Florida and Home

The return flight from Key West had so few passengers we were told to ask if we wanted to move seats as the plane might overbalance. Surely this couldn’t be, I thought, but just in case I asked before I moved to the window seat.

As before the journey was simple and stress free. I suppose it’s because Americans fly so often and have designed things to be painless.

The following day we went to Solomon's Castle.

It was built in the middle of nowhere by Howard Soloman, a visionary, talented and very energetic eccentric. It was covered with newsprint plates so it gleamed in the sunshine. Everything inside, and I mean everything, was hand built by Soloman out of garbage left by his neighbours. An early and sublime example of recycling. It was a labour of love. Because of insurance claims we weren’t allowed to take pictures so have a look at his website.

A few days later Mark and I went to Downtown Sarasota. I had hoped to see Petula Clarke singing the song but was disappointed.

We went in a very musty second-hand bookshop where it is impossible to find a book unless you stumbled upon it. I couldn’t resist one about Richard the Lionheart’s minstrel Blondel, purely because it was called Sir Scoundrel.

Although it was a dog-eared paperback, I thought the writing was good. The author was called Jay Scotland, although I found out this was a pen-name for a successful author by the name of John Jakes.

We went to a nice café for a sandwich lunch where they offered as many refills of coffee as we wished. Pity I don’t drink it any more.

The following day we went to the Ringling Brothers museum. Their story is amazing, not so much for the fact that the company partnered with Barnum and Bailey, made a fortune and went bankrupt, then made a second fortune. Howard C. Tibbals spent twenty years creating a lovingly created model of the circus in its heyday and it can be seen in the museum.

The model conveys the astonishing feat of taking a circus across the country. Their trains transported 1500 employees, horses, lions, tigers, a polar bear and even a huge sea elephant in its very own tank. And they did this almost every day, sending the first train ahead to put up the Big Top so that all was ready for the arrival of the acts. The logistics were incredible - there must have been an easier way to make a living. I was inspired to consider a novel about a circus set in the 1930s. I’ve added the first draft of my opening to this post - although I wonder about the feasibilty of the final scene.

Other highlights of the final part of my holiday included a trip to a local art exhibition where most of the artists were available for discussion which was a great idea. Then we went to the Salvador Dali museum, which was extremely good, driving home in a torrential downpour which was of almost hurricane intensity.

The rest of the time I spent chatting with Mark in various of his favourite spots. It was so good to catch up after not seeing each other for so many years.

And then it was time to leave. Once again I was impressed by the ease of travelling through American airports, even one so large as Atlanta. The flight was quite comfortable, I don’t know what the person sitting next to me thought as I watched Barbie and Toy Story. I was disappointed by Barbie but still enjoyed my third viewing of Toy Story.

Then I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was my first time there and I hope it will be my last. It must have been designed by some psychologist enamoured of the idea of rats in mazes. There was an airport shuttle but you had to walk a quarter of mile to reach it. To make the unending labyrinth even more challenging the airport decided not to have any signs to indicate where to go. Was this incompetence, an expectation that anyone who used the airport should know the way through the maze or sheer sadism?

But now, I’m on the TGV hurrying south to Menton. We’ve just left Lyon where, judging by the coughs, sneezes and smell of Vick’s chest rub there must have been an onslaught of flue. Hope my vaccine is powerful.

I think I’ll end the account of my adventures in the USA. I want space to review my experience of America and the Americans, so this will be my next instalment.

Here’s the potential opening of my Circus novel and some links.

STEPPING OUT

‘I don’t want to, papa,’ Lucia whispered. Her stomach grew empty and chill and she thought that any moment now her legs would begin to shake.

‘You have done this a hundred times,’ he said, gripping her tightly on the arm. ‘You can do it.’

In the past she would have responded enthusiastically to his words for he normally said them with warmth and kindness, encouraging her, believing in her, cajoling her to do what he wanted. ‘Daddy will be proud of you,’ he would say and she always believed him.

