Time In A Bottle

Imagine that you are lost. Can you imagine that? Probably not, right? Not any more. Pull out the iPhone and you know exactly where you are, presuming Google Maps or your app of choice isn't confusing your location with somewhere else or someone else and there's enough signal. Like that last part is much of an issue any more. 

But it wasn't always that way, right? We do remember those days, don't we? Some of us? Maybe? Not before reliable signal. I mean before phones with us everywhere we go.

So it used to be different. What's the big deal about being lost anyway? I mean so you go down the wrong street and have to turn around and walk or drive back again. What's the problem? Who really needs a nav app? And people used to get around fine with paper maps. I can't quite believe it but I used to drive all over the United States with no cellphone and a road atlas or a series of printed or written directions or both. Hey...it worked. I got everywhere I needed to get and I was rarely, if ever, late. No. Big. Deal.

Now imagine it's the early 1700s and you are on a boat. I don't mean like a rowboat within sight of shore somewhere. I mean like a ship on the open ocean. Do you have any idea where you are on the face of the planet? There's no GPS back then and there's nothing to see but just water, water, everywhere. How the heck do you know where on the ocean you are?

There is insufficient time (and personal understanding of the subject) for me to go into exhaustive detail on this blog about the history of mankind's ability to navigate on open water. But suffice it to say that various methods of moving on and over our planet's large expanses of water have been used over time. Star charts. Ocean charts. The compass (after like the 11th or 12th century). Bird movements (not kidding). And the sun. But the sun and the stars had some limitations. The stars could only help at night (and a cloudless night at that) and the sun could really only help with a latitude determination (meaning where you are up or down the planet) based on the known date. True position determination needs more than just latitude.

You need both latitude and longitude.

Standing either side of the Prime Meridian (0 degrees longitude), Greenwich.

Longitude (meaning where you are relative to the prime meridian or right to left on the planet) was way tougher to determine. And honestly, if you know where you are up-down but not right-left, it's not really that useful in determining exactly where on the open ocean you are. So sure, I'd rather have some clue where I am north-south on the globe but disaster can strike if you don't know where you are in the other direction. And it did. Frequently. Wrecking ships and killing sailors. 

So why is figuring out longitude tougher? Well...it's not. It really is pretty easy and can be done if you know what time it is. We have that on our phones, right? Oh wait a second...

Let's go back to that early 1700s on a boat scenario shall we? At that time in history there were two options for timepieces: clock or pocket watch. Clocks at that time in our history had pendulums and didn't work so well when on the ocean. The waves kind of messed up the pendulum's action. Not an option. And pocket watches? Terribly inaccurate. There's an unverified comment on the pocket watch Wikipedia page (always a dangerous source of information, I know...) that states that pocket watches in the 1700s were fast to the tune of an hour a day. Know how long an ocean trip took back then? More than a few days. And if your watch is an hour fast and you try to plot your position, you could be a time zone off. That's pretty big.

The Octagon Room inside the Flamsteed House, Greenwich.

So, around the turn of the 18th century, some countries decided to try to do something about the issue of figuring out longitude while ocean-bound. In 1714, Britain issued a challenge for anyone to take up: find a way to solve the issue of determining longitude while at sea and there's a reward. It was called the Longitude Act. And some people took that challenge pretty seriously. Hey...there was government cash involved. Like £20,000. That's like about £4 million in today's money.

One of those people was a carpenter and clockmaker from the West Riding of Yorkshire named John Harrison. In 1714, he was 19 years old. And he thought if he could make a clock that worked on a ship, that prize might just be his.

To be clear, here, there were potentially other solutions to the longitude problem, but not necessarily to a clockmaker.

14 years later, John Harrison was hard at work designing and manufacturing a marine clock using two interconnected balances joined by a spring that would substitute for the traditional pendulum on most clocks of the day. It was based on a design that he had used in building incredibly accurate wooden clocks in the past, although wood clearly wouldn't work on board a ship due to expansion concerns. To me, this clock looks like it has two pendulums with large balls on the top which oscillate towards and away from each other (there's a picture below). 

Harrison's first marine clock (now called H1) was the first device or idea of any sort tested to see if it might meet the requirements of the Longitude Act. It was taken for a test drive on a journey to Portugal in 1736, about eight years after Harrison had started working on it but just five years after he actually started building it. Eight years. Designing and building a clock. I assume he had other work to do during this period but you know...

Harrison's clock worked and it didn't work on the voyage there and back to Lisbon. It lost time on the way there but was used to correctly pinpoint the longitude of the ship on the return trip when the ship's Master's opinion was that the ship was in a different location. Pretty good, right? But not good enough for either Harrison or the Board of Longitude. Another clock would be required. Although it was promising enough that Harrison was paid £500 by the Board to start work on H2.

Nice try. Thanks for the last eight years. Keep going but start over.

H1. Completed 1735. Tested 1736.

If you want to see the H1 clock today that Harrison built 190 years ago or so, you can. It's in the Flamsteed house, the Christoper Wren-designed part of the Royal Observatory that's at the top of the hill in Greenwich, England, just a bit down the Thames to the east of London. H1 sits smack in the middle of an entire exhibit devoted to the Longitude Act. The stories of the ships that were wrecked on hidden reefs or rocks all because they didn't know or couldn't tell exactly where in the ocean or sea or channel or whatever they were floating on are astonishing. It's no wonder that this was such a high priority for more than one European nation to issue a call for solutions.

There is also a really pretty informative interactive display showing why a pendulum clock won't work on a boat that is listing to one side. When the boat is tilted in the exhibit, the clock's pendulum keeps swinging, but the center of the clock where the action of the pendulum advances the time doesn't ever get passed by the pendulum, so it doesn't keep time. 

Harrison's second effort (H2) is in the Royal Observatory as well. And spoiler alert: so is every other clock that Harrison submitted in consideration of the Longitude Act prize. H2 took Harrison just three years to build and it actually seemed like it would work well enough to claim victory over the whole longitude issue. It was tested by Harrison on land enough that he felt pretty confident about this device having a shot at winning the cash money. But he eventually figured out that the device might not survive the tilt of a boat tacking and he couldn't very well tell captains of ships not to tack. I guess he knew what he had done wrong because he suddenly ceased work on the H2 clock version and started on the third iteration of his ideas (H3) in the year 1740. Another three years gone. So we are up to now what...11 years? All in pursuit of a clock that works on a ship?

