Author: Kim du Toit

Classic Beauty: Geraldine Brooks

Classic Beauty

The best thing you can say about Geraldine Brooks is that she was better than almost every movie she ever played in.  She could hold her own against highly-strung co-starring divas as Joan Crawford and the volcanic Anna Magnani.  Starting at 18 in a starring role in the long-running Broadway play Follow The Girls, she did nearly half of the 288 performances.  Then she got hired by Hollywood to appear in movies, and in the best Hollywood tradition, she was totally undervalued. Only when she quit Hollywood to do Italian movies was she fully appreciated — and when those movies appeared in America, they were bowdlerized beyond recognition.

So… TV, from 1952 she settled for appearing on silly TV shows for another twenty-four years, her performances still always better than the shows themselves.

But enough of that.

Magical.

Weekend Listening

Music

Here’s something different:  Tarot Suite.

I think it’s one of the greatest concept albums ever made, and certainly one of the most creative.  Combine gothic, baroque, romatic and hard rock… and you’ve only scratched the surface.

Enjoy.  (And see if you can identify which song features blues legend Rory Gallagher.)

My American Car Experience – Part 2: The Silver Bullet

Drive Time, Travels

I’ve talked about my first experience of driving an American car, and this was the second.

A quick background to the story:  I first met Longtime and Very Dear Friend Trevor when we worked together at a small ad agency in Johannesburg.  He had just returned from a trip to the U.S., as had I, and so over the following months we swapped stories together and in the process, built a friendly relationship.  Sadly, my other relationship (with Wife#1) had foundered on the rocks of divorce, made somewhat more difficult by virtue of the fact that she worked at the same Small Ad Agency, but I left the company soon enough, so that wasn’t too bad.

Some months later I went to an art gallery opening in Johannesburg, and by chance Trevor was there.  I had planned a solo trip to the U.S. as a sort of post-divorce present for myself — just a month this time — and I started crowing over said trip to him.  Whereupon he confided that he too had planned a solo trip Over There, and when we compared notes, found that the dates overlapped quite a bit.  I couldn’t change my dates because I’d squeezed in the time between conferences and client meetings;  but Trevor had no such problems in that regard, and so the two solo trips became a double-header, so to speak.

I had made no plans at all for my solo trip, intending to wing it completely upon arrival at JFK, but Trevor had made plans to stay with a friend in Newport RI, and as I’d met her when she’d visited Johannesburg a little earlier and we knew each other, it was no problem for her to put us both up on the giant couches she had in her capacious living room.  Getting to Newport was another story.  I didn’t feel like renting a car just yet (particularly out of JFK #LongIslandTraffic), so our trip to Newport was as follows:  shuttle bus to Manhattan, cab to Grand Central Station, train to Providence, Trailways bus to Newport, where Maryann would pick us up in her totally-inadequate and tiny Fiat 124 convertible.  (As Trevor later put it:  “We missed traveling by hovercraft, but that’s about all we missed.”)

Anyway, we took care of jet lag in Newport for one of the most delightful weeks of my life:  eggs-n-bakey at Crazy Gigi’s for breakfast, clam chowdah at Christie’s Dock for lunch, lobstah at the Canfield House Restaurant for dinner, parties at the Boom-Boom Room [sic], flirting with lonely divorcees, and all washed down with huge quantities of bee-ah.  July in Newport is not an experienced to be missed.

Anyway, the time came for Trevor and I to begin what was to be the first of many, many trips around the U.S.  Here’s the itinerary:  Newport – Concord NH – New Orleans – Austin and back up to New England.

The map routes do not do justice to the trip we actually made, because we tried to avoid all interstate highways wherever possible (e.g. to get around major cities, which neither of us was interested in doing), using roads like the Blue Ridge Parkway and so on.  (The only major city we actually ventured into was Washington D.C., but our adventure there is a whole ‘nother story involving Congressmen, their various staff members and their family members, and I’m not sure the statute of limitations has expired for the telling of that episode).

Anyway, the car.