Tonight, however, she merely stared at him, no longer believing, no longer trusting. She felt her throat begin to constrict with terror.

She heard a rumble of noise roll up from below. Until this moment there had been only silence, the silence of anticipation and alarm. Now thousands of throats opened in disappointment and admonishment. Thousands of throats murmured with contempt.

‘Listen to them,’ hissed her father. ‘You cannot let them down. You cannot let me down.’

She tried to drag her gaze from his face. She had never seen him look like this. He looked at her with a cold anger, and, worse still, a bitter disappointment. He also appeared to have lost his command of words for he fell silent and gestured in front of her, pointing out the wire, impossibly slender, which snaked across the air in front of her, leading to where she could no longer imagine but only dread.

She did not want to see it, did not dare to. But in glancing away, her gaze was seized and spiralled downwards in a giddy, unstoppable fall, plunging to the numberless faces staring up at her. Most, she knew were willing her to succeed, a few, more dreadful, to fail. But every last one wanted her to move, to step out into the void.

‘You can do this,’ her father said, his voice a whiplash. ‘Go. Step out.’

She lifted her pole a little higher, odd that she had never before realised how heavy it was. She took a gulp of air, fixed her eye on the platform a thousand miles across the emptiness and put one foot on the wire. She heard a sigh of delight from the myriad throats beneath her, felt the rush of air surge up to engulf her feet and ankles. She did not know if this made her braver or more terrified but she pushed herself on and took a second step.

She tried to control her breathing - she was gasping with terror. Yes, she had done this a hundred times before but never like this. Never a hundred feet in the air, across the big top with no net to catch her should she fall. And never with an audience eyeing her every step, willing her to move onward, demanding that she do so, either across the high-wire or to her death.

She never took her eyes from the distant platform. It was impossibly far away, she would never, could never reach it. The wire moved beneath her feet, she felt herself wobble, the wire began to sway and shudder. She stopped, knowing that to move forward would be fatal. Hold still, she told herself, be calm, let the wire grow still and then move on.

The audience yelled in approval, believing her halting halfway across the wire was part of the act, a demonstration of her mastery and lack of fear, a pean to her sense of balance and her courage.

Yet it was none of these things. She had stopped because of terror. And now, when she heard the roar of the crowd, she completely froze. Up from the throng below came a frenzy of applause. All knew that highwire walkers had to keep moving to keep their balance. None had seen a highwire artist stop midway. And trust to what? To nothing, to luck, to fate, to an unheeding god? Yet Lucia Costello did this. She remained in the middle of the wire and did not move.

Only two men realised this was not part of the act. Her father froze where he stood, knowing that any minute she might lose her foothold, might lose her courage and plummet to her death.

The other man who knew was a young electrician, Kurt Jurgens. He had watched Lucia’s progress with growing concern. Now, he began to race up the rope below the platform she was headed to, climbing in bleak desperation until he suddenly reached the top. And then he stepped out on the wire and paced slowly towards her.

The audience did not make a sound now. This was a show too good to be disturbed. How they would boast of what they had seen. A man racing up a rope and then stepping along the highwire to the star of the show. What a display. How did the circus bosses come up with such breathtaking entertainment?

Kurt was halfway towards her now, he gestured, commanding her to look into his eyes. She obeyed and watched as they seemed to hold her, locked on to them as they came closer. Then she felt his hands reach for hers, grasping them and the pole firmly. ‘Lean on me,’ he said. ‘Slowly, gently.’

She pushed herself forward and felt her body rest on his. And then, astonishingly, he began to walk backwards upon the wire, step by insane step until he felt the firmness of the platform beneath his feet. He pulled Lucia closer. ‘Take a bow,’ he ordered. ‘Show them you intended this.’

She leaned out above the crowd, arm swaying in a graceful movement which showed her triumph and her appreciation of the audience.

‘Thank God,’ she said to him. ‘Who are you?’

Links

https://keywestbutterfly.com/

http://solomonscastle.com/

https://www.ringling.org/