To me, H2 looks less like a traditional clock than H1. Not a whole lot, but it's definitely less timepiece-like. Maybe that's part of the point of what was going on in Harrison's head. Maybe the answer here would be something that didn't look like a traditional clock. I am pretty confident here that I will never, ever be able to understand how these or any other clocks work, so I'm sure I'm stabbing in the dark here and making the leap that less clock-like means closer to the solution. Maybe it's the architect in me that's speaking here. 

All of these clocks in the Royal Observatory by the way: spectacular condition. I mean these things look better than any object I own in my entire house. And they are almost 200 years old. I realize there are probably people out there paid a lot of money to maintain these things but still...spectacular!!!

H2. Completed 1740. Never tested at sea.

If H1 and H2 represented a pretty good effort at the Longitude Act prize, H3 was, simply put, an incredible science project for sure. Eight years on H1 and three on H2? Child's play. H3? 19 years. 1740 to 1759. 19 years on one clock. Apparently, it was a masterpiece. It moved clock technology forward through the introduction of a bimetal strip for temperature compensation and a special roller bearing that would reduce friction. The design of the clock got Harrison the Copley Medal, the highest award conferred by the Royal Society. By all accounts, it was an act of supreme clock-making genius and craftsmanship, well worth the 19 years that Harrison labored over the thing. 

But it didn't win him the Longitude Act money. It wasn't accurate enough. He knew it as soon as it was done. They didn't even test it on a ship. Skipped the whole thing.

Can you imagine working on something for almost two decades to get to a specific goal only to abandon it because what you had invented and built wasn't good enough? Harrison turned 66 in 1759. He'd been working on this problem for over 30 years and he still hadn't solved it, including after spending 19 whole years on his third try.

H3 sits in the same room in the Flamsteed House as H1 and H2. Like both of its predecessors, it is in immaculate condition. It's just gorgeous. But it does not look like a clock. Not really. Not the way I think of a clock with a 1-12 dial with an hour, minute and maybe a second hand on it. I realize that H1, H2 and H3 all look primarily like really well put together bronze boxes but with each iteration, I feel they are getting further and further away from being clock-like. It's pretty obvious (with the benefit of 200 plus years of history) that something interesting is going on here.

So...30 plus years in working on a problem and he still doesn't have it licked. Thinking about quitting? Not our guy John Harrison. He kept going.

If you are feeling bad for Harrison at this point, by the way, I guess that's understandable. But he was receiving some payment from the Longitude Board for his efforts. Thought the completion of H3, Harrison had taken home £3,000 in payment for his efforts. I know it's not 30 years worth of effort but it's not nothing. Still...three clocks and only one sea test? That is kind of brutal.

H3. Completed 1759. Never tested at sea.

So what happens after you work for 30 years on a single problem without solving the issue? Well, in John Harrison's case, he just went ahead and solved it. He did it with H4. And H4 looks nothing like H1 through H3. Nothing. 

While he'd been working away on his sea clocks, John Harrison had continued to make clocks un-related to the Longitude Act. In the early 1750s, he had commissioned a watch maker to assemble a pocket watch for him that would continue to run while being wound but also would work consistently under different temperature conditions. And apparently, these innovations for this watch inspired Harrison to make something completely unlike his previous sea clocks and decidedly more pocket-watch-y. Although it's a pretty darned large pocket watch and is really nothing like a pocket watch at all.

I've claimed extreme ignorance of the inner workings of timepieces once in this post and here I'm going to do it again. I have no ability to explain how H4 works other than reading what's on the Royal Observatory's website and writing that H4 in pretty much all ways resembled a full size clock more than a something you would carry in your waistcoat pocket and the fact that it ticked five times a second allowed it to be more accurate and more resilient than any other portable watch created to date in human history.

The enclosed mechanism of H4 (minus the outer case that made it watch-like) is on display in the Royal Observatory. It looks like something out a science fiction movie. It is simultaneously space-ace and absolutely beautifully crafted as if worked on by an Arts and Crafts movement master (note the capital A and capital C there; not an accident). If this thing had popped in in one of the Dune movies (the 21st century ones, not the Dino De Laurentiis one), it would not have looked in the least bit out of place. It's stunningly gorgeous. 

H4. The winner.

H4 was ready for a sea test in 1761, just two years after Harrison stopped working on his 19-year long H3 project. It passed that sea test to Jamaica and it passed a second sea test (this time under competition with other Longitude Act competitors that had gone the non-sea clock route to win the prize) to Barbados in 1764 where it was declared accurate within the constraints of the Longitude Act. Harrison had won.

The end of this story isn't as tidy as that. There were disputes as to payment or whether full payment should be conferred. The Royal Astronomer (Nevil Maskelyne, if you must know) was especially determined to not let Harrison win the prize and kept debating and refuting the effectiveness of H4 for at least two years after the Barbados test. According to the Royal Observatory, Harrison was eventually paid everything that was owed to him but it may have been by Parliament and not the Longitude Board. The description next to H4 says that H4 is "arguably the most important timepiece ever made." Not too shabby for 32 or 33 or years of work, right?

H4 was not the last clock Harrison produced in his life. He apparently was still tinkering with his last clock design when he died in 1776. That's some serious dedication.

John Harrison. Front and center.

There is a lot to see at the Royal Observatory that is not related to John Harrison or the Longitude Act. I'm not sure I can adequately describe everything that they have on display up there at the top of the hill in Greenwich but Wren's building, telescopes and planetary observation history might top my list if pressed. We didn't go to see any of that stuff. We were strictly focused on Harrison's clocks, which (full disclosure) I had already seen in person but which will endlessly fascinate me. It's as much the story as the history.

If you want to go do the same thing (and only the same thing) as we did on this trip, I'd suggest you not ask any of the museum staff "where are the clocks?" We did and our question was answered with a question: "which clocks?"

Yes, there are many, many clocks at the Royal Observatory and fewer than ten of them were designed and built by John Harrison (there are more than four Harrison clocks at the Observatory although I don't know how many; I'm guessing not more than ten). Asking where are the clocks ain't going to cut it at this cultural attraction.

