Tag: writing

Cycling Through Jekyll and St. Simons Islands: A Historical Journey


May 4, 2026

Exploring the Historical Layers of Jekyll and St. Simons Islands in Georgia: A Cyclist’s Journey with Road Scholar. History is woven into nearly every stop and story on these remarkable islands, from grand clubs and pivotal events to deeply meaningful landmarks.

We cycled for a few hours each day, spending the rest of the time visiting historical and other unique sites across the two barrier islands.

Among the many stops we made on Jekyll Island, the most fascinating story for me involved the Jekyll Island Club and its founders. The original owner of the Island, Eugene du Bignon, a Frenchman, sold it to New York investors looking for a wintering place for hunting and recreation in 1886. Fifty shares were sold to industry elites in New York, including the Morgans, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts, and other titans of industry. Joseph Pulitzer was one of the original owners as well. He built his fortune publishing the St. Louis Dispatch-Post and later the New York World. A hotel was built, and some shareholders also built “their cottages,” which measured up to 10,000 square feet. The cottages had no kichens, all the people ate at the Club.

The Jekyll Island Clubhouse and the dining room. Below are two cottages.

Among the Club’s many noteworthy events was a 1910 gathering of American financial leaders, who drafted legislation that would later serve as the foundation for the Federal Reserve system.

The depression impacted the industrialist owners of Jekyll Island and their use of the Club diminished. Also, travel opportunities expanded in the 1940s, and the original owners’ descendants lost interest in Jekyll Island and the Club. After the Club closed in 1942, the Island was expropriated by the State of Georgia in 1947 for $647,000, designated a historic landmark, and turned into a State Park managed by a Governor-appointed Commission.

The architecture of the Clubhouse is in the Queen Anne style, with a typical four-story turret, wraparound porches, and complex rooflines. The interior is in the Gilded Age style, with luxurious furnishings that made me think about how the ultrarich lived in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Thwae Clubhouse is a magnificent building in my opinion and is open as a luxury hotel today.

Turning to another chapter of the island’s history, the story of the Wanderer stood out. This luxury schooner, built in 1856, was converted into a slave ship two years later. Businessmen brought over more than 400 slaves from the Congo in 1858 to Jekyll Island and sold the slaves in the South, that was against federal law since 1808 in the United States. The businessmen were indicted but not convicted, and the ship was seized by the Union Navy and later sunk by Cuba. The Wanderer Memory Trail on Jekyll Island relates the story of the slaves brought over from Africa. I found the exhibits along the trail fascinating, espemcially the musical instruments and the foods the black people brought over from Africa. Walking along the trail and listening to the audio stories gave me a bad feeling.

On St. Simons Island, two key points of interest drew my attention. First was Harrington House, which was once a one-room schoolhouse for black children in grades 1 to 7. Inside the building were pictures and artifacts related to the schoolhouse’s operation, as well as information about the students who attended. After the Brown v. Board of Education decision in 1954 (the desegregation legislation), the school closed, and the students were transferred to the wider public school system in Brunswick. The school docent was from the local community and had vast knowledge of the school’s history and explained that the island’s black population has decreased due to gentrification, falling from over 80 percent to just 1 to 2 percent of the current 13,000 residents.

The island’s past also comes alive at Fort Frederika, built in 1736 by James Oglethorpe. Now a National Monument, the fort was at the heart of 18th-century debates between Spanish and British governments over lands south of Savannah. Oglethorpe asked the King for a land grant to establish a colony, to serve as a defense against the Spanish. Like civil war sites, the Fort Frederika National Monument is a grassy field today with remnants of buildings and ramparts.

Oglethorpe was a visionary, and in 1736, he laid out a town, a utopian kind of village with streets forming a grid pattern, giving each resident a 50-by-100-foot piece of land on which to build a house and a fifty-acre site for agricultural uses. And he brought over from England indebted people in prison as colonists.

Fort Frederika.

I learned that the houses were built with “tabby”, a material made of crushed seashells, mixed with sand and water, the combination of which resembles concrete.

