Tag: Travel

Travel Surprises

December 14, 2024

While looking for lodging near Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater online, I discovered the South Broadway Manor in Scottdale, Pennsylvania. I preferred not to stay in a motel that resembled a strip mall. I was immediately captivated by the photo of a spacious Georgian home on a hill surrounded by open land. I believed that’s what the surrounding landscape was. But when we arrived at night in the rain, I was disappointed. We drove through a rustbelt town, Scottdale, to find the stately Georgian home on an average-sized lot in a neighborhood of hundred-year-old decaying houses. I admired the photography of how someone captured this manor to make it look so attractive in this modest community.

The interior, however, was far better than expected. I was incredibly surprised when I entered the gorgeously renovated B&B’s lobby. Historical pictures hung on the wall above a comfortable couch, and an impressive chandelier provided light. We met the hostess in the kitchen, who was waiting for us with cookies and lemonade. We connected with her right away. Her voice is full of pride, and she offered a tour of her house. 
Upstairs, she showed us to our room, which was called the “Crystal Rose.” The room included a four-poster bed, a period dressing table, a two-seater couch, a fireplace, and more period furniture. Impressionist pictures covered the walls. Marble and onyx enhanced the bathroom’s elegance. Overall, it was a beautiful bedroom suite that immediately made me feel at home.

We and Pat Hill, our hostess, instantly clicked on a personal level. Her squinting, she explained, was a side effect of her recent cataract surgery. I expressed my admiration for her restored Gilded Age-style mansion. By way of explanation, she recounted her decades-long collection of antique furniture and volunteered to give us a complete tour of the house, room by room. The rooms each had their own unique theme. In the Federalist room next to ours, there were uniforms and an impressive collection of pistols. She explained that her brother was a Civil War aficionado and collected paraphernalia from that period.

We were treated to a sumptuous breakfast in the formal dining room, which had charge plates and a grand chandelier. Guatemalan chef Raffael prepared a hot gourmet breakfast for us, including a selection of fresh fruits. Over the meal, we learned more about Pat’s fascinating life, including her forty-year stint as a ‘fit model’ in Manhattan and her decision to return to her hometown and purchase and renovate the mansion.

When renovating the building, Pat found a stash of pre-prohibition whisky in the basement. The “Old Farm Pure Rye Whisky” bottles were distilled in 1912 and bottled in 1917. To protect a potentially valuable asset, Pat hired a longtime friend to live in and care for the house, with special attention paid to the whisky. However, when Pat moved the cases of whisky later, she discovered that most bottles were empty, consumed by the caretaker. Pat was disappointed by that event, leading her to report the theft to the police. The subsequent trial used DNA to prove the caretaker consumed a quantity of whisky now worth more than $100,000. Fortunately, some bottles remained intact, although Pat does not expect restitution.

Today, a bottle from among the 108 bottles (nine cases of twelve) is valued at $2,500, as Pat found out. But why would anyone have nine cases of whisky in a house, even if it is a mansion I asked? Pat guessed the house’s builder was known for greeting guests with a shot of whisky in the foyer. What a wonderful habit, I thought. I followed up by asking who the original builder of this manor was. It was P. J. Brennan, CFO of the now-defunct Henry Clay Frick and Company.

Upstairs, I found a book with Flick’s biography next to our room. Our hostess, attentive to detail, also included a Frank Lloyd Wright biography alongside Frick’s. Two comfortable chairs were also there, inviting me to sit and delve into Frick’s life. In addition to coffee available all day, a large glass bowl full of mint was next to the books. Yes, we did have a thoughtful hostess.   Over a thousand people in the region worked for Flick’s company at the turn of the century. Scottdale was a booming town built on coal and coke, supplying Andrew Carnegie’s steel plants. Scottdale’s history is rich with turn-of-the-century millionaires and their mansions, some now B&Bs, but the town’s decline followed the coal industry’s downturn, leaving it a rustbelt town. We stayed in one of these renovated mansions built originally by a millionaire. It was meticulously renovated, and it was a treat to stay there.

