Pocket harbors, a Well-Kept Secret in Melbourne by Jane Tolbert

The four-mile stretch along U.S. 1 between Historic Downtown Melbourne and Eau Gallie Boulevard passes between car dealerships on the west side and the Indian River Lagoon on the east. Blue and white signs with a sailboat logo identify Melbourne as the harbor city, but no harbor is in sight.

From the historic downtown, the visitor needs to walk a couple blocks south to Melbourne Avenue, which runs parallel to Crane Creek. However, the water remains elusive, hidden by private properties, Australian pines and no trespassing signs. The harbor is located to the east, at the angle of Front Street and Melbourne Avenue. University and high school crew teams row past moored boats. From a small boardwalk, visitors watch for manatees.

Leaving the Front Street harbor and driving north along U.S. 1, visitors pass pocket-sized harbors that dot the waterways along the Eau Gallie River, Elbow Creek and Tortoise Cove. Most of these harbors remain hidden, located behind residences in Ballard Park and on Thomas Barbour Drive, a tattoo parlor, and watercraft sales and repair shops. A boat builder who on one of these inlets said manatees come, and migrating birds stop over. But he also pointed to the contamination caused by non-point source pollution, or runoff.

A glimmer of blue or the flash of sails provides that element of surprise that accompanies the discovery of a natural setting. Many natives describe the area—harbors and waterways—as a well-kept secret.



Melbourne is one of many cities working to bring blueways back into community planning. The history of this city, which is named for Melbourne, Australia, is tied to the water. Many of its European counterparts would have boardwalks and cafés—not car dealerships and highways—bordering a waterway. Melbourne has the other necessary ingredients for the integration of blueways—a balmy climate and sea breezes, a unique ecosystem, access to the lagoon and the ocean, mangroves and estuaries. Cafes—one of which should be a 24-hour news café--and boardwalks should not be too long in coming. And then, the secret will be out.

For English, Press 1, by Jane Tolbert

When I called the Istanbul hotel in June 2009 to talk to my sister, the recorded message said, “Press 1 for English,” which I did, only to hear a flutter of Turkish, none of which I understood. When I finally reached the receptionist, he told me, “Margaret is outside.” He didn’t say “out” but instead “outside.” What an interesting thing to say.

Anyone traveling abroad encounters these linguistic curiosities, an integral part of the “foreign” experience. The restaurant at a four-star hotel in Juan-les-Pins advertised its “mouse of lamb” on the noon menu. I have complained about the “préservatif” in American bread, only to learn the term “produits chimiques” more appropriately described our sandwich bread (much to the disappointment of the French).

But can translation software replace the human element? A group of us discussed bilingual job opportunities in tourism and multinational corporations. A real estate agent who spoke only French insisted bilingual employees were going the way of the slide rule—they were becoming obsolete. To test this statement, our hostess ran a French real estate ad through a free online trial for a commercial software translation program. The result was gibberish:

"Very beautiful 3 rooms through, stay in excellent condition with fitted kitchen open loggia. Cellar and parking for rent 50 € / month."

Another attempt to test translation software yielded this English translation of a Turkish thank-you note Margaret sent to her friends:

“Silver is the my Rize withdraws iciyorum is the you dusunuyorum. Skecleri cok cizgileri devamli calisiyorum! Cok sicak and cok a sharp fly are the here. Yusufcuk(hatirlamisin and dogum gunu like a present!) If she comes!”

When I sent Margaret the translation, she wrote, “This is nuts! I hope I don't sound this way to people in Turkey!”

What follows is her English account of her message:

“Nazli gave me some wonderful tea from Rize. And I said I was working on sketches...and I said it was hot and the pointed flies (mosquitoes) are here. I wish the dragonfly would come and eat the mosquitoes, and Nazli and Yusuf gave me
a silver dragonfly for a pendant for my birthday!”


Is globalization tending to homogenize cultures and languages, eliminating that sense of adventure in travel abroad? The challenges and angst associated with translation or conversation in a foreign language are offset by that afterglow that comes with understanding another person, or even the laughter generated when something is lost in translation.

