Category Archives: travel

June 1, 2012 · 5:43 am

The Prisoner of Portmeirion

The date was Saturday, June 1, 1968. The network was CBS. The television show, new to the U.S., had already run on Britain’s ITV Channel 3 from September 29 the year before through to its 17-episode conclusion on February 1. And from the opening thunderclap, blaring trumpets, and image of Patrick McGoohan driving a Lotus Seven (registration KAR 120C) along a deserted airstrip, I was hooked.

The television show was the cult classic The Prisoner, and it was the brainchild of George Markstein and executive producer Patrick McGoohan. Mr. McGoohan died January 13, 2009, and I was deeply saddened by his passing because this show still holds a special place in my heart.

What makes The Prisoner so unique is its blend—It’s a spy drama. It’s a thriller. It’s science fiction. It’s fantasy. It’s psychological. It’s allegorical. It’s existential. It’s simultaneously psychedelic and nostalgic. It’s a commentary on society at the time, and it’s still relevant to the society (and the politics) of today. It is, in short, television at its finest and most promising. It makes you think, and it deals neither kindly nor gently with those unaccustomed to doing so for a full hour.

The initial premise seems pedestrian, and it has been copied at least a couple of times since. A man (Patrick McGoohan) resigns from an agency from which one does not resign. It’s simply not done, old man. There are consequences for such an act.

He rushes to his flat (ominously followed by a hearse) and starts packing his luggage—brochures of tropical beaches thrown atop hastily packed clothing. Meanwhile, the undertaker steps away from the hearse and approaches the front door. Gas starts pouring in through the keyhole, and the man’s expression shows that he knows he’s too late to escape. His last sight before losing consciousness, through the window of his flat, is of the towering skyscrapers of London.

The man awakes in what appears to be his own flat. But when he goes to the window it is not London that greats him. It’s The Village. Names are not used in The Village; everyone has a number. He is Number Six. His nemesis is the man in charge of The Village, and that man is Number Two. Initially, Number Two wants to know only one thing of Number Six, “Why did you resign?” But what Number Two really wants is . . . well, now, that would be telling. Here is the dialog during the opening credits during most of the subsequent episodes:

Number Six: Where am I?

Number Two: In . . . The Village.

Number Six: What do you want?

Number Two: Information.

Number Six: Whose side are you on?

Number Two: That would be telling. We want information… information… in-for-mation!

Number Six: You won’t get it.

Number Two: By hook or by crook, we will.

Number Six: Who are you?

Number Two: The new Number Two.

Number Six: Who is Number One?

Number Two: You are Number Six.

Number Six: I am not a number! I am a free man!

Number Two: [Ominous, haunting laughter]

And what happens if, by the end of the show, Number Two fails to get information? He gets replaced . . . by a new Number Two even more bent on breaking Number Six.

But there’s another star to this show besides Patrick McGoohan/Number Six. That is The Village itself. Indeed, if not for The Village, this show may never have attained its cult status.

I know The Village. I’ve stayed in The Village. If you’re a fan of The Prisoner, a stay in The Village is equal parts chilling, fascinating, and exhilarating.

And, all next week, I will take you on a personal tour of . . . The Village. Enjoy a teaser below. Until then, and in the immortal words of the standard Village greeting, “Be seeing you.”

The Village—Number Two’s Residence is the domed structure on the right

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Filed under Television, travel

Tagged as Patrick McGoohan, Portmeirion, television, The Prisoner, travel

May 28, 2012 · 6:00 am

Lest We Forget—No, It’s Not National Barbecue Day

We seem as a society to forget what this weekend really commemorates. Memorial Day weekend does not mark the unofficial beginning of Summer, the end of the school year, or the weekend of the Indianapolis 500. It’s not about throwing Frisbees at the beach, flipping burgers, and downing a few cold ones.

And, no, we do not on this day thank a veteran. That is not what today is about, as we veterans should solemnly remind those who do thank us on Memorial Day. Today is a day of remembrance—remembering those who fell defending this nation and her allies during times of armed conflict. Thank a veteran on Veterans Day (formerly Armistice Day), but spend today remembering our fallen comrades in arms.

Those who followed my blogs on our most recent cruise foray will recall that we spent some time in the cool, damp drizzle at a cemetery in Normandy, France. That would be the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. It was a very moving experience, and I saw grown men reduced to quivering lips and teary eyes that day. If you’ve served in uniform then tears come easily while casting eyes upon this site. If you lost a friend or loved one who fell while in uniform, those tears come even easier.