This time, because the rental was being picked up by my employer back in Johannesburg on the company’s account (another story), I’d reserved a mid-size car because why not? and when we picked it up at the Avis office in Newport, we discovered it to be the largest car either of us had ever driven in, an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Coupe*:


…which featured a 3.8-liter V6 (not the later 5-liter V8, alas), but which, compared to the anemic 2.2-liter Chrysler Reliant engine, I thought would give us the proper punch for a very long trip.

How wrong I was.  This was my first experience of driving a car which, when one floored the throttle at 50mph to overtake, caused the rev counter to climb but the speedometer needle to stay in exactly the same place.  (It did not help that my “home” car had been a BMW 3-series two-door, which was quick, nimble and fast.)

Compared to the little Beemer (okay, compared to every car I’d ever driven), the Olds handled like a frigging supertanker, with a turning circle to match.  I swear, I could make a full quarter-turn of the steering wheel before the car actually changed direction, and then it would do so only marginally.  Parallel parking was a complete bloody nightmare, and after a day or so of this silliness I made sure that I only parked in drive-in spaces.

In short, the car was a major disappointment — sarcastically, we christened it “The Silver Bullet” because it was anything but — and it colored my opinion of American cars until… well, I still feel the same way about them.

Anyway, we survived the trip.  The Bullet made up for its performance shortcomings in other ways:  the plush velour seats and comfortable drive seemed to impress the several ladies we had occasion to drive around in our travel stops, and amazingly for such an inefficient car, the gas mileage wasn’t too bad as long as I didn’t go much over 50mph — which, given the back roads we mostly drove along, wasn’t too difficult.  And even more so than on my previous trip, we were in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere, so we lollygagged all over the place, stopped in small towns and villages along the way, met some strange but interesting people;  and in short, we both fell in love with America all over again and pledged to each other that we would soon come back for good.

So there’s that.

In Part 3, I’ll talk about my next disappointment.

*the Bullet’s license plate was “VD 237”, which prompted the acidic comment from Maryann:  “VD?  They must have known you two guys were coming.”  She also warned us about New Orleans being the pox capital of the United States, whereupon one of us (probably me) replied, “Yeah?  Well after we’re done there, it’s going to be the pox capital of the world.”  (Sadly, ’twas not to be and we left The Big Easy unscathed.  Austin, however, would be another matter.)

Soulless

Bad News

In my last lengthy solo car trip, back in 2018 (Plano – Las Vegas, described in full here), I spoke of seeing small towns on the map, expecting to find a gas station so I could fill up the Tiguan’s tank and not be stranded in the middle of Nowhere New Mexico in sub-freezing temperatures, and getting to the “town” to see… nothing but a few houses.

So this little comment by Jeremy Clarkson rang several bells for me:

“Loneliness is a big issue in rural areas and part of the problem is villages losing their soul. You don’t have a village doctor anymore. He’s in a health center 30 miles away and you can’t get an appointment. There’s no village bobby on the beat. There’s no village vicar, there’s no village shop, there’s no village school. If we end up at a point where there’s no village pub then what is a village? It’s just some houses. Pubs are the hub and it should always be that way.”

I bet it’s the same Over Here, too.  We’ve read all sorts of stories about how small towns can’t find doctors who want to work in tiny communities, how young people are quitting the towns of their birth and childhood for cities because there’s nowhere for them to earn a living as singles, let alone as a family, and how the arrival of a Walmart ends up with the “downtown” becoming a ghost town.

It’s all very well for one to take the “survival of the fittest” attitude towards this phenomenon — that such places shouldn’t be supported because they’re economically unviable — but that seems to me to be very harsh.

Then again, if a municipality is incapable of supporting even the most basic of services necessary for survival — auto repair shop / gas station, restaurant, doctor’s consulting room, post office, or even a school, for example — then there really is no reason for its existence.  (We’ve never really had a “pub culture” to the extent they have it in Britishland, but that doesn’t mean a local bar should be excluded from consideration, either.)