My Impressions of Three Frank Lloyd Wright Houses

December 1, 2024

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Martin House in Buffalo, built in 1904, would inspire any young man seeking a career in architecture (Darwin Martin was the CEO of the Larkin company). Stepping from the entrance porch, sheltered by a low overhang, into the lobby with a much higher ceiling conveyed a sense of warmth as if coming in from the cold outside. A massive fireplace dominated the right side of the lobby. A pergola, visible through a stained glass window, pointed towards the coach house. Entering, the lobby was dark with the surrounding walls made of sculptured stonework, using local materials.

The house layout was logical and straightforward; the reception room for entertaining guests opened on the left of the lobby. On the right was a large and extended room divided into the dining area, the living room, and the library at the other end. What gave elegance to all the spaces were windows all along the walls facing the outside, with colored patterns embedded in them. The windows illuminated the rooms and allowed occupants to view the surrounding landscaping designed for viewing from inside. Walking through the rooms was very comforting; I wanted to sit in the living room and enjoy the view through the windows.  

FLW was a total architect, designing not only the outside but also the inside of the house with most of the furniture, sometimes conflicting with the client’s wishes. For example, he created the bed for Mr. and Mrs. Martin in the main bedroom. It was esthetically pleasing but so short that Mr. Martin remarked that he could use it only while lying diagonally across the bed. Mrs. Martin had real trouble with the bed and decided to move to another bedroom with a larger bed in a few months.

Another example of the architect pushing his ideas was the grand piano the Martins wanted in their living room. FLW demanded that the piano be made of a specific wood to match the room’s color scheme. The piano would have taken a long time to manufacture and was so expensive that the Martins decided to buy one from a store, ignoring its color.

The design of the library floored me, I didn’t see any books. The books were in casbinets, designed by the architect, that swiveled to provide access to the books. It also surprised me that the library was furnished with a large table in the middle, against which were two bench seats facing away from the table on opposite sides. It seemed as if the architect did not want people to face each other when reading.

Impressed by the Martin House, we saw another FLW design, “Fallingwater,” a summer home for the Kaufman family of Pittsburgh, of department store chain fame. Fallingwater is one of FLW’s best-known designs, with a waterfall running through the building, built in 1936. Expansive balconies overhang cascading water; used in a famous building picture. The Kaufmans had one son, and the humongous living room was the most striking impression I had of walking through the summer house, created for only three adults. It was a vast open space with a few chairs and a massive balcony up front overhanging the waterfall. Windows covered three sides of the room. Against the back wall was a dining table of ordinary size with four chairs dwarfed by the oversized living room.

After seeing the main level of the house, the guide took us upstairs. Curiously, the staircase leading to the bedrooms had bookshelves; I understood that the son loved reading and insisted on having open bookshelves along the stairway and in his room, a design the exact opposite to the one in the Martin House library. However, his creative furniture design was evident in all the rooms; FLW designed a lamp for the night tables next to the beds with a vertical V-shaped wood construction that could be swiveled to throw light on a book when one read in bed. Equal attention was paid to window design; corner windows could swivel to open to let in air from two sides of the house and let the sound of the waterfall in from below.

In contrast to the two large houses designed by FLW, the Martin House and Fallingwater, we visited a 2.100 square foot Kentuck Knob, close to Fallingwater, also designed by him. The project was built in 1956 for the Hagan family for $90,000, who made their fortune in the dairy business.

The critical elements of the typical FLW style are all here: the house growing out of the land, situated to take advantage of the landscape, bringing natural elements into the house, and using local materials. It has long horizontal lines with a large overhanging roof. However, the design style has changed; the house has hexagonal instead of rectangular rooms. Designed by FLW, a long bench runs along the back wall of the elongated hexagonal living room, facing a window wall that overlooks the valley below. Sitting on the bench provides an excellent view of the panorama below. There are a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs designed by FLW in the otherwise empty room. The long bench along the back wall was bizarre; would ten people sit side by side to watch the view in front? Not likely. A living room for me conjures up arrangements of chairs in a circle or in small groupings, where intimate conversations could take place.

Extending from the living room along the window wall, the dining room provides access to the kitchen and bedroom wing. The hexagonal kitchen features a twelve-foot-high ceiling and a skylight. The original design for the kitchen did not please Mrs. Hagan, who was an excellent cook and liked cooking meals (there were no servants in this household) and insisted that the kitchen be enlarged. The redesign narrowed the hallway connecting the kitchen to the bedrooms. The idea crossed my mind that FLW did not cook and did not have a high opinion of women to design such a miserly kitchen, especially without an outside window. That would be standard today.