Before concluding my journey, I visited another unique destination: the Georgia Sea Turtle Center on Jekyll Island. It is a hospital for sick turtles as well as an educational and research center. I learned that turtles lay hundreds of eggs a few times a year, but only after reaching 30 years of age; after that, they lay eggs every second year up until they die, which might be at 100 years of age. But only one egg will grow into a full turtle out of 3,000 eggs!

The expert also explained that after the eggs hatch, the baby turtles are guided by moonlight to find their way into the water. She advised us not to use flashlights at night when watching the move of the turtles because that may confuse them and lead them away from the water.

Tanks with recuperating turtles.

In addition to listening to an expert on turtles describing their lives, we observed technicians examining a turtle in a lab, behind a window. Next to the exhibition space on turtles was an industrial warehouse, filled with huge tanks housing recuperating turtles. Interestingly, there was only one turtle in each tank. Apparently, turtles are solitary animals, and if more than one is in a tank, they attack each other. Most of the turtles in the tanks came from Cape Cod; the cold water at the Cape caused hypothermia in turtles and were brought to this hospital for recuperation.

Visiting the two barrier islands offered a unique window into American history—from colonial times, through the Civil War and Gilded Age, to the civil rights period. The experience reminded me how these islands encapsulate the evolving story of the region, illustrating why their preservation and interpretation matter so much today.

Book Club Insights: Discussing Albright’s Take on Fascism


April 19, 2026

We thought our book club would have a great discussion of Albright’s book on fascism. And we did. Our group’s politics is mostly in the middle of the spectrum, from right to left. But we have someone on the far left, I would think about him as a tree hugger, with social views, and he is a vegetarian. A strong believer in climate change, who cycles everywhere when he can. At the same time, he has a Tesla and another car. And then we have someone on the right, who questions climate change and has been a supporter of Trump. I am not sure if he is still supporting him, although he followed the line justifying the Iran war by saying that for decades no President has had the balls to tackle Iran’s nuclear arsenal. I looked forward to our discussion.

Let’s not forget: our group starts with lunch, the quality of which has been improving with each meal, as if we are competing for better lunches. This time, we started with vegetable soup, with maple syrup as the key flavoring. Although I do not favor sweet soups, this soup was excellent and the cook was proud of his creation. Following the soup were sandwiches with any filling you wished for. With chips as well. And, oh, the desert was a cake, six inches in diameter and equally tall. It was a lemon cake that we cut into eight pieces; there were eight of us. We do not consume any alcoholic beverages yet, but I think it could come soon. Coffee was made, and we moved to the living room to continue our book discussion which had already started over lunch.

I asked, “What is fascism?” One club member explained that according to Albright, it is a form of autocracy, although not all autocrats are fascists. I took some time to digest this idea. In Albright’s view, autocrats try to dominate the judiciary, the press, universities, and are willing to use force and violence to enforce their rules. The examples Albright related in her book were Mussolini, Hitler, Erdogan, and others, and I was wondering whether perhaps Orban was an autocrat but not a fascist, since he did not use violence, to the extent that I am familiar with his story.

It did not take long before the discussion veered over to the present time and whether Trump is a fascist. Albright does talk about Trump’s first administration which exhibited characteristics of fascism but never called him a fascist. And it also did not take long to talk about the Iran war, triggering a flashpoint between our club members, between the far left and far right members. Tempers flared, and I interrupted the conversation by raising the question of how one country can interfere in another’s affairs; on what basis would such behavior be acceptable? I thought that measures to create temporary peace for a few years would be acceptable, providing time for further negotiations, and who knows what may happen in the next few years that may ameliorate current issues. I was called a “prag,” and I asked, “What?” Again, I was called a “prag,” which I suddenly realized was a term for a pragmatist, never heard that before. OK. I could live with that.

The book is written in an easy style, with anecdotes from Albright’s career that make it interesting to read (she was Secretary of State under President Bill Clinton). I found the book very relevant and entertaining, as it related to recent events I remember well from reading the papers and listening to the news. But I was surprised that Albright did not discuss Mao and Stalin, perhaps she did not consider them fascists, although both acted like autocrats, and used their power to intimidate their people, and used violence to enforce their governing philosophy. Mao and Stalin adhered to communist philosophy and nationalized assets while Mussolini and Hitler left private enterprise carry on.

