told to Dr. Freud (part four)

My near disaster with Bette and the Queen Mary gangplank cast an ominous cloud over what was to be my triumphal and perhaps romantic return to Europe. 
Doc, I was just a young buck being a young buck. I was acting almost normal, right?

Not a word from the master. But I detected a slight smile curl up from his lips. Absolution, I thought...

In spite of the chaos, (I called it a misunderstanding) Bette decided to stay in London with me at the Sloan Square Hotel she had booked for us, while I visited the social service agencies, hospital and senior centers. I was treated royally by my hosts wherever I went, giving me a badly needed psychological boost.

The one major hang-up was the Morris Minor mini car I rented from an agency on Piccadilly Circus. It was tiny, like a toy. The driver's seat was on the wrong side and I had to shift with my left hand.

Ever been on Piccadilly Circus, Doc? It's like a merry-go-round that never stops. It is almost impossible to get off of. Even with a normal car.

Well to make a long story short, I finally got off the Circus. I did my thing, while Bette went back to Oxford to finish up the term. I was in denial, Doc. I found the much heralded British health and welfare institutions neat and clean, full of mostly happy, blue eyed Anglo Saxons who all seemed like they belonged to the same Rotary Club.

This is not Cleveland, I told to myself.

I found it pretty much the same in the Scandinavian countries later on, by the way.

On the fourth day I finished my royal British adventure and headed up to Oxford, reminding myself to drive on the left side. I promptly got lost. Finally arrived at four. I had promised to pick Bette up at one, and found her waiting with her bags in front of her dorm, not happy. The following days were difficult, but we moved on. We took the ferry from Dover across the channel to Esbjerg, the port for Copenhagen. That rainy day in Denmark added a touch of gloom to our fading relationship. Very early on the morning of the third day.... well, it happened, Doc, it happened. Very early, like at five, I heard her wandering around the room, packing her bag, and heading for the door. For some reason I didn't say a word.

Honest...she left note: “I will be at the railroad station in Bonn, Thursday afternoon.”

I didn't quite know what to make of it. Remember, I was in state of denial.

I spent the next two days on my scheduled visits to some very impressive senior centers. One evening I was hosted by a club of old folks in a government run center. Again, blue eyed happy folks in the land of Danny Kaye's "Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen." Again, not Cleveland. Not even Columbus, I thought to myself. I made a mental note.

Then it was time to sail off for the Deutschland on a ferry from Esbjerg to the port of Hamburg, from where I had sailed home ten years prior with my division. That town took a terrific beating during the war. At my hotel I had to explain to them that I was flying solo. It was okay. So was the famous the St. Pauli neighborhood that I toured in the evening. It was good day, in spite of everything.

Thursday morning I took the midday train south along the Rhine, a beautiful trip to Bonn and destiny.

I spotted Bette in the crowd with a gentleman. My heart sank.

“This is Professor Dinbgbat from the university here. We're old friends. We’ve decided to spend a couple of weeks together. See you back in Cleveland?”

I was speechless. I said goodbye, sort of. I never saw Bette Daneman again.

Assmannshausen on the Rhine

I grabbed the next Rhine mail barge down the river through the most beautiful river valley in Europe, and jumped off at Assmannshausen, because I liked the name. I found a room in a small hotel with an attached (typically German) tavern then I cried my eyes out, sipping perhaps the most delicious finely crafted beer in the world.

That's what men do, right Doc? Right? Have a brew and move on beyond the despair of the moment.

I reminded myself that as a reporter, there was work to do.

Zurich, Vienna and Tito's Zagreb lay ahead.

“There’s a Booik”

      When I was a little guy, perhaps four or so, it is said that I would stand at the window looking out onto busy Euclid Hts. Blvd. and declare without a moment’s hesitation,” There’s a Booick, there’s a Thevrolet, there’s a Pymouth!”

It is clear that even in those tender years I was hooked on cars; marking the beginning of a lifelong, passionate love affair with automobiles.                                             
 And, I have come to recognize, the feeling is mutual.

This is part of that story.

Cars that have loved me

         To almost everyone, the yellow, American Motors Hornet Sportabout, with the fake wood sides looked ridiculous. I thought it was really cool. Bought it from Tom Ganley at his first agency on Lake Shore Blvd. back in the early 70’s.

Chagrin Falls is Chagrin Falls Again

      I drove into Chagrin Falls the other day without once hitting a man made chuck hole in the road, clanking over a metal plate, dodging an orange barrel, or evading a front-end loader. It struck me that Chagrin Falls’ downtown renovation is complete.   No more jumping over moats or sloshing in the mud to get into shops. Now there are real sidewalks and curbs, new old-fashioned streetlights, and the rest. It was all pristine and like its old self, but a bit upgraded. Chagrin Falls is Chagrin Falls again.