I am not a linguist, and I have retained only two vocabulary words from a trip I made to Turkey years ago—Iki çay, or two cups of tea. But memories of the bus rides and attempts to communicate remain—there was that couple who assumed my sister was Kurdish because she is tall and speaks Turkish with an accent. When Margaret insisted she was American, the couple joked, “Ask your mother.” This poignant exchange provided such insight into the culture. Other times, I asked for translations. Some expressions were so beautiful, they left me breathless. “Bir tanem” means “my one and only.” But in the photo, does it refer to the scooter or a significant other (spouse or daughter or pet)? When Margaret returns to Gaziantep, a city in Southern Turkey, I will get her to ask.

Photo courtesy of Margaret Ross Tolbert
# # #

Day Jobs and Duvets by Jane Tolbert

When I heard Eleanor Beardsley review Tribulations of a Cashier by Anna Sam, a liberal arts graduate, on NPR (7/23/09), memories of my day job as a hotel maid came flooding back. Could I blame my choice of jobs on the economy or the red shoes in the store window? Hotel work in the South of France accounts for a heafty 25 percent of jobs in tourism. With more than 10 million tourists coming to the Riviera annually, I knew I would find a job.

But my confidence in the ease of getting a job in hotel work waned. No jobs in communications or public relations. I did not have the skills to manage a reservation system. Only housekeeping would take me, and that job involved a three-day training period. What could I possibly need to learn that required three days?

Many things, as it turned out. My day began in the laundry room where I was issued gray pants and shirt, a coded checklist for each of the eight rooms assigned and a supply box, holding bottles of sprays and polish, but no gloves. On my assigned floor, a large storage area contained the vacuum cleaners and laundry carts, which we loaded in the morning with clean towels and sheets, rolls of toilet paper and the countless bottles of shampoo and body wash.

Given a recent change in hotel ownership, the maids no longer worked in teams of two, but alone. Twenty-nine minutes to clean a room! I wrestled heavy furniture in a cramped space, wiped windows of sea spray and rain, rubbed those marble bathroom counters to a shine and folded the end of the toilet paper to a point. But the most difficult task was the duvet cover. My assignment consisted of rooms with the extra-large beds, the lit à l’italien, but only extra-small duvets remained, forcing me to piece them together and squeeze them into the large cover. I tugged and tugged, but lumps remained. Most often, my room failed inspection.

The neatest clients were those nice men or couples who came for conferences at Sophia Antipolis. They left their room impeccable—toothbrushes and hairbrushes neatly aligned, clothes hung in the closet, bed linen pulled tight to military perfection. I wanted to flop on one of those beds and sink into a duvet with the client’s paperback--a Nelson DeMille I had not read. But I only had one such room. The next suite was occupied by an American family, among the messiest of international clients. Sandy towels and shoes, canned drinks and bags of snacks littered the floor. Finally, at the end of my day, my cart piled high with the debris of many overnight stays, I waited for the client in my last room to leave. He had requested a late checkout (usually 3 p.m.). He finally left an hour later.

Two days of work enabled me to buy my red shoes. After five days I quit, but the experience has been invaluable. Like the cashier Anna Sam pointed out, you learn a lot about human nature.

A Peugeot, Pink Chairs and CheeseIts by Jane Tolbert

Several years ago my daughter bought her first apartment in Juan-les-Pins. I traveled to see it, carrying in my suitcases, boxes of Cheese-Its, a product we still could not find in France. We scrubbed the apartment, chased the pigeons off her balcony, and now she needed furniture. We had seen some hot pink aluminum chairs in the magazine “Côté Sud,” and we headed for Castorama, a French home improvement store that carried them.

It was a warm day in May, a month of many holidays. Sandra had to work an afternoon-evening shift, but this errand would just take a couple hours at most. We set off in her Peugeot hardtop convertible, confident the chairs would fit with the top down. That turned out to be the least of our problems.

When we returned to the parking lot with our two pink chairs, the car would not start, and as a result, the hardtop convertible would not go down. Not to worry, my daughter had Peugeot roadside assistance. She called the tow truck, and we settled in our pink chairs in the Castorama parking lot with our box of Cheese-Its, watching the cars leave for that sacrosanct two-hour lunch break. The tow truck arrived. The driver charged the battery, advising us to leave the car running.

But to get the hardtop down, we had overlooked one small, but critical detail. To ensure the trunk space was free, we had to turn off the car and unlock the trunk. But then the car would not start again.