There are some other things to see that are at least partially relevant to longitude and the accuracy of timekeeping. First (and I realize it's a huge tourist trap type thing), the Prime Meridian (or zero degrees longitude) passes through Greenwich in recognition of the Royal Observatory's role in defining longitude. There's a literal line you can straddle with one foot in each of the eastern and western hemispheres. Of course we did this. How could we not? I stood in two hemispheres in Ecuador; I had to do it here in Greenwich.

Second, there is a big red ball on the top of Flamsteed House. It was installed there in 1833 and was dropped at 1 pm each day so that ships on the river in sight of the Observatory could re-set their watches each day. I know I already wrote about the inaccuracy of personal timekeeping devices but it is still astonishing to me that there would be a bunch of ships' captains on the river side of Greenwich watching a red ball drop to re-set their chronometers but I guess it happened. Like every day. The Observatory still observes this tradition today and we happened to be exiting the building at about 1 so we stuck around and watched. I fell like I'm closer to history for doing this.

The Acropolis Marbles

This post is about one room in a museum. I promise it's not that simplistic. Let's get right to it...

Actually...let me say one more thing first. 

I debated using an apostrophe after the word "Acropolis" in the title of this post. I think it's correct but ultimately, I think it looks better without. I do, however, think that there should be an apostrophe. Sometimes you can't have it all. It's not the first time I've bent the rules of grammar or punctuation based on how I think things should look. Oxford comma. That's all I really need to say on that subject. NOW, let's get right to it...

Last fall we visited Greece. Or maybe more accurately, last fall we visited Athens. As an architect, a trip to Athens was a long time coming for one reason and one reason alone: the Acropolis, the hilltop site in the center of the city which includes the most perfect Greek Doric temple of all time, the Parthenon. Look, the Greeks pretty much invented architecture. Finally laying eyes on one of their masterpieces (if not THE masterpiece) was super exciting.

Our whole experience at the Acropolis was incredible. I mean it really was as impressive as I'd been promised for decades. Our understanding and appreciation of the 2,500 or so year old temples on top of the hill was only enhanced by our visit to the Acropolis Museum right after we descended back down to Athens proper. But our visit to this site wasn't really complete, and that's because a good portion of the sculpture and carvings that used to be on the Parthenon are neither on the building itself nor are they in the Acropolis Museum. 

Now, this is not some huge mystery regarding what happened to them. It's not like they are lost or locked away somewhere. Everyone knows where they are. They are in the British Museum in the middle of London. So after visiting Greece and not seeing them there where they started out, and this year finding ourselves in England and more specifically London, we couldn't not go see these things and make last fall's trip to Greece more complete. 

Make sense? It made perfect sense to us.

Let's address the most obvious question about what I've written so far, shall I? Why is a part of the Parthenon in London and not in Athens where the rest of the mostly intact ancient temple is? It's a simple question, right? Maybe there's a simple answer. And I think there is. The simple answer is that they were removed from their original location by Thomas Bruce, the 7th Earl of Elgin, in the early 1800s. The truth, from at least one side of the table, would be argued as more nuanced than I've just described. So, not being one to mince words (or facts, in this case) let's just dig into that whole history for a minute.

Greece has not existed continuously as a country (or even as a collection of truly independent city-states) since the time of the Parthenon. It's evolved or devolved from a relatively successful series of independent cities to quite a bit less than that before pulling things together and establishing an independent nation. In between the Parthenon times and now (and like most places on this planet of ours) parts of modern day Greece at one time were under foreign control. In the early 1800s when this part of the story takes please, the city of Athens happened to be part of the Ottoman Empire. 

Now two plus centuries ago, much like today, nations appointed ambassadors to other nations to provide a personal touch in maintaining diplomatic relations. In the year 1800, the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire was one Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin. And I guess this appointment caused Bruce (I'm going to switch back and forth between Bruce and Elgin in this post when referring to the man) to turn his attention to the carvings that once adorned (or still did adorn in some cases) the Parthenon on the northern side of Athens' Acropolis. He decided he would use part of his time in his new post having some folks under his employment makes some plaster casts and drawings of the remaining sculpture still hanging around the site. For posterity, I'd imagine.

Elgin approached the British government to see if they'd like to cover the cost of his idea and the answer was apparently a hard no. So he decided to do it himself. He hired himself a crew and they started working. To make long story short and I'm sure I'm skipping a ton of details, at some point, this effort switched from making plaster casts and drawings to just removing the items from Athens entirely and bringing them to London where they just became the property of Lord Elgin. I know, I know, I skipped a lot of the story.

For his part, Elgin claimed to have the permission of the Ottoman Empire to abscond with some of their treasures and even produced a signed document from the Ottomans endorsing the removal. Apparently, the Ottoman Empire have never publicly confirmed the legitimacy of the document but Bruce had his story. 

The treasures of the Parthenon are not, today, in the possession of the descendants of Lord Elgin. They are (as I've already mentioned) in the British Museum. How did the British museum get them? Well...they bought them in August of 1816 for tidy sum of £35,000. 

Isn't it kind of sketchy for the British government to purchase some artwork that clearly originated at the site of another nation's national treasures and that were removed under some circumstances that appeared to be less than wholly legitimate? Apparently, the answer to that question was "yes" and to avoid the appearance of impropriety, in February 1816, the House of Commons conducted an investigation into whether the pieces of the Parthenon were removed legally or not. Today, there are questions about the document Elgin claimed was issued to him by the Turks and (assuming that document was genuine) whether removal of sculptures and carvings from the site are covered by that document. But in early 1816, apparently it was good enough for the House of Commons. Purchase approved! 

Today, all of the treasures gathered by Elgin sit in a special room on the west side of the British Museum. The room is dumbbell shaped and you enter the room at the center of the "handle" and are greeted by a carved sign that reads "These galleries designed to contain the Parthenon sculptures were given by Lord Duveen of Millbank 1939", although 1939 is written out in Roman numerals. These things are a big deal to the Museum. They are very valuable and important, even though they have absolutely nothing to do with anything to do with Great Britain or the British Empire other than some dude who was British removed them from their original location and sold them to the Museum.

Dionysus. Perhaps drinking wine at one time? Maybe?