The economic descriptions of countries she mentioned lacked numbers. I would have preferred to see numbers on economic growth, unemployment, industry trends, and similar matters to ground her broad characterizations, such as that Germany had a poor economy that helped Hitler gain traction. But I realize that she was a historian or political scientist, not an economist, and the book was not a research exercise.

Having read some more scientific books on climate change and cryptocurrency in our book club recently, this book was a nice change, offering a clear, plain-English account of recent history I could relate to. And we spent as much time on the book discussion as we did eating; I suspect some members joined to socialize.  However we all would probably agree that the club encourages us to read books.

Troubleshooting iMac to MacBook Air: A Personal Experience


April 17, 2026

You’d think it is easy to upgrade your computer gear. Just buy a new computer, plug it in, and that’s it. Well, let me share our experience replacing an old iMac. Not to give you the conclusion of our story, but just to say that it took us one week to get the new MacBook Air functional, while using words not appropriate in polite company.

It began when Kathy’s 14-year-old iMac couldn’t load the Revenue Canada files needed to prepare taxes. We tried her 2-year-old iPad, which easily downloaded them, but it wasn’t suitable for doing taxes. The iMac had security issues, so I suggested that it was time for a new computer.

The first question was whether she wanted another 28-inch iMac. She decided to switch to a smaller one, perhaps a laptop. Since she was using Apple devices, we went to the Apple store to shop. She insisted that we get someone knowledgeable to set up her new computer and migrate the info from the old to the new device.

I said, ” Sure, let’s have someone do the entire installation, and the geniuses at the Apple store will do it for us.” Entering the store, a pleasant lady asked what we were there for and, upon learning that we’d like to buy a laptop, called another person to help us.

The young gentleman who came to assist us was very personable and provided the choices for screen size, color, and data storage on the computer. Once Kathy selected her choices, the salesman wrote up the order and brought out the selection from the back and led us to a table where another genius helped us start the computer and enter the date, time, email, and other basic information.

When finished with the initial tasks, I asked, “How do you transfer the data from the old iMac?” The fourth person, replacing the previous helper who went on her lunchtime, explained that we could do it at home, or bring in our mammoth 28inch iMac from home, and they would do it. Then he checked with the geniuses in the back, who advised that our iMac is too old to migrate its content to the new shiny MacBook Air. The explanation, if I understood it, was that they would download the iMac’s content to a storage device and then upload it to the new laptop, except that they did not have the appropriate storage device, or our iMac was too old for the task.

Instead, they advised us to call Apple support to do it ourselves. Ok, so we went home, and the first thing was to hook up the laptop to our internet service. And then the trouble started. We discovered that Apple, of course, has iCloud installed for its email system, but Kathy uses Gmail, which is not installed on an Apple device. So, we tried to install the Gmail program. And we tried and tried and tried again to no avail. No password that we knew was accepted.

Ended up calling Apple support and talked with a very courteous woman who advised us to go through the same steps we just did a dozen times to no avail. She concluded that it was a Google issue, not an Apple issue, so we should talk to Google.

I started with a Google chatbot, which, or should I say who, asked a dozen questions, very courteously in a mellifluous tone, and then decided to refer me to an actual person. The final instruction from the bot was to sign on a plan to pay five dollars, refundable, I was told, before I could talk to a real person. When I read the fine print on the plan, I discovered it would cost $90 a month, with cancellation at any time. I do not like signing up for these plans. I sometimes forget how many plans I have until I notice the charges on my VISA card, and then I have to hunt down the account to cancel it. So I just exited the chatbot.

My next line of attack was to have someone come to our house. She showed up late. After she tried to follow the instructions to install Gmail, just as we did before, and was unsuccessful, as we were, she left, suggesting that we figure out our passwords and have her come back for another visit.

We still needed help, so I left messages with a couple of service outfits. Surprisingly, many of these technical shops opened at 10am and closed at 3pm. I thought private industry would be more diligent and work longer hours.