Pride prevented us from calling the tow truck driver less than 15 minutes after he had left, so we contacted a friend with jumper cables. He started the car, and he agreed to carry the chairs.

Since our shopping trip had taken much longer than expected, Sandra was nearly late for her job. On this holiday afternoon, the streets in this beachside community were jammed with pedestrians and cars. No streetside parking remained, and the pay lots were full. The car dashboard lights began to flash warning signals and moments later, the Peugeot stalled at the four-star Amassadeur Hotel on the Chemin des Sables, blocking the entrance to the underground parking lot.

While waiting for the Peugeot roadside assistance, we ordered a tray of coffee—curbside, despite the waiter’s protests we could come inside. Out came the remaining CheeseIts. We unfolded the waxed paper and polished off the box. The same tow truck operator arrived—too late to experience CheeseIts--and took the car to the Peugeot garage. Sandra went to work, and I returned to her apartment, regretting only I had not brought more Cheese-Its to France.

Tango here, there, anywhere! by Jane Tolbert

Nice by day, and Nice by night (tango photo by Marie)

When I first started dancing, I told my instructor, “Anything but Argentine tango.” After all, I reasoned, where could I possibly tango! But that was more than six years ago. That was before I started planning all trips around milongas (tango parties) much in the same way other individuals plan around a ski or golf resort.

I gradually joined the international ranks of tangueros and tangueras who live for the next dance and pair of shoes. We share that intensity of emotion that comes when we hear the music and make the connection with our partner. Once the music stops and people change to their street shoes, the spell is broken. We and are left with withdrawal symptoms, bordering on depression, until the next milonga.

The first milonga I attended took place in Gainesville, Fla. Its organizers called it a “hit and run” tango. The tango dancers “hit” the outdoor plaza behind the Hippodrome, and they prepared to “run” if the police responded to a “disturbance.” After that, I discovered tango communities dot the dance landscape. In fact, tango seems to take place just about anywhere.

Tango dancers in southern France seek any opportunity to attend outdoor milongas. The surface may be a gritty sidewalk, but dancers simplify their steps—few pivots and little fancy footwork to avoid injury. Weekly summer events take place in Nice and others at the Cap d’Antibes in addition to a large annual tango festival in nearby Menton.

The rest of the year, the milongas are held inside. Tuesday nights the Milonga Linda is held at Jack’s Blues in Cagnes-sur-Mer. Entering through the bar of this former wine cellar, you’ll find Jack, a Blues musician and tango convert. Participants make a point of welcoming newcomers with a kiss on the cheek and address each other using the informal “tu” instead of more formal“vous.” In summers, the floor is packed with locals and tourists. But like many places, attendance waxes and wanes. People flock to Buenos Aires between January and March, but by late spring and summer, the place bustles once again. Here at the Milonga Linda, the Buenos Aires tradition is followed--men sit on one side and women on the other The man invites the woman with the “cabaceo,” or the slight nod. It’s almost imperceptible, so much so that several women may rise at once, each thinking the invitation is for her. A misunderstanding, an awkward moment. As one visitor commented, “Why do this when we are not in Buenos Aires.”

The numerous outdoor events and tango dancers make the South of France an ideal vacation spot. At least for those of us who plan for the next milonga. When Marie and Jacques sent out announcements for their summer milonga, overlooking the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, I jokingly mentioned the “hit and run” tango. They wrote back that they danced until one in the morning “without police intervention.” The numerous milongas, the wonderful possibility of having so many dances that my feet ache combined with the summer weather, have me (well, almost)checking for the next flight.

# # #

Welcome to Florida! by Jane Tolbert

Carl Hiaasen has done his best to scare away outsiders from Florida by writing about political corruption in the state. But the siren’s song about a lack of a state income tax and balmywinters beckons the masses.

Several years ago, my sister held a dinner party for two newcomers from Manhattan, who pursued their dream of exchanging the congested city for lakefront property in Florida. Their conversation with the realtor had gone something like this:

- Do you have pets or children?

- A dog. No kids.

All Floridians know that alligators thrive in small pockets of water, emerging to snatch pets, hunting dogs, children, and grilled food. The lake provides the semblance of a calm, placid site on a hot summer day when crickets and katydids chirp. But come nighttime, those hot-day sounds give way to the throaty bellows of alligators gators. The glow of gator eyes reflect light.