The entire current "Elgin Marbles" collection includes three series of sculptures: (1) statuary from the east and west pediments of the Parthenon (the pediments are the triangular pieces at each end of the building); (2) 15 metopes or carved panels from the outside of the building which were located just above the perimeter columns; and (3) a good portion of the frieze that was installed on the exterior of the interior cella. The cella basically formed the two rooms of the temple, one of which housed the long lost statue of Athena. 

Of all the sculptures and carvings in the collection, the metopes (which show a battle between a group of centaurs and a peoples known as Lapiths at the wedding of Pirithous and Hippodamia) and the frieze (which shows a celebration procession for a festival honoring Athena) are clearly the best preserved of the artifacts in the room. They are actually largely intact, particularly the many panels of the frieze (there is about half of the total length of the frieze from the Parthenon in the British Museum) which are generally two-dimensional carved panels and have little to be knocked off because of the complete lack of three dimensional objects in space. If they are damaged, they are often broken at the corners.

The centaurs and Lapiths on the metopes are less intact, mostly a product of arms or legs or heads of centaurs and Lapiths being carved in the round away from the panels. In some cases, the heads are out there. Just not in London. Or Athens either. One of the description cards next to one of the metopes informed us that the missing head of the Lapith about to be hit with a pitcher by a centaur is in a museum in Copenhagen. Why? Why does some museum in Copenhagen need a part of that panel?

As a bit of an aside here, the centaurs and Lapiths are fighting because at the wedding that both groups were invited to, the centaurs tried to kidnap some of the Lapith women. Don't invite centaurs to your wedding is a lesson learned here for me.

Headless metope. Want to see the heads? Go to Copenhagen.

The most important and most visible, but also the least well preserved, sculptures in the Museum are the figures from the pediments at the ends of the Parthenon. These things are in some cases little more than fragments. Dionysus reclining among the figures that used to occupy the east pediment is probably the most intact, just missing his right arm and his left hand. I'm assuming at least one of those missing hands was holding a cup of wine. Heck, maybe even both were. 

I assume the reason that these particular sculptures are in such poor condition is that they could fall off or be knocked off the building and the result of such a fall would pretty much shatter the statues to bits upon impact. I remember seeing an animation in the Parthenon Museum last year showing Christians up on the pediments throwing the heathen god statues to the ground and smashing them. For some reason that animation stuck with me. Maybe learning in museums does work after all. 

The biggest thing that struck me about seeing the marbles from the pediments, though, was not their condition or their lack of completeness. It was the fact that they were carved on the back sides. Here are these figures that were installed way above ground level 2,500 or so years ago and the back sides will never, ever be seen. I mean, never. They have to know that, right? Yet the hems and folds of what the gods and titans and whomever else was wearing up there a long way from anyone being able to see anything really are detailed in stone by some stone carver who spent their time embellishing a piece of marble in a way nobody was ever intended to see. It's impressive. 

Or maybe they knew one day some English lord would swipe what they carved from where they were supposed to be and stick them in some museum where someone like me would marvel at the attention to detail. I guess we'll never know which of those versions of the story is true.

The back side of the east pediment statuary.

So let me just say this one small but pretty important thing about this whole setup: these things would have a whole lot more meaning back in Athens in the Acropolis Museum which sits directly at the bottom of the Acropolis and in sight of the actual, still there in place, Parthenon.

Are the statues and carvings in the special room in the British Museum impressive in their own right? Sure they are. They look incredible for being 2,500 years old. Even to me, and let's just assume I know nothing about the quality of ancient Greek sculpture, they look like pretty darned impressive specimens of sculpture from the fifth century B.C.

But can they be understood the same in London as they can be in Athens? Not to me, they can't. Maybe there are people out there a lot smarter about this stuff than me but there's no emotional connection, no sense of understanding the place from which these things were created. Our trip to the British Museum to see the Parthenon marbles was not my first viewing of these sculptures. I'd been twice before to the Museum to see these masterpieces. The meaning of these panels and figures didn't hit home until I actually set foot in Athens and went to see the place where they started out for myself. It would just be a lot more meaningful to have them back where they started. Why deny people who have made the pilgrimage to the Acropolis the opportunity to see all of it? Why make people go to London after they have been to Athens to really understand the whole picture?

And to be a completist, I guess you'd at least have to go to Copenhagen as well to see the heads of some of the Lapiths and centaurs from the metopes. And maybe some other places too. Why aren't they all in one spot??

I will say that we went through something like my past British Museum experiences a couple of years ago. Knowing that one day we'd want to visit the ancient site of Ephesus in present day Turkey, we went to see the sculpture from that site that is housed in the Ephosos Museum in Vienna since we happened to be in Vienna to visit a few Christmas markets. My reaction to what we saw in that museum was the same as my first two viewings of the Parthenon sculptures at the British Museum. Cool ancient sculptures, but lacking any emotional attachment because I haven't actually been to the site they were swiped from. I guess I'll have to likely go back to Vienna if we ever make it to Ephesus. Oh well...I suppose we might have missed a thing or two in Vienna.

Let's not kid ourselves. These things are not going back to Greece any time soon. And it's not because the Museum had a special room built to house them back about a century ago. These works are valuable. They are prestigious. They bring people to the building to spend money (although admittedly, admission is free or at least optional which most people interpret as free). The British Museum has a very long and detailed explanation about the legality of their possession of their works on their website along with a standard disclaimer about a willingness to loan items out to other institutions in accordance with their standard loan procedures. 

All of that hasn't stopped the Greeks from trying to get them returned. They have made formal requests either directly to the British government or through UNESCO all the way back to 1836 and as recently as 2013 and there have been talks between the two countries ongoing up to the year 2022 but with absolutely no change in the ownership status. It's never going to happen.

The British side of the argument seems to center on three issues. First, they were obtained legally. Second, they are in better condition now as a result of their being in the United Kingdom for the last two plus centuries than they might have been had they remained in Athens. And third, if Britain started turning over antiquities based on an "it's better to have them in the place they were made originally" doctrine, then they would have to return a lot of stuff in their museums.

Here's my take. 