Moreover, when those establishments don’t exist there are no employment opportunities either, even at the most basic level:  waitresses, auto mechanics, receptionists, mail carriers or schoolteachers.  No wonder the kids clear out.

And yes, things are a lot easier in the U.S. for people who choose to remain in small, secluded villages because our infrastructure is so much better here.  A ten-mile trip in, say, rural Tennessee is no big deal, a ten-minute drive or so;  but it’s a whole ‘nother situation in rural Britishland, with their narrow roads that meander all over the place before (eventually) reaching the chosen destination.  Back when I was living Over There, getting from Free Market Towers to the local village of Melksham, for example, was a journey of only a few miles, but it was a full half-hour’s drive involving no fewer than six different roads and directions.  (Rural Wisconsin, incidentally, has the same problem with minor roads marked as “KK” or “UU”, but at least you can cane it along them because they’re relatively wide and straight.  You are likely hit a deer, though, something highly unlikely in rural Britain, but that’s not the point.)

And from a pub’s perspective, you’ve got that added issue of the dreaded Driving Under The Influence, but when if you’re just going to the local for a pint or six, you have only to stagger home, no car necessary.  (Ask me how I know this. #KingsArms #EnglishmansFarm)

What, then, creates a community, if there are no establishments where one can see neighbors and which can foster some kind of community spirit?  As Clarkson says, if it’s just a bunch of houses — which are insular by definition — then there is no community, and no soul.

Unfortunately, I don’t see any solution to the problem.

Outlanders

Africa, Immigration

New Wife forwarded this on to me, and I repost it here without comment.

The Bittersweet Reflection

Dear Fellow South Africans,

From the shores of this stunning land they call Aotearoa, where the air is crisp and the landscapes breathtaking in a different way, I find myself reflecting on the journey that brought me here – a journey I know many of you are either contemplating or have already undertaken. It’s a move often painted with the broad strokes of seeking something “better,” but I wanted to share a more layered perspective, a “bittersweet” truth that resonates deeply within me.

There’s no denying the magnetic pull of New Zealand. The promise of safety, a different pace of life, and opportunities for our families. The beauty here is undeniable, from the rolling green hills to the majestic fjords. There’s a sense of peace and tranquility that can be incredibly appealing.

Yet, as I settle into this new rhythm, a profound sense of longing often washes over me – a longing for the vibrant chaos of a bustling South African market, the warmth of the African sun on my skin, the familiar lilt of Afrikaans or the expressive clicks of isiXhosa and isiZulu in everyday conversation. Here, the silence can sometimes feel a little too quiet, the landscapes while stunning, lack the raw, untamed spirit of the bushveld or the dramatic coastline of the Cape.

And this is where the “bittersweet” truly lies. In making this move, we are not necessarily escaping a land devoid of value. South Africa, in all its complexities and challenges, is a place of immense beauty, resilience, and a vibrant spirit that is unlike anywhere else in the world. It’s a land etched into our souls, filled with the laughter of friends, the comforting presence of family, and a cultural richness that has shaped who we are.

We carry within us the strength forged in the face of adversity, the warmth of Ubuntu that binds communities together, and a unique perspective on life that the world could learn from. The challenges we faced in South Africa have, in many ways, made us stronger and more adaptable.

Moving to New Zealand is not an admission that South Africa is inherently “bad.” It’s often a deeply personal choice driven by a desire for different opportunities or a sense of security. But let us not forget the incredible beauty, the deep connections, and the inherent worth of the land we leave behind. Let us not allow the narrative to be one of pure escape, but rather one of seeking a new horizon while cherishing the roots that have nourished us.

As we build our lives here in Aotearoa, let us carry the spirit of South Africa within us – our resilience, our warmth, our vibrant energy. And let us remember that while our physical location may change, the love for our homeland and the bonds with those we left behind remain strong.

This journey is indeed “bittersweet,” a chapter filled with both the excitement of the new and the poignant ache for the familiar. Let us embrace both, and in doing so, perhaps we can build a bridge between these two beautiful lands, carrying the best of South Africa with us as we contribute to the tapestry of New Zealand.