Kentuck Knob is now owned by Lord Palumbo, a British property developer from London, England. Even at 89, he still visits the guest house on the property for a month every year. Today, according to our guide, this building, with a market price of three million dollars, would cost one million dollars to build. Kentuck Knob is meticulously maintained and in excellent condition, operating as a tourist attraction.

These buildings, and others designed by FLW, are national treasures, the product of arguably the most talented American architect. The architect’s ability to seamlessly integrate the last two buildings into the hillside, while capturing the best views of the surrounding countryside, really impressed me (in contrast, the Martin House sits on a suburban lot). The architect’s meticulous attention to detail, designing everything from the exterior and interior to the furniture, really impressed me.

Designing all the furniture came with some consequences, though. All three houses had surprisingly small bedrooms. As a result, the architect’s design, which included beds, nightstands, and built-in cabinets, made it impossible to use any furniture from the previous home. It’s not surprising that FLW’s strong personality caused friction with some members of his clients’ families.

FLW’s clientele consisted of three wealthy businessmen, all of whom had attained success in previous endeavors. Do people living in architecturally stunning homes experience greater success and happiness? We don’t. know. The only thing we know is that it was expensive to hire a renowned architect. After comparing architect-designed houses to basic shelters during my travels in Asia, the Middle East, and South America, I noticed that most people live in simple homes, making the field of architecture seem not so important in a global context.  

The Evolving Ethnic Character

November 5, 2024

During the late 1950s, I worked alongside Steve as a draftsman at the Buildings and Grounds Department of the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. Although we were recent Hungarian immigrants, we differed in our behavior in the office; he used to bring his breakfast to work unlike me, I ate at home. He spread some grease paper on his drafting table and ate his breakfast of smelly, garlicky sausage with a thick slice of brown bread. The powerful smell permeating the room bothered the rest of us working there, but nobody wanted to tell him to eat his breakfast at home and save us from the unpleasant smells. Eating a smelly breakfast at work was not Canadian, and still is not. I am not sure if that behavior was Hungarian. However, I heard Steve became a successful architect and integrated into Canadian society in a few years.

In contrast to Steve, some individuals never assimilate into the local culture and instead choose to return home. A Hungarian friend’s mother embraced women’s freedom in Canada and entered the workforce. Her husband was not as successful, and he felt he had lost his masculine dominance in the household, so he returned to Hungary, but the wife stayed in Canada with the children.

I do not know how others in Vancouver perceived my ethnicity when I arrived in Canada in the late 1950s, except that they noticed my English language skills and accent. I improved in record time and assimilated into local culture in many other ways.

One strategy I used was always to try to fit in and go with the flow; for example, I acquired a taste for beer when I drank with my classmates while finishing architectural projects at all-night sessions at the UBC School of Architecture.  I was not too fond of beer then, but drinking with my classmates led me to develop a taste for it.

Other opportunities for cultural assimilation arose when I attended concerts with Elvis Presley at the PNE and Dave Brubeck at the old Georgia Auditorium in Vancouver. Later on, I acquired a taste for rock music. My father could not understand why I listened to The Grateful Dead, The Bachman Turner Overdrive, Credence Clearwater Revival, and their ilk; he thought music was only classical.  

I further embraced local culture when we started camping and canoeing after marriage. Later, we traveled widely in a tent trailer across Canada with our children and a dog. After getting tired of hauling a tent trailer, we bought a cottage. And cottaging is a Canadian thing; only a couple of immigrants own cottages out of a hundred neighbors where our cottage is (I realize immigrants may not have the money for a cottage).

While I have been in North America since 1957 and consider myself part of North American culture, I am always intrigued when I hear Hungarian being spoken. My language abilities in Hungarian are equivalent to that of a sixteen-year-old, the age I was when I departed the country. While traveling in France last summer, I heard a group talking in Hungarian in Arles. I introduced myself to them, and we spoke about Hungary today compared to the one I left. I had to search for some words since my fluency in Hungarian was spotty, but it was a satisfying conversation.