For me, legal or illegal ownership means nothing. Who cares? I know I said these artifacts are super valuable but they are way more valuable to everyone visiting Athens than they ever will be in London. If you want to say something about this, go to London then go Athens and then go back to London and tell me where they are more valuable. Until you have been to both, you don't really know.

I also don't care about what might have happened if they had remained in Athens. There's no proof that they would have been lost or destroyed or stolen by someone else and there is some evidence that cleaning methods used by the British Museum might have damaged some of the metopes and panels of the frieze. Where an item is better protected from damage is not an argument for thievery. 

I get the third point. However, I don't think giving the Acropolis Marbles back would cause some landslide of return of objects from all sorts of museums to their original locations. It certainly doesn't have to. One exception does not make a rule. There would have to be a way to rationalize keeping artifacts in museums that are in a different spot than the items originated.

Surely there must be a way to reunite these sculptures and carvings with the building they were removed from. Can't the United Kingdom and Greece find a way to work out a fair and equitable form of compensation even if it's exchange or rotation of artifacts with a huge and sincere acknowledgment to Britain for keeping them safe in times of strife or war in Greece? I'm not holding my breath. All I know is that people who visit the Parthenon in Athens would be better off being able to see these works of art at the site where they were originally installed. Travel is about discovery. It would be helpful for a monument as important as the Acropolis that the discovery be able to occur there and not on the other side of the continent.

That's all I have on this one. This third viewing (for me) of these marbles was the best and most important. But only because I understood where they came from based on our visit to Athens last year.

Lapiths and centaurs: still battling it out at the wedding. Just don't invite them...

Wooden Ships

We have traveled to a ton of places over the last 11 or so years. Six continents. 25 plus countries. Who knows how many cities and towns. Mountains. Rivers. Highways. Beaches. Volcanoes. Parks. Much more. Most of those places we've visited just once, and they will either stay that way or we'll say hello again once that destination gets back to the top of our list. It's a long list. Some places may need to wait a long while. Or forever. Hey, we have other things to see.

But that last part is not true of everywhere we've traveled. There are spots in this world that we've found ourselves in much more than once, compelled by some force or experience to go back and do it once again or polish off those things that we missed the second or third or fourth time. In some cases, when we've spent so much time in one place, it's started to feel like a second home. New York definitely leads the pack there. We don't do much tourist-y stuff in New York anymore. We just want to be there, spending time in our favorite haunts because we are in love with the place.

London is getting there. We are definitely running out of obvious, in the guidebook stuff to soak up in England's capital. Four visits in 10 years will do that. But we are not quite there yet. It's not New York, and I mean that on so many levels. Our time in London in September of this year found us turning over a rock or two to get one or two more drops of juice out of the place, including two experiences that built on a couple of days we'd spent elsewhere on the globe in the last 12 months. This post is about one of those.

Earlier this year, we spent some time in Southeast Asia. Part of that trip involved spending some time in Malaysia where we visited a tea plantation. It was honestly the most interesting and coolest thing we did in Malaysia. I'm not kidding. It was truly awesome. I'm not knocking Malaysia by saying the best thing we did was go to a sort of farm (although we WERE disappointed a bit in Malaysia). Visiting the tea plantation was well worth the trip. 

When we think of tea today, of course, we often think of England, and not because that's where tea is grown, because it categorically is not grown in England. But whether you grew up there or when you are visiting and just have to have a cuppa with breakfast or crave some afternoon tea or a cream tea now and then, tea is now for sure, no doubt an English thing. We did, on just this one trip, partake in all three tea experiences mentioned in this paragraph so clearly we have bought into this drink association.

So how did the English get to love tea if you can't grow tea in Great Britain? Why, by exploring and then colonizing the world, of course. They first found the stuff in China, and started importing it into the country in the 1650s. Considering the speed at which information moved back then in the middle of the seventeenth century, it seems to me that tea caught on in England pretty quickly, perhaps spurred on by a mention of the drink by Samuel Pepys in his writings or Charles II's wife Catherine of Braganza being a bit of a tea fanatic. 

The East India Company started bringing back tea from China in 1669 and Thomas Twining opened his first tea room in London in 1706. From that point on there was really no looking back. Tea would be intertwined into the national identity to this day. Eventually in the mid-1800s, the English started growing it in spots around the world that they claimed for their own whether whoever was there already wanted it or liked it or not. That's how tea plantations started in India, Sri Lanka (then Ceylon), Kenya and yes...Malaysia.

But even after they started growing tea for themselves, they still needed it from China.

So how did one transport tea from the far east (or Africa) back to England between the 1650s and the 20th century? On a ship. How else? I mean this is before air travel or reasonably safe and efficient and speedy overland travel. You wanted to get somewhere on the globe from Point A to Point B a few hundred years ago relatively quickly? You boarded a boat. 

Speed counted here. Between 1861 and 1866, the first tea ship into port each season would earn its owner an extra shilling for each ton of tea on board. But beyond that, generally the faster you can move product from source to market, the faster you will turn a profit and the faster you can turn around and go get another load. In the second half of the 19th century, ship owner "Jock" Willis commissioned ship designer Hercules Linton to design the fastest tea ship in the world. 

They named the ship the Cutty Sark, after a line in Robert Burns' poem "Tam O'Shanter". The Cutty Sark is still around today. It's in Greenwich, just a 40 minute or so ride down the Thames from the center of London. This, I had to go see to add one more level to the understanding of tea, which we had started to explore in February.

The tea clipper Cutty Sark, Greenwich. No, it's not early evening; it's England.

I had been to Greenwich once before. It was a while ago (in 2007) and I know sometimes my memory is lacking but I couldn't recall seeing a full size original tea clipper hanging around the place when we went to visit the Royal Naval Museum, the Royal Observatory and the Queen's House all those years ago. It seemed to me that I should have noticed something this big just out in the open near the commuter and tourist boat dock along the Thames. 

Turns out in this case my memory wasn't wrong. The Cutty Sark was in Greenwich in the summer of 2007 but it was under restoration at that time. Even worse, the ship was the victim of a fire in May of that year which halted and delayed the restoration so it was likely (a) under wraps and (b) under heavy protection and immediate recovery beyond just being under wraps. It's no wonder I missed it in 2007. I wouldn't in 2024.

The hull of the Cutty Sark, suspended over the exhibit floor.