With heartfelt thoughts from across the Tasman Sea,

A Fellow South African in NZ… missing home.

Rethinking The Bucket List: Part 1

Bucket List, Travels

Many of the things I’ve wanted to do before I shuffle off this mortal whatsit involve travel, most especially to places I’ve not been to before, which would mean mostly Central Europe:  Budapest, Prague, Krakow and so on.  Note that these are cities, because I’m a city boy at heart and while I like beautiful countryside scenes as much as anyone, I prefer that I see them en route to the next city rather than as an end unto themselves.

That said, Hallstatt in Austria may have an inside track, for obvious reasons:


(Doesn’t seem like the season matters too much, does it?)

When it comes to revisiting some of my favorite cities — London, Paris, Vienna and so on — well, there things start getting a little more problematic.

…except, of course, that these pics were taken back when I last visited them.  That’s not what they look like now.
#ThirdWorld

None of the Western European cities, therefore, is likely to be anything like the cities I remember so fondly, as Lincoln Brown discusses in Europe’s Death Spiral Picks Up Speed, with this memorable statement:

“A cruise up the Seine sounds tantalizing. Spending time in a foreign ER with a subdural hematoma or being forcibly relieved of all my valuables does not.”

Understand that the prospect of some random street violence has never much bothered me before;  but I’m older now, slower and frankly less likely to engage in some kind of physical altercation that doesn’t involve (my) use of a gun.  And as any fule kno, Euroland has all sorts of stupid laws which forbid carry, let alone use of same, so I would be to all intents and purposes completely helpless.  The newspapers and TV are full of stories that outline how tourists and travelers have been attacked and robbed, and worse, raped and/or killed, and I have not the slightest interest in becoming just another of those statistics.

I’m not a fearful man, but I’m not a stupid one either.  In the past, when threatened with violence, I’ve responded with, shall we say, disproportionate violence in my self-defense (and most not involving firearms, by the way).  But I can’t do that anymore because I don’t have anything like the physical wherewithal to respond like that (which is one of the reasons why today I never leave the house without my 1911).

So any travel items on Ye Olde Bucquette Lystte have perforce been severely modified, to the extent where I’m most likely only going to visit places that are 1) safer than most in general (which rules out Paris and London altogether), and 2) are not infested with Muslim- or African “migrants”.  (The “Romanies” — gypsies — are a constant threat everywhere, and always have been, so not much to be done there.)

In fact, international travel per se  has increasingly become considerably less alluring than back when I was just an air ticket and packed suitcase away from [insert random destination here].  The only alternative would be to go on one of those riverboat cruises down the Rhine or Danube, except that I hate, absolutely loathe being tethered to someone else’s itinerary.  That’s just not how I run, to use the modern expression.

And yes:  I’d truly love to go to the Goodwood Revival in Britishland, for example, except that it would only be that reason (plus a visit with my old Brit friends like the Sorensons, the Free Markets and The Englishman) that could ever entice me to book a DFW-LHR air ticket.  Okay, driving around the gorgeous English countryside might also be tempting, except that one can’t do that in summer because said English countryside becomes like rush hour anywhere in the world, only with narrower roads .  Pass.

This whole topic makes me ineffably sad, because being a traveler (in the literal sense, i.e. not just being a simple tourist going from one church to another museum as part of a sheep-like group) has always enticed me with all its wonders of being exposed to foreign cultures, foods and customs.

But if modern travel in Western Europe means a much higher chance of being mugged etc., hell, I could have stayed in Johannesburg for that.

It seems as though Poland, Hungary and Czechia seem to have got on top of the whole immigrant criminalization problem simply by not letting any of the Third Worlders into their respective countries.

So maybe I could just tour Central Europe — but as I’ve written before, the problem with that is that I cannot speak any of the languages, and said languages are extraordinarily difficult to learn, especially for someone of my advanced age and failing mental faculties.

Sucks, dunnit?