A recent event drew me back to my ethnic background. Kathy met a Hungarian woman at a grocery store who recommended that we join the Hungarian Community Center in Ottawa.  I followed up and decided to attend a social event celebrating the anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. I hoped to listen to conversations in Hungarian and perhaps meet some people from Sopron from where we fled, so I looked forward to the event. I was somewhat fearful of how I would react to my countrymen and whether I could intelligently converse with them, limited by my sparse vocabulary and lack of practice speaking the language.

Upon entering the building, nobody welcomed us. We found our way to take a couple of seats and looked around. All age groups were there, from children to grey hairs, and they all seemed to know each other. And I heard only Hungarian spoken. There was a celebratory feeling in the air; some people were informally dressed, while others wore pin-striped suits. Nobody showed interest in us.

The MC asked the Hungarian Ambassador to Canada to speak. She spoke in Hungarian, and I whispered to Kathy and explained what was happening.

Although we were in Canada, curiously, there was absolutely no French or English spoken, and there was no acknowledgment of land rights by the Indigenous people of Canada, a custom in all public events now. That made me think that the Hungarians have a thousand-year history occupying the land of Hungary. The Ottomans took over the land at one time and the Germans at another time, but there had never been an acknowledgment of previous land ownership and compensation for taking the land. To my knowledge, the concept of compensation to earlier landowners has no currency in Hungarian thought. That made me think of how people interpret history in different parts of the world.

After the Ambassador’s speech, we enjoyed some poetry and dancing by third-generation Candaian-Hungarians, indicating that some families kept their culture intact. When the Ambassador asked people who came to Canada after the 1956 Revolution to stand up, I counted half a dozen out of fifty, including myself. So, most of these people were second—and third-generation Hungarians who maintained their native culture.

One of the celebration’s highlights was serving “langos,” a Hungarian breakfast food similar to doughnuts, fried dough covered with cheese, cinnamon, and/or garlic. I lined up to get a couple of langos and limited by my language skills, I ended up with two plain ones. There is not much taste to plain ones, so I returned for another one with cheese and garlic to enhance its flavor. I put on too much garlic that burned our mouths, and we took it home, not wanting to throw it away in front of the Hungarian crowd, showing our dislike of it.

Frankly, the event disappointed me because nobody welcomed or showed interest in us while we sat in the audience. Of course, we could have approached people, but they all seemed either to know and talk with each other or to be occupied with moving chairs around and other official matters.

The people were not unfriendly; they seemed to accept and ignore us. For some reason, I felt quite at home, understanding the language, although Kathy felt ignored. I felt as if I was on an island with my old countrymen. When I lined up for our langos at the kitchen, I heard the women working there talking to each other; one kneading the dough and cutting portions to fry, another frying, and the third putting the cheese and/or cinnamon on and serving it. The entire atmosphere felt homey. Based on our strange experience with this celebration, we decided to try again and attend a party next week with dinner, a concert, and dancing. I hope we won’t. be disappointed.

The Flag Raising

October 25 2024

I had mixed feelings about going. It would evoke nostalgic memories—neither negative nor positive, just neutral emotions. I may meet people with my ethnic background. Ethnic individuals tend to display increasingly ethnic behavior as they age. I was not one of those people; I escaped Hungary because there was no future for me there, or at least, that is what my parents thought.

Upon learning about the flag-raising ceremony at Ottawa City Hall to commemorate the 68th anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, I decided to go downtown and see what it was all about. Perhaps I’ll encounter elderly and weathered Hungarians, eavesdrop on Hungarian conversations, and cross paths with someone from Sopron, a small town close to the Austrian border where we lived and from where I walked to Vienna shortly after the October 23, 1956, Revolution.
At the base of a flagpole, I spotted the Hungarian flag and approached a clutch of people congregating. Speaking in English, I asked a bald and paunchy character if he was Hungarian. He said no, mentioning that he was part of a Member of Parliament’s staff from Wascana, Saskatchewan. He also informed me that the MP would speak briefly during the presentation. Ok. And then the Liberal MP from Wascana, seeing me talking to his staff, came over, shook hands, and explained that he was one-quarter Hungarian. I responded that I am 100 percent Hungarian. I inquired about his absence from the caucus meeting this morning, where numerous MPs were anticipated to call for the Prime Minister’s resignation as head of the Liberal Party. I cannot recall his answer, but he was a nice young fellow, and we exchanged a few words about the beauty of his province.