The Cutty Sark was custom built to transport tea. It was designed with a fast hull with sufficient cargo space to hold a lot of product but also with a low draft so that it wouldn't get snagged on the sand bars which were present at the mouths of the rivers in China which it would need to navigate to stock up on tea. And the speed thing that I mentioned earlier? The design worked. When it was built, the Cutty Sark was the fastest ship in the world. It almost seems crazy that it was custom built for tea. I mean it seems like that sort of a cargo wouldn't be that valuable to warrant the fastest ship in the world. But then again, we are a long way removed from the late 1800s.

The majority of the volume of the ship was reserved for cargo space. Everything that involved the crew sailing the ship took place on the main deck, or the top level of the ship. The enclosed living space dedicated to the captain, officers and crew of the ship are tiny. Privacy was non-existent for most all of the men on the ship that were not the captain. The two lower levels, the lower hold (below the water line) and the 'tween deck (with floor pretty much at the water line), are huge and existed strictly to make money. They would be packed as tight as possible with crate after crate of tea on the journey from the far east to England. 

How much tea could the Cutty Sark transport in a single voyage? Enough tea for an astonishing 200 million cups with a total value in today's currency of 18.5 million pounds. In one trip. Seems like the owners of the Cutty Sark which they custom built for this purpose had figured out the game pretty well. They launched the ship in 1869. 

The two cargo holds of the Cutty Sark: the lower deck (top) and the massive 'tween deck (bottom).

The Cutty Sark's life as a tea clipper lasted less than 10 years. In 1878, the ship stopped hauling tea from China to England and started transporting wool from Australia. 

In the year the Cutty Sark was launched, something else happened that would change the tea trade from China pretty quickly: the Suez Canal opened, creating a route to China that was 3,800 miles shorter. Steam ships now had a schedule advantage over sailing ships, which could not sail (but could be tugged) through the Canal. Combine a shorter route with a much less treacherous journey that avoided Africa's Cape of Good Hope and smaller insurance premiums and the tea clipper idea was dead. How fast was the Cutty Sark? Didn't matter. It wasn't 3,800 miles faster.

Today, the Cutty Sark is restored back to its early 1870s appearance, which for me was perfect because that's exactly the period in which I was interested. That restoration first occurred in the 1950s, long after the ship was transporting tea from China or wool from Australia or then ferrying cargo back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to South America. 

The masts, rigging and deckhouses which housed the crew on the main deck had to be entirely reconstructed, but 90% of the hull, which was made from Indian teak and American rock elm, is original as is some of the iron frame which was used as the primary structure for the decks. The original iron today is painted white in the restored ship. There is a whole lot of iron painted white in the two pictures above.

The Cutty Sark today is in permanent dry dock. Those sailing days are long over. The ship is suspended on steel columns and enclosed by a glass roof structure that pretty much mimics the level of the ocean when the vessel was afloat. The main and 'tween decks and the lower hold are all accessible to visitors and there is a below grade museum level that allows you to pass on foot directly below the hull. 

The fact that you can see the entirety of the exterior and interior of the ship is pretty special. The hull is massive, which considering it was designed with a low draft to allow passage over sandbars just indicates how much below water stuff there is on other ships out there not designed with the same feature as the Cutty Sark. The cargo spaces look as big inside as the hull looks outside. There is so much space in these interior holds. It must have been pretty impressive to see these things packed full of merch.

But the most interesting area for me was the main deck, where the captain, crew and officers lived, worked and slept, although I'm sure it was way more work than anything else, particularly for the crew. A one-way voyage on the Cutty Sark, despite being the fastest ship in the world, was almost four months long. That's four months on the open water sailing every day and working on the ocean's schedule. This is not a 9 to 5 gig that some of us enjoy in 2024. This must have been hard and demanding work with emergencies and conditions to react to at a moment's notice. 

The safety record on the ship was impressive; they only lost five crew members on the open water. But that doesn't mean it wasn't extremely hard work.

The saloon used by the ship's officers at mealtimes (top) and an officers' bunk room for three (bottom).

The only person with a private cabin on the ship was the captain. All other officers and crew quarters were shared. Each man aboard would need to have clothing for the coldest and hottest weather and would obviously need to do their work outdoors every day with no modern luxuries as simple as sunscreen. Some crew members could afford changes of clothes. Others couldn't, which must have really been inconvenient when your clothes were soaking wet in a storm. 

The majority of "free time" was spent indoors in the deckhouses with fellow crew members. According to signage on the main deck, time not working was usually spent mending gear or playing board games, if someone had managed to bring one on board. Tobacco and, in rare situations, alcohol sometimes provided a different sort of relief from what I am sure was a lot of pain, aches and abject boredom. I can't imagine how difficult this sort of work was. I get bored at home on weekends sometimes and I have a ton of things to entertain myself. This must have been excruciating. 

I love it when different trips in the same calendar year provide us opportunities to learn about different angles of a similar subject. This was completely unplanned. We had no idea when we visited a tea plantation in Malaysia that the Cutty Sark would be on this year's United Kingdom agenda. Similarly, we had no idea there was a tea clipper in dry dock in Greenwich when we planned a day trip down the Thames (we'll get to the other reason we visited Greenwich). Luck happens sometimes, although this was really a "make your own luck" situation by us continuing to explore different places in the world.

Every so often there is a little nugget of something in a place I have visited that fascinates me. That nugget on the Cutty Sark is the two suspended discs in the officers saloon in the picture above. They look like they might be there to hold candles or some other form of light, but they are not. They were installed in the saloon to hold bottles and drinks so that liquids (presumably some of it wine or liquor) would not spill when the ship tilted with the action of the water. I find these sorts of simple inventions intriguing. That's the last word on this one.

The Cutty Sark with modern London in the distance. 

Five Oh

At some point for some Americans, visiting all 50 of the states that make up our nation becomes a thing. I'm one of those Americans. I guess it became a thing for me in about the mid-1990s when a trip to the upper Midwest had me traveling to and through Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin and Illinois in a single week. Now, I realize four of 50 in seven days or so might not seem like a lot of progress, but at that point, I thought the end goal of the whole half century was probably achievable if I set my mind to it. 

