The title of the 2007 movie by Joel & Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men, is an allusion to the poem "Sailing to Byzantium" by William Butler Yeats (1865–1939). The poet finds where he is "No country for old men" in part because, "Caught in that sensual music all neglect, Monuments of unageing intellect." Indeed, for most of the Middle Ages, if one wanted a thorough Classical education, including Greek as well as Latin literature, one would need to go to Constantinople, the capital of what was well understood then as the suriviving Roman Empire, but which now tends to be forgotten as such, obscured by the neologism "Byzantine Empire" -- something no contemporary ever heard of.

As it happened, there was another reason for Englishmen to travel to Constantinople. After 1066, dispossessed Saxon nobility began to join the Varangian Guard, previously composed of "Varangians," i.e. the Vikings who had come down the rivers of Russia. These were initially provided by St. Vladimir of Russia, when he converted to Christianity and married the sister of the Emperor Basil II. But in short order recruits arrived from all of Scandinavia -- Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and even Iceland. Slavic Russians also joined in. And then we starting getting the Englishmen. They kept arriving in Constantinople for more than three centuries, and so became known by their own designation, the "English Varangians," Egklinovaraggoi in Greek or Enklinobarangi (singular Enklinobarangus) in Latin. The last reference to such Englishmen is from 1404. The banner of "Byzantium" or Romania at right contains specifically Constantinopolitan motifs quartered with the simple red cross of St. George. I suspect that this part was contributed by Genoa, the ally of Romania after 1267, which used it. It is also, as it happens, used even now as the flag of England. I doubt that the Cross of St. George here originated with an English reference, but I can also imagine the satisfaction of the later English Varangians fighting with its presence and protection.

All this has resonated with me as I get older and now retire. I will be leaving Los Angeles and moving to Princeton. It is not, to be sure, like joining the Varangian Guard, and Princeton is not a unique repository of knowledge the way Constantinople was -- though I have discovered some helpful material in the Firestone Library over the years. I don't find the Mediaeval World very attractive in its own right, but I have always been curiously drawn to Constantinople as for many centuries the redoubt of the Classical World -- ever since as a child I read a book, The Fall of Constantinople by Bernardine Kielty [World Landmark Books, Random House, 1957]. What Constantinople really was and meant in its day is now obscured and forgotten, not the least by "Byzantinists" who insensibly and unintentionally cooperate in the misconstruction of public perceptions.

However different the circumstances, my retirement is certainly a change in my own life of perhaps a comparably profound degree. Moving to Princeton specifically is also reminiscent of such a move by Albert Einstein (1879–1955). I have little hope, of course, of equalling Einstein's accomplishments or fame, but he did move to Princeton at 54 years of age (in the Fall of 1933). I'm already 59. What I would hope for is at least to live as much longer. Einstein never left the United States again after settling in Princeton and survived until 1955. If I have another 22 years to develop the project of The Proceedings of the Friesian School, I will have no complaint.

But I also have come to feel a particular affection for Einstein. I think that his use of geometry to reconstruct physics is one of the most brilliant ideas in the history of science, with profound implications for metaphysics and cosmology, as I have examined elsewhere. It dawned on me a couple of years ago how difficult it is to avoid talking about him when I was teaching a once-a-week night class in Modern Philosophy, and I realized after several weeks that I had discussed something about Einstein in every class session. Of course, part of the story of Einstein's years in Princeton, at the Institute for Advanced Study, is that he accomplished very little. Mathematicians and physicists notoriously do all their best work when young, and Einstein was no exception. Nevertheless, one feature of Einstein's years were philosophical discussions. Every day he would walk to work with Kurt Gödel, and evidently their talks were frequently on philosophical issues. This focus was particularly acute in one venue related by Palle Yourgrau:

While at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, Gödel was for a time a member of an elite -- a very elite -- discussion group, consisting of himself, Einstein, the German physicist Wolfgang Pauli, and Bertrand Russell, one of the founders of modern "analytical" philosophy. Russell reacted badly to the discussions, finding them too philosophical in the "old fashioned sense." (The failings of an entire century are crystallized in this fact.) In an unpleasant aside he vented his frustration: "All three of the others were Jews and exiles, and in intention, cosmopolitans," he wrote later, "[who shared] a German bias for metaphysics." [A World Without Time, The Forgotten Legacy of Gödel and Einstein, Basic Books, 2005, p.13]

I read this with great frustration myself. Someone like Bertrand Russell was not the person to be discussing metaphysics, or even science, with Kurt Gödel and Albert Einstein! It is hard to know who, at the time, would have been, but Karl Popper, at least, would have represented a more sensible philosophical perspective -- and with Popper they all would have had a first language in common, German. I might have little hope that I could have made Kant, Fries, or Nelson more appealing to Gödel or Einstein, but I walk around Princeton conscious that the opportunity, wasted by Russell, is now long gone. I can, however, continue this project in this place whether they are still here or not. The age problem for mathematicians and physicists does not apply to philosophers, and as Einstein was entering his last, relatively unproductive years, at 54, Immanuel Kant was just finishing the Critique of Pure Reason at that age and was just entering his most productive period, continuing for about the next twenty years in his own life.