Then I found one shop that had a timetable for making appointments online, and, more surprisingly, there were empty time slots for the same day. The tech expert at the store explained that Google had locked us out because we had tried to change the password 5 times. But he suggested that using our home internet service would recognize our Google account, and we could change the password there. He came to our house, came up with a new password, and started migrating data from the old iMac to the MacBook Air. It took all night to complete the migration.

It was a frustrating experience finding expert service and taking time to be present to answer questions about passwords. (Needed Face ID or fingerprint ID every time you logged in to either computer, or a password for the device, for your Apple account, and for Google). I had a steady supply of coffee and offered some to the tech expert, but he did not drink coffee or tea. He was from Mumbai; coffee or tea may not be a popular drink there.

Going to School in Hungary in the 1950s


April13,2026

The first memory that came to mind when I thought about attending elementary school in the early 1950s was getting hit on the knuckles with a ruler by a nun because I wrote with my left hand, and the nuns trained me to use my right hand for writing. I was eight years old.

While searching for a Catholic school in Sopron, Hungary on Google Maps, I found the St. Orsolya Roman Catholic School (run by the Ursulines, established in 1757), and the road I took to go to this school came back to me. I used to walk alone about a kilometer from our apartment, a reflection of a time when it was once safe for children.

The nuns were strict at St. Orsolya. Homework was checked every day, and the class stayed quiet, or punishment followed. This could involve not only hitting your knuckles but also being slapped. Complaining to my parents was useless. They always sided with the teachers and thought I deserved punishment for whatever I did. Corporal punishment was accepted in those days.

One day, a classmate spat on me. I do not remember why. I did not get into a fight beyond pushing. When I came home, I told my father about the incident. He just listened. Then he told me to go to the boy’s house and tell his father what happened. My older brother came with me. I was flabbergasted at what happened. As soon as I told my classmate’s father that his son spat on me, he flew into a rage and started yelling that no son of his spits on people and began slapping his son with such vehemence that my brother and I just left their place in a rush. I did not think the punishment was fair. I did not think too much about the incident, nor did I understand the apparent significance of spitting on people. My father just listened when I told him what happened and said nothing.

After a year at the Catholic school, my parents transferred me to a public school on Deak Ter (Square), possibly because it was closer to where we lived. The building was old, with long hallways and a single bathroom at the end of each floor, with one toilet serving ten classrooms. I recall once waiting so long for someone using the toilet that I was late for class, earning harsh words from the teacher and a note to my parents. Despite this, discipline was less strict than at the Catholic school, and there was no physical punishment.

Continuing my education, I attended high school at the Berzsenyi Gymnasium (established in 1557) on Széchenyi Ter, about a kilometer from our apartment (until October 23, 1956 when I walked to Vienna). We stayed in our classroom all day, and the different teachers came to our room to teach the usual courses such as Hungarian language, Russian language, science, and history, except for physical education, which was in the gym. I think the school was for boys only, I cannot recall any girls in my class.

We had 50-minute classes and a ten-minute break every hour, from 8 am to 1 pm, six days a week. The ten minutes between classes gave students time to release energy, and we rushed into the courtyard behind the school, a dirt-and-gravel area bounded by buildings on all sides. Our favorite entertainment was playing soccer, kicking rocks around the courtyard.

Among the teachers, I especially enjoyed listening to the history teacher, who would leave his desk at the front of the room, sit on a school desk with us, and share stories about kings and emperors. I remember  his habit of sliding his glasses down his nose to review his notes, then pushing them back up before recounting gory events from medieval history.

Homework was assigned daily, and teachers often called students to the front at the start of class to answer questions from the previous lecture. The first ten minutes were tense as we waited to see who would be chosen, typically two or three students each session. Teachers kept an alphabetical list of the class, and we watched anxiously as the teacher leafed through the pages, trying to guess who was next.