This country has been at war now for the worst part of eleven years. We recently ended our direct military involvement in one war that did not serve our national interests, and we’re winding down another that did.

During this time, and for the first time in the history of this republic, we at home were not asked to make the sacrifices that other wartime generations have been called upon to make. Instead, we allowed politicians to tell us to take tax cuts, go shopping, and leave the fighting to an all-volunteer military force. We acquiesced to that relatively painless strategy, and left it to future generations to pick up the tab for our collective acts of irresponsibility. Meanwhile, we have allowed our political leaders to slash the benefits and much needed post-combat services of those who did volunteer, leaving them to cope on their own with injuries both physical and mental.

It is for those decisions that both history and future generations will condemn and curse us.

As you look over that sea of Crosses and Stars of David below, be grateful for those who sacrificed everything. But be wary of those who never wore a uniform, who declare themselves to be “Great Americans,” and yet who continue to advocate cuts in support to the families of the fallen and the services to veterans—all the while demanding that no sacrifices be asked of those who stayed at home. There is truly no greatness in such a stand.

And there never will be.

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Filed under Author, Opinion Piece, Photography, travel

Tagged as Memorial Day, Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, opinion, war

May 18, 2012 · 6:00 am

Boogying the Backstreets of Brussels, Belgium—Part 3

Wandering through the back streets of Brussels, Ursula and I continued to find colorful reminders of the present interspersed with the architectural wonders of the past. More murals greeted us amongst ancient façades—smiling young men strolling through the air above the streets of Brussels. We saw the metal shutters of loading bays decorated in Caribbean themes. Nearby were apartment mailboxes painted in startling yellow and decorated with peacocks, parrots, plants, and pussy cats.

Not all the sights were outside, however. I found an interesting shop lined with unfathomable varieties of Belgian beers. And then there were those hunger-inducing cafés we’d passed earlier, and which now beckoned us with their irresistible siren call to lunch. Lunch in Belgium is synonymous with beer, mussels, and pomme frites and, well, you know the saying—when in Brussels . . . . Entire bill for two, including the beer, a ridiculously low €20 (about $26 U.S.).

Pomme frite, by the way, is European for what we call the lowly French fry. Only, they’re not French; they’re actually an invention of those ever enterprising Belgians. Those pomme frites, which you can get by the same name in Germany, France, Switzerland, Belgium, etc., aren’t anything like the insipid American variety. They are in fact exquisite little masterpieces of delectable dining. But don’t embarrass yourself asking for the ketchup. In Europe you eat these little gems with mayonnaise or, in the case of Belgian mussels, dipped in the remaining white wine and butter broth at the bottom of the bowl.

Shortly after we left the café it started to drizzle. That was rather unfortunate, in that we still hadn’t seen everything we wanted to see and Ursula’s umbrella had died back in Bruges. We forlornly started our way back to the train station when, as luck would have it, we sighted a HO-HO bus. That’s “Hop On/Hop Off.” It’s a rather touristy thing you’ll find today in many European cities (as well as spreading into the U.S.), and it’s a great concept. For a flat €15 apiece we climbed aboard to continue our adventures.

We passed by the Berlaymont, the massive star-shaped building that houses the European Commission. Impressive from a distance. Spartan and industrial looking close-up with metal shutter-like slats running the full length of every edifice. The European Commission is where the real business of governing the European Union takes place—the appointed commissioners and unelected bureaucrats who pretty much tell the elected representatives how things really work. This is the area that also hosts the more modern buildings in Brussels—canyons of reflective glass mutually flattering themselves with their images.

Leaving this neighborhood behind us, we next arrived at the site of the 1958 World’s Fair and that immense monument to the Belgian steel industry, the Atomium. The Atomium is an awe-inspiring set of nine interconnected 18-meter (59-foot) spheres standing some 102 meters (335 feet) high. The structure represents a segment of crystallized iron, with each sphere containing a different exhibit hall or public space (four are currently closed). The tubes connecting the spheres contain escalators, and housed inside the central column upon which the whole thing sits, is an elevator.

It is with this final image—an image of the atomic age and modern science—with which I leave you following all these weeks of looking at magnificent structures that predate Columbus’ voyage to the Americas. I hope you all have enjoyed the journey.