Sailing to Byzantium, Los Angeles as no country for old men, joining the English Varangians, retiring to Princeton:  somehow it all goes together for me.

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0	New Otani Hotel, Los Angeles, Morro Bay, Big Sur, San Francisco, California	1991
1	Denver, Boulder, Colorado	1992
2	Reiganji, Toyotashi, Tokyo, Japan	1993
3	Big Bear, California	1994
4	Niagara Falls, New York, Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania	1995
5	Las Vegas, Nevada	1996
6	Nantucket, Massachusetts, Newport, Rhode Island	1997
7	Lake Placid, New York, Burlington, Vermont	1998
8	Pocanos, Pennsylvania	1999
9	Lake Tahoe, Bishop, California	2000
10	Santa Barbara, California	2001
11	New York City, New York	2002
12	Grand Canyon, Flagstaff, Phoenix, Arizona	2003
13	Cape May, Atlantic City, New Jersey	2004
14	London, Dover, Oxford, England	2005
15	Montauk, New York	2006
16	Honolulu, Kailua-Kona, Hilo, Hawaii	2007
17	Princeton, New Jersey	2008
18	Boston, Northampton, Massachusetts	2009

Every year we have taken a special trip for our June 22nd wedding anniversary. These trips have ranged from the modest to the ambitious, including sojourns in Japan and England but also destinations convenient in California and New Jersey, like Big Bear, Santa Barbara, and Cape May. In the listing, the first location is the principal destination, where the anniversary was actually celebrated. So in 1995, we were in Niagara Falls, New York, but on the way we stopped off in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania -- largely because of the recent Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day. From London in 2005, we simply made day trips to Dover and Oxford.

The photo is after a hot air balloon trip on June 22, 1988, outside Lancaster, California. This was on the wedding anniversary of my cousin Cheryl and her hot air balloon flying husband, Dave. Cheryl had met Dave when she got a balloon ride as a birthday present, so for some years they celebrated by taking everyone up. Exactly three years later to the day Jackie and I would get married ourselves. Later Dave got out of the business, I think just because of the cost of insurance; and we've never been back up.

Our history here has a heavenly component. At the time of our actual wedding, there was a triple conjunction of Venus, Mars, and Jupiter. Venus () and Mars () were, appropriately, very close to transiting. In the field at right we see nearby some interesting asteriods (minor planets). There is Parthenope, which means "virgin face." This may be a reference to Athena Parthenos, Athena the Virgin. Terpsichore is the Muse of Dance.

Hekate is a goddess we can associate with Artemis and Selene in the three stages of female life. Since both Artemis and Selene are moon goddesses (selênê actually means "moon"), we see the goddesses at left associated with the phases of the moon.

Although the minor planets were invisible, this conjunction of Venus, Mars, and Jupiter was extraordinarily bright and conspicuous in the sky on our wedding day.

I did not notice another conspicuous alignment until 2007. When we arrived in Hawaii on June 20th, there was a row of bright objects in the sky. One of these was simply the star Regulus, the brightest star in the constellation Leo. The others were the planets Venus and Saturn. Regulus, Venus, and Saturn made a bright line in the sky. By the 21st (the date of the diagram), the moon had moved past them. Mercury was also in the area, but I think it was too close to the horizon for me to notice it.

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There used to be an excellent German restaurant on Telegraph Hill in San Francisco. This was "The Shadows," which supposedly referred to the shadows of artists' models on the window shades of the studios on the Hill. I don't know if there ever have been many artists working on Telegraph Hill in my lifetime, but the restaurant dated back to 1932. Internet sources say that in the 1920's it was a "Bohemian" area that local artists wanted to turn into a San Francisco version of Montmarte. Today it is very upscale houses.

I was introduced to the restaurant as a child in the 1950's. My parents began eating there when they visited San Francisco. I never learned how they heard about the place. It always struck me as strange and magical. Strange because I didn't know anything about German food. I did like the Sauerbraten and really liked the potato pancakes. But the place was magical because, plastered on the mountainside and decorated like a Swiss chalet, it was just a very fun building and location.

At the time, dining out well in San Francisco meant dressing up. So I was always in my little pre-teen suit and tie. One of the few times I can even remember wearing such things as a child. But I might add my own touches. In the '50's people didn't worry much about toy guns, even very realistic ones. One of my favorates was a snub-nose .38, such as used to be commonly carried by police. This toy gun was not only realistic, but it what it actually carried were little plastic bullets snapped into spring loaded cartridges. With a round cap on the end, the gun could thus shoot the plastic bullets with a cap pistol bang. I could carry it in a shoulder holster under my suit. This toy now strikes me as rather dangerous. Indeed, at the time I was reluctant to shoot it, especially at playmates, since I was concerned about the damage that flying plastic bullets might do ("You could put out an eye," was a common caution from parents in the old days) -- or just that the bullets might get lost. Now, of course, even a child carrying anything looking like a realistic gun would immediate throw everyone into a panic. The police would be called. It is certainly a shame that such fears and reactions reflect the experience with real shootings. There was nothing like that to worry about in my childhood.