Discipline consisted of teachers raising their voices. If that did not work, they sent the student to the corner and made him do squats. Sometimes this could go on for half an hour before he was excused, although the squatters took a break when the teacher turned away and did not see them standing around. Doing squats for any length of time can be strenuous. I felt like I was going to collapse when I was sent to the corner once. The squatting took place at the front of the classroom, so all the classmates watched and snickered.

High school teachers had a great reputation and were held in high esteem in Hungary. In the 1950s, most young people did not go to university, and high school was the highest level of education most people achieved.

I had respect for all my teachers except for one, who taught Russian. We had Russian language classes every year in high school, but they were taught by someone who had just learned Russian and was not very good at teaching it. My teacher spent much time on Russian grammar and made us memorize vocabulary, paying scant attention to speaking, since she was not fluent herself. And we did not like learning Russian; the Russians occupied Hungary at that time and were not welcome at all.

Looking back, my education was of pretty good quality. I learned discipline in doing homework, and all the memorization, poems, historical dates, events, and even Russian vocabulary helped me later when learning other languages. And I was always good in maths and the sciences, when I entered university in Canada with only a grade ten education, I performed well.

The First Question Writing a Memoir: What Emotions Arise When Sharing Your Life Story


April 5, 2026

The first question when you write a memoir: What emotions arise when you think about sharing your life story?

That is a loaded question. For anyone writing a memoir, it may be the first consideration: are you prepared to reveal your personal history and inner thoughts to others? Which aspects of your life would you share, with whom, and would sharing bring you happiness or sorrow?

That raises a followup question: would I, or should I, experience emotion when sharing my story? By emotion, I mean feelings of pride or shame, excitement or boredom when discussing myself. I might downplay or amplify achievements. I could even conceal parts of my story, perhaps out of shyness or avoid recalling painful memories. When prompted, I think I would be happy to share but I would not initiate such discussions unless the setting was appropriate.

Another consideration: what is my life story? Is it focused on my career, chronological list of positions held? Or does it center on pivotal moments that shaped my life? Or would my story be marked by how I navigated adversity, or by how I capitalized on—or missed—opportunities?

Then, the audience matters. Am I sharing my story with people of my generation, who have similar accomplishments and backgrounds, such as fellow immigrants? Would I discuss it with someone experiencing homelessness when I have financial stability? Would I share it with children, and for what purpose?

For example, I would share my adventures and challenging experiences with those who have faced similar situations, but I might feel uneasy sharing with people whose lives have been sheltered. They might not relate to or value my experiences.

Issues of comparability can also lead to uncomfortable situations. We have seven grandchildren. People without grandchildren have said we’re lucky and well-off for that reason. I agree. But I am sensitive to such situations, and I do not want to cause discomfort, so I avoid the topic unless asked. People adapt their life stories to their listeners.

Another example, do you want to describe your children’s success, even if the other person had misfortune with theirs? There have been instances when such situations could have led to negative comparisons between my experience and theirs. I try to avoid those situations.

In conclusion: Would I share my story with someone? Yes. I have nothing to hide and would be glad to talk if someone is interested. However, I’ve noticed people are rarely curious about others’ experiences; even travel stories are met with polite acknowledgment unless the listener traveled the same routes.

I would prefer sharing my experiences with those who have backgrounds similar to mine, so we can genuinely connect over common ground.

If I were to share my life story, I would begin with my childhood in Hungary under the Communist regime, describing what that experience was like. A major turning point came when I walked to Vienna, where I was temporarily placed in high school. Afterward, I lived in Manchester, England, for a few months before flying to Vancouver, Canada, and start a new life. Other significant moments included attending university, getting married, having children, and building my career. Each of these events represents a critical event that shaped who I am today.

As my story continued, I would include my experiences in consulting and as a lobbyist, sharing what each role entailed. I would also discuss the countries we visited and the lessons we learned by exploring diverse cultures. Through these experiences, both professional and personal, my life story would come together as a collection of challenges, opportunities, and discoveries.

Some subjects, such as troublesome family matters, might be harder to share honestly. Although I could speak more openly about deceased family members, I might still avoid sensitive subjects.

Overall, I feel positive about sharing my life story when there is genuine interest, especially when I know my story will not make listeners uncomfortable.