Just as the Manhattan friends told of their relief at having escaped the dangers of lakefront property and purchased a city residence instead and vowed to limit water activity to boating, the Swedish dinner guests arrived. They had just returned from a boat trip, exploring some of the lesser-known Florida springs, those bodies of clear, crystal waters that emerge from the aquifer and maintain a constant temperature of 72 degrees. They excitedly about the dangers of flying sturgeon.

--Sturgeon! The Manhattan group looked up.

A sturgeon is a prehistoric-looking fish covered with hard plates that lives in fresh waters. These fish can weigh as much as 200 pounds and attain lengths of 8 feet. They have an uncanny ability to fly through the air and flip onto a boat, injuring—even “killin”--the passengers.

Over a few glasses of wine, we focused our conversation on sharks, red tide, jellyfish and Portuguese Man of War, avoiding the story of the Burmese python that died while attempting to swallow a live alligator in a Florida swamp. We casually mentioned an early-morning bike ride along the sandy trails of the San Felasco Hammock, which was punctuated with intermittent showers. Deer appeared but also we saw fresh bear prints in the damp sand. According to the National Audubon Society’s Field Guide to Florida (p. 371), the Florida black bear is a “powerful swimmer and climber; can run up to 30 mph. . . will usually flee, but can cause serious injury.”

The next time we had dinner with the Manhattan friends, they announced their recent purchase of Florida cracker house in need of renovation. There were no lakes, streams, or pockets of water near this city house. It was near an elementary school so surely a street crossing guard would signal any wayward gators, flying sturgeons or bears. They talked with gusto about the hands-on experience of pulling off rotting beams and working with the contractor, something they would have never experienced in New York. The brown recluse spider could wait for another evening.

Those Eureka Moments at the Kitchen Counter by Jane Tolbert

My friends and I use the terms “eureka” experience or “epiphany” to refer to those moments of lucidity that come about—not in a think tank, but at my kitchen counter. Conversations over coffee or wine usually result in enlightenment. Is it the caffeine or the alcohol or just the “time out” from the daily routine?

The Wall Street Journal ran an interesting article that provided scientific evidence in support of the eureka experience, something we kitchen-counter aficionados have known without the benefit of empirical data. In other words, those gray cells work harder when our mind is “wandering,” writes Robert Lee Hotz in his June 19, 2009, article, “A Wandering Mind Heads Straight Toward Insight.” Moments of insight often follow daydreaming.

Thomas Kuhn (The Structure of Scientific Revolutions) popularized the concept of the “gestalt switch”—the bird-rabbit phenomenon--whereby we see the familiar in a “new” light. The drawing of the bird "becomes" the rabbit in the same way the data that seemed to support a geocentric world view could actually support a heliocentric world as well.

The eureka experience often refers to scientific insight because Archimedes used this expression when he found the solution to a problem, jumped from his bath, and ran through the streets to proclaim the news. In his eureka moment, he forgot his towel. Writers, dancers, musicians, poets and artists have these experiences as well. Whether an individual is working on a literary plot, a musical partition, choreographed or improvisational dancing, an oil painting or a filmscript—a mental block looms large. The harder the creator works to solve the problem by a plodding, analytical method, the more elusive the solution becomes. The artist in us all needs time to daydream. How else will we have the likes of Q’s laboratory in James Bond or an interpretation of Argentine tango music by the Mandrágora orchestra?

With innovation on the decline, at least in the sciences, according to one article in the New Scientist, more research and development companies should opt for settings propitious to the eureka experience. They should shift from the business paradigm of managed days of meetings and time clocks. . . to one of kitchen counters to enable the mind to wander, dream and achieve that moment of insight.

For my friends and me (and sometimes a dog who goes by the name of Bear or a greyhound called Fay), the Kitchen Counter has become a metaphor for a break in the routine and a chance to dream. No rules of parliamentary procedure guide these informal meetings. The only criterion is that of a positive state of mind. We leave with the feeling that solutions are at hand. I experience the same insight after walking around Lake Alice, dancing a tango with my favorite tanguero, or paddling in the Florida springs. Probably Archimedes felt the same way when he sprang from his bath.