So I did. Not every year, necessarily. It came in fits and starts. I made a push in 2001 when I knocked off Colorado, New Mexico, Wyoming and Nevada in two jaunts out west and really put the pedal to the metal on a cross-country drive in 2011 when I picked up Missouri, South Dakota, Montana, Idaho and Oregon. That gave me 40. Within spitting distance, as you might say.

It's been super tough since then. It took me 32 years to get to the first 40. 12 years after that east coast to west coast drive, I had only picked up eight more to get me to 48. Louisiana. Utah. Alabama. Hawaii. Alaska. North Dakota. Arkansas. Nebraska. All in the books. And if the age math doesn't make sense (since I'm 56 now), I didn't start this thing until I got to the United States in 1979 when I was 11.

And so at the beginning of this year, it was down to the last two: Kansas and Oklahoma. If there was a silver lining to those two being the last two, it was that they are next to one another.

The Outsiders House Museum, used in the filming of the movie of the same name, Tulsa.

With just two left, it was kind of time to end this thing. 

So last month, we hopped on a plane at National Airport in Arlington, Virginia, and landed in Kansas City, Missouri. The next day, we drove west to Lawrence and then Topeka in Kansas and then headed south for Tulsa. At 6 p.m. on Friday, May 24, we hit the border of Oklahoma. 50 states. Done!

I feel like I really accomplished something here. I mean, how many people really do this in their lives? I know maybe two or three people who have done this. It's definitely a club that not a lot of people will join. Most Americans will never get there. I made it at 55 years old (OK...almost 56), although (again) I didn't even get to this country until I was 11. There's no doubt that this is a marathon-type of task. I'm glad I did it because I've been chasing it for so, so long.

But honestly, this didn't feel like I thought it would feel. I wasn't super elated and I didn't really feel an amazing sense of completing something epic when I crossed into Oklahoma, although one could argue that's exactly what I have done. Maybe it's the fact that that 50th trigger was literally driving over an imaginary line and stopping at a pretty graphically uninspired-looking sign (see above). Maybe it's because it's been so long coming and had started to feel a little like a bit of a chore. Or maybe, it's because it was Oklahoma, and Kansas before it, and these two were clearly last for one reason and one reason alone: we really couldn't think what we'd be doing there if we ever visited.

I know that's unfair. And I now know it's a total misjudgment. At least of Oklahoma (sorry, Kansas) where we spent three days exploring after crossing the threshold.

Buck Atom, Route 66, Tulsa. One of the many repurposes muffler men out there in the West.

Let me say three things before I move on and/or forget to write these three things.

First, I tried to do this the right way. I didn't count fly throughs and I wouldn't count a state as visited unless I did something tangible and memorable when visiting. No just driving over the border for some lunch or driving through a state. Stopping and visiting something related to tourism or real life in the state was required. 

Second, all the "we" words in the narrative about getting to the border of Oklahoma is important because it wasn't me getting to 50 states. We've spent a lot of effort over the last couple of years getting my wife caught up to me so we could do this together. At the beginning of this year she had one more state than me left: the two I was missing and Missouri. Which is why we went to Kansas City first.

Third, this quest has been very much an immigrant's quest. I remember very distinctly our arrival to this country in Boston on July 25, 1979. Or maybe that's not quite right. Maybe it's that I remember three things very distinctly about our first moments in Massachusetts. These are (1) I'd never been anywhere so hot; I think the temperature and humidity were both north of 90 that day; (2) I'd never been in a car with air conditioning, which, you know, was appreciated that day; and (3) I'd never been anywhere so green. England is often referred to as green but I'd never seen forests like I saw alongside of I-90 that day. 

I love this country and I'm glad I've seen a bit of all of its 50 states.

The scissor-tailed flycatcher, Oklahoma's state bird. Somewhere near Pawhuska.

So about Oklahoma being awesome...I think I would have been way more excited to enter my state number 50 if I knew how much I'd get out of my time there. I mean it ended up being one of those places that astonished me. I connected so well with a lot of what we found and did there. 

It happens. Every so often we find someplace that we end up loving way more than we possibly could have imagined. I think the last place we felt this way about was Rapid City, South Dakota. If I had known everything we'd find in Oklahoma, I would have been elated to cross that border. Like most places we travel that we haven't visited before, we usually end up finding something that changes our perspective. That too was true of Oklahoma.

So why was Oklahoma amazing? How about music? How about birds? How about pop culture? 

We actually had a bird quest in Oklahoma. We were on a mission to find the state bird, the scissor-tailed flycatcher somewhere in the state. And we found one. Or more than one. Several actually, along with some eastern meadowlarks, a nighthawk, our first indigo buntings of the season and what is likely to be our new species obsession: the painted bunting. We've already earmarked a swamp in the Everglades where these birds, which look like they've been hit by a rainbow that stuck, spend the winter months. These trips keep popping up.

We found music in the Woody Guthrie Center. We skipped the Bob Dylan Center, but swung by the Church Studio where Leon Russell, Willie Nelson, Eric Clapton, Tom Petty, J.J. Cale (of course!) and others have recorded without going in (closed on Memorial Day). We also found a cool place to hear live music in the Mercury Lounge where we also appreciated their very loud and clear message of inclusiveness and not being a jerk. OK, so the Lounge used a different word.

And for pop culture fans (and for very different sorts of pop culture fans actually) we toured The Outsiders house in North Tulsa and spent a half day or so out in Pawhuska, which is the center of The Food Network's Pioneer Woman (a.k.a. Ree Drummond) empire. Both are very different kinds of pilgrimages. The Outsiders House is just a labor of love that's been embraced by about everyone who had about anything to do with the movie adaptation of Tulsa's own S.E. Hinton's novel which she started writing when she was 15. The staying power of that work and the movie Francis Ford Coppola made out of it is impressive.

The interior of Greenwood Rising, preserving the memory of Tulsa's Black Wall Street.

And if all that weren't enough, Route 66 goes right the way through the state, entering Oklahoma at the very northeast corner and extending all the way to the western border before passing into the Texas panhandle. And the eastern end of that road has what have to be some of the Mother Road's kitschiest and most classic attractions. 