Turning around, a blonde woman in a business suit introduced herself as the Commercial Attaché for the Hungarian Embassy. We switched to speaking Hungarian, and suddenly, I noticed that all the people were well-dressed: the women wore business attire, and the men wore suits. I realized I was underdressed, I wore a red windbreaker, jeans, running shoes, and a baseball cap. If only I had shaved and dressed more formally this morning. Come to think of it, it is a major annual event to celebrate the Hungarian heroes who fought Russian tanks with handguns and risked their lives.

In just a few days and the weeks that followed the uprising in Budapest, the Russian tanks arrived and crushed the Revolution. Three thousand individuals perished, and 200,000 fled to foreign nations as refugees. Thirty-five thousand Hungarian refugees came to Canada after the Revolution.

We were greeted and addressed by the Deputy Mayor of Ottawa. As we sat down, I noticed at least fifty people had attended the event. I felt I was in a multicultural milieu already – Canadian and Hungarian –  especially after the Deputy Mayor started his speech by thanking the Anishinaabe people for using their unceded land, a standard introduction for public events in Canada recently. It is a small token for reconciling the injustices Canadians meted out to the Indigenous people in the past. I find this practice gratuitous, odious, and dishonest; I never heard that we Canadians would ever return the lands to the indigenous people. So, what is the purpose of this note of thanks? And, of course, it had nothing to do with the Hungarian Revolution half a world away, sixty-eight years ago.

The two MPs spoke next before the Hungarian Ambassador to Canada talked about the Revolution. She mentioned a few Hungarian Canadians who had become famous internationally, including Alanna Morrisette, whose grandfather came to Canada after the Revolution, and John Polanyi of the University of Toronto, a Nobel Prize winner who attended high school in Toronto in the early 1940s, when his parents sent him to Canada for safety during the rise of Nazi Germany.

The other curious thing was that the Ambassador spoke in English and French, Canada’s official languages, but not in Hungarian. I am sure there must be some protocol for speaking in public in Canada, but this was a Hungarian event celebrating a historical event, so I thought she could have given a trilingual presentation greeting us.

While listening to the anthems of Hungary and Canada, the Ambassador raised the flag, and that was it. I looked around for some kindred souls but saw mostly suited men and well-dressed women. If they were Hungarians, they were the second generation following the Revolution.  A clutch of embassy people spoke in Hungarian next to me when I noticed three scruffy looking, wizened old folks who turned out to be Hungarians. They all knew each other, and their facial expressions seemed to exude some impatience with all these well-dredded folks, all the officials present without direct experience of the Revolution.

The irony of this celebration did not escape me: Victor Orban, the current Prime Minister of Hungary, is friendly with Putin’s Russia, while here we are celebrating the freedom fight against the Russians sixty years ago.

I was in grade eleven in 1956, when the Uprising broke out. Our small town had no news except that trouble was brewing in Budapest. It was big trouble, it turned out, and my parents worried about my older brother Peter, a first-year medical student in Budapest. Not having cell phones, we had no news of Peter. It took three or four days, I cannot recall exactly, when Peter showed up at the apartment house where we lived, dirty and tired after walking from Budapest to Sopron, a distance of some two hundred kilometers (circa 120 miles).

As soon as Peter showed up, our mother prepared a couple of sandwiches and ordered us to walk to Vienna with the name of a Jesuit priest who had been a classmate of my uncle at the University of Vienna. We were obedient boys, and Peter and I started walking on the highway to Vienna, where we joined an exodus of wall-to-wall people escaping the country. It was a time when my brain did not seem to function with understanding; I felt like a robot, without thinking, a state of mind that saved my sanity. We had no idea where our journey would take us and what we would do when we arrived. So yes, the flag-raising event did stir up some memories, which had faded over time. The walk to Vienna was a significant event in my life and made me think about what could have happened if we had stayed back home in Hungary. I recall a film I saw once that tracked the lives of people who made a career decision and compared their lives to what could have happened if they had made another career decision. In real life, one cannot return and take another fork in the road. My immigrant story has been a challenging but highly satisfying experience. I would not have missed it if I had a choice.