After I grew up and ceased visiting San Francisco with my parents, I began, of course, visiting on my own. The Shadows was still there, and I began going back, with different friends or dates. I ate there several times during the 1970's. Parking had always been a problem at its location, 1349 Montgomery Street. I remember my father trying to get there on what must have been our first visit. Streets that on the maps looked like they might go through, like Montgomery itself, actually dead-ended at steep cliffs on the hillside. The only way to get there was by way of Union Street. But I do remember my parents actually parking in the neighborhood. In 1970, I could still park in the neighborhood. Later in the '70's, however, the neighbors were objecting to this. On one occasion, we were directed to park in a parking structure down the hill, with a shuttle going up to the restaurant. Later, there were simply valets who took the cars, as valets usually do, at the front of the restaurant.

As an adult, I discovered a particularly appealing feature of The Shadows. On the third floor, there was a bar set under the large east window. This meant that you could sit at the bar and look out the window onto San Francisco Bay, with the Bay Bridge prominent to the right. This made the place like a particularly intimate Top of the Mark. I just loved it. Also, although I knew that there were steps going up the Hill next to the restaurant, I don't think I had ever actually gone up them until I was there with a woman I had meet in Beirut (and who turned out to be from South San Francisco). So on this occasion we walked up to Coit Tower and looked out over the City lights. On a current map, I now see that the steps next to The Shadows are apparently called the "Filbert Steps," since they continue the route of Filbert Street. Towards the end of Montgomery are the Greenwich Steps, which also go up to the summit.

The last time I ate at the old Shadows might have been about 1982. Then some years went by before I had occasion to return to the restaurant. The occasion came, happily, on my honeymoon in 1991. The Shadows was still in business, but when I eagerly made a reservation for my wife and myself, I was in for a rude surprise. The building was outwardly the same, but when we entered, the decor was radically different. Pink. Not very German. Indeed, the Swiss Chalet, and the German cuisine, was gone. So was the third floor bar. We did eat on the third floor, but it had simply been converted into extra dining. On some kind of Nouvelle Cuisine. I asked the waiter what had happened. He said that the old owners (internet sources say Carl and Mariza Rebmann) had died and that their son had a "dream" about how to update the restaurant. Not a dream, a nightmare.

I've been back to San Francisco a number of times since 1991. For years I didn't even bother checking on what had happened to The Shadows. Then my wife and I were in town for a day on April 27th this year (2008). We drove up to Coit Tower. While there, I thought about walking down the Hill to see what had happened to the restaurant. Evidently not a happy story. It was closed. Its final incarnation had not even been as The Shadows, since the name on the building was the D'Alla Torre, an Italian restaurant. That does sound a little more like San Francisco, but it was not a success anyway. There seemed to be some work going on to the building, so there is no telling what will happen next. The place could easily be turned into a residence, like most of the rest of the neighborhood. We shall see. But The old Shadows is long gone.

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On several visits to Manhattan the last few years, my wife and I began to come across a Bolivian band playing on the street. We liked the music a lot, and they were selling CD's of their albums. The group called itself Ch'uwa Yacu Bolivia and this is a clip from a song, "Muchacha de Ojos Tristes", from the first CD we bought, Clear Water, Volume IV.

The second time we saw them it was on a Sunday, and they were on 6th Avenue right by 49th Steet. There weren't many people around, and they looked a little forlorn. Last year however, August 2003, we found them on a busier day on 7th Avenue, just above 49th Street again. They had a larger and flashier operation, drawing large crowds. Although they had made (and were selling) a number of CD's beyond their Volume IV, they were actually, when we were there, playing the music from that album.

This year [2004], we found them on Saturday, August 21, playing right in Times Square. They seemed to be moving up in the world and were selling Volume VIII. They seem to have adopted an environmentalist theme -- Vol. VIII is called "Save Our Planet," and I do hope that they are not sending money to something like the Sendaro Luminoso; but it is marvelous music.

More recently, we had not been noticing this band, or any others, in Manhattan. Nevertheless, in the 12th season of South Park (2008) on Comedy Central, they had a two part episode involving "Peruvian flute bands" ("Pandemic," 22 October 2008, and "Pandemic 2: The Startling," 29 October 2008). The premise was that these were performing all over the country. If so, I was really not aware of it. Ch'uwa Yacu Bolivia is the only band we ever saw.

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Copyright (c) 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008, 2009 Kelley L. Ross, Ph.D., Postumus Friesianorum, All Rights Reserved