Blue Whale of Catoosa? Visited! And let me say that attraction is the most amazing and most useless thing all at the same time. Why someone would build this thing in the first place is way beyond my ability to comprehend but I'm glad it's there. And I'm glad we visited to see beyond the one classic view of this place (which I have duplicated by my own hand below). Yes, it's silly and nonsensical and yes, it's totally worth visiting.

A little bit west of Catoosa in Tulsa (and a little bit off Route 66 to be honest) is the Golden Driller, a monument to Tulsa's original source of wealth. This one built in 1966 is actually the third golden driller and it's the largest free-standing statue in the world at 76 feet high. Yes, that's a real oil derrick his elbow is resting upon.

Then right in the middle of Tulsa on Route 66 there's a former muffler man turned space voyager outside Buck Atom's Cosmic Curios. One day, there's going to be a blog post from me about muffler men. These things are icons of the American west road trip. I just need to see enough to write something meaningful (right now I'm at two).

Look, I get that there's nothing to do with these things except just look at them or walk into them a little bit (Blue Whale) and then turn around and walk out again. But this stuff is part of American roadtripping history. Before videogames or iPads or GPSes and whatever else occupies our time when on the open road or tells us where to go, these side of the road attractions were landmarks when traveling between Point A and sometimes very distant Point B. They matter.

So admittedly not everything that we encountered in Oklahoma was wonderful. It never is when we travel. There's always something, it seems. Our something in Oklahoma had nothing to do with the people that we met or what happened to us while we were there. It had to do with the place's history. Tulsa is the site of one of the worst race riots in the history of the United States. And considering our country's history with race riots, that's saying a lot.

Oklahoma was settled effectively by sanctioned land grabbing. I'm dumbing this down a lot but the state was opened up to settlement on a first come, first served basis for anyone who wanted to plant a flag in a plot of land and farm it. There was literally a single start time where settlers lined up at a sort of starting line and rushed to get their land once the gun went off. Sure, some jumped the event by a day or so (the "Sooners") but the starting line thing is basically how it worked. Or at least that's how I understand it. I am sure I am way, way off.

Not all the land in what would become the State of Oklahoma (state number 46, in case you were wondering...) was desirable. So when it came time to welcome resettled native Americans and freed former slaves into the state, the leftover, less desirable land got given to those groups. Only it turned out to be not so undesirable because the powers that be had actually conveyed oil rich lands into the hands of those they meant to really not give anything valuable to. 

Oil led to wealth, and failing to find white businesses to take their money (every time we find out about segregation in this country, it's so disappointing, stupid and shortsighted), the black oil-rich landowners built their own business community which thrived better than most other places in the State of Oklahoma and really likely most places in the United States.

Then in 1921, a misunderstanding, a few lies and rumors and a whole lot of white jealousy and hate exploded into the wholesale destruction of the neighborhood that had been built in the Greenwood section of Tulsa, along with some out and out murders and really no consequences faced for those that started or participated in all the crimes committed against the city's black residents that day and night. It continues to amaze me how people can unleash this kind of violence on fellow people because their skin is a different color. 

The whole ordeal, including the events and conditions leading up to the riot and the completely unsatisfying aftermath, is documented in the pretty new Greenwood Rising Museum. Stroll around outside before or after your visit and read the plaques in the sidewalk detailing all of what used to be there and was never rebuilt. It's important we not forget these things.

And I thought there was nothing to do in Oklahoma. No reason to visit. Wrong! Wrong! And wrong! Oklahoma gave a good accounting for itself. It was worth saving until last, even if that wasn't my intention in any way.

The Blue Whale of Catoosa. A Route 66 classic since 1972.

But my most vivid memory of Oklahoma is also my worst memory of Oklahoma. 

On our first full day in the state, we took a drive from Tulsa to Pawhuska to do all things Pioneer Woman and maybe a couple of other things prairie-like for the day. Our route out there took us from Oklahoma State Routes 75 and 11, passing small town after small town on the way to a town about the same size as all those we passed. At one point on our drive, we encountered a detour that wasn't on Google Maps. No issue, it was simple enough to drive around. As we detoured, we rubbernecked a bit and tried to see what was going on. We ultimately passed by supposing that the center of town was off limits for some Memorial Day weekend event and we kept going to Pawhuska.

While in Pawhuska, we learned that a town named Barnsdall nearby had been hit by a tornado just the previous week. The stories sounded heartbreaking. An octogenarian who refused to leave town found 2-1/2 miles from the town courtesy of the tornado. A four year old who walked away without a scratch while both his parents were in the ICU and not yet conscious. Homes wiped out leaving survivors with nothing. We wondered if Barnsdall was the town with the detour and that it was not some celebration that was causing the re-routing of traffic, but the scene of a natural disaster. 

Sure enough, on our way back down Route 11, we passed by Barnsdall with an unexpected detour. From the west side of town you wouldn't have known anything was amiss and when we passed along the south perimeter, we could see a tree or two downed.

But when we came around the east side of town, we saw what had happened. We came across downed trees at first and seconds later noticed an entire swath of wooded area with trees that were stripped bare. There was not a single leaf or any small branch of these things, just trunks and substantial limbs completely denuded. Behind the trees, clearly visible, was a hill of shattered and shredded building materials. Anything and everything that can be used to make a house just in an untidy pile and not suitable for any sort of reuse. We had driven right by all this on the way to Pawhuska and hadn't noticed any of this.

The worst was beyond the naked trees: an entire section of town gone. That mountain of building materials? What used to be people's homes on what now were just empty lots. There was nothing except a masonry church. Everything else was gone. The devastation and precision with which this funnelcloud took from the families who used to live there was shocking and jarring. I've seen news footage of the type of destruction that can be caused by a tornado. It's way worse in real life. What are these survivors supposed to do? Mother Nature is still the boss, no matter how much we think we own this planet. It's a heck of a memory to leave Oklahoma with but at least I got to go home. My heart goes out to that town. Chilling.

No pictures of this one. Didn't think it was appropriate. But there is plenty of footage of the aftermath on the internet. I'll leave it to you to search for it. Tulsa and every part of Oklahoma we visited was amazing. Barnsdall is my most lasting memory. Sometimes when we travel we find things that we don't expect. It's all worth it, even if it's sometimes heartbreaking.

Foreshadowing. Not Oklahoma. Seen at the Kansas City airport.