The Power of a Throwaway Comment

October 7,2024

It is always a treat to visit with an old friend, especially one from my university days, which, in my case, goes back decades. And especially those friends I have not seen in years who live far away from me. But that happened in June of this year when we visited my friend in Portland, OR. I last saw Levente over twenty years ago. And it is always amazing that when we see each other, we talk with each other as if time has not passed between our visits, as if we continue with our conversation from yesteryear.

When I phoned him about our upcoming visit, he surprised me with his solicitous comments about the foods we like, the wines we prefer, and what we would like to see in Portland. I assured him we are very flexible and enjoy all kinds of food. Depending on his available time, we would enjoy quiet conversations about our shared experiences at the University of British Columbia.

Levente welcomed us warmly in the same house we visited over twenty years ago. He bought this house when his job took him to Portland from Vancouver, British Columbia, and kept it when he moved to Huntsville, AL, with his job for many years. When he retired, he moved back to his house in Portland, and now, he enjoys the West Coast lifestyle and mild weather.  

We accepted his offer for lunch, and he began preparing for it as a management consultant, that he was for his career. “I am going to organize lunch,” he said, explaining that he’d open the fridge and see what cheeses and cold cuts he would find for us. Then, he offered a variety of breads and asked if anyone was vegan. And, of course, there was a choice of coffees that he said we could fix on his machine after describing how it worked.

I was surprised at his deliberate lunch organization, especially when he followed up by setting the table formally. At home, we usually consume an informal lunch with leftovers or whatever is quickly available.

After a day of visiting the famous Japanese gardens in Portland, we returned home to a surprise. Levente, it turned out, was going to cook dinner. Seeing him with ingredients, a cookbook, and pots on the stove was a revelation. Given his previous career, I couldn’t help but ask when he had started this hobby.

His wife answered my question with a few words. Having cooked for the family for decades, she was bored and tired of deciding on a menu every day and suggested to Levente that they share cooking: she cooks a week, and Levente cooks the following week. So, how did this idea go down? Levente considered the proposition as a retired management consultant, thought it was fair, and started cooking every second week. He said it was tough slogging for a few months, but following cookbooks with help from his wife, my old friend’s skill level improved to preparing entirely satisfactory meals.

Our conversation about Levente’s cooking arrangement was brief, but it left a lasting impression. I knew our kitchen dynamics were about to change, and I was ready to embrace it. My wife didn’t take long to broach the subject, and I was more than willing to go along with the idea.

I sometimes prepare breakfast, lunch, and an occasional dinner in our household, following recipes. My meals are simple compared to my wife’s excellent meals; she is a superb cook and enjoys cooking when she has the time. In addition to meal preparation, I also share doing the dishes. The idea of sharing dinner cooking was infectious, and if that idea worked for my friend, it should also work for us.

The idea materialized upon our return to Ottawa. At first, my wife continued to prepare the main meal, and I did some breakfasts and lunches, but one night, Kathy was tired and said it was time for me to take over for a week. I said, “Alright, but my meals may be simple.” She said she did not care; I could even bring home take-out foods. I said, “Alright, I’ll do the next five days’ dinners.”

I agreed to this arrangement because many ready-made foods are available now, so I thought providing five-day meals would not be difficult. Much of the grocery shopping is my territory, and I know my way around most grocery stores in our area, including Costco, where shopping is almost fun with all the samples offered.

My limited cooking skills have produced soups (I have made vegetables, cabbage, and lentil soups), green salads, sheet-pan chicken, and baked fish (I like Atlantic salmon and tilapia from Costco).

The first few days went well with me preparing the meals. Then Kathy joined her cooking club the next night, and the following days, we closed the cottage for the season. But we’ll likely proceed as agreed to, in spurts.

Preparing a dinner was new to me; I have done it. What was new was that my friend from college described how he and his wife share cooking, and a brief conversation on this subject suddenly made a massive difference for my wife and me. It gave a legitimizing impetus to pursue the sharing of the meal’s preparation more formally – all because of a throwaway comment by my old friend’s wife.