Category: Eric

Back In The Day

Last Sunday, Bill Morris in the New York Times added to the recent meme that college athletics are “out of control” and need to be reigned in. To illustrate his point he profiles the new-ish tradition at Duke University where students camp out, now months in advance, to insure entrance to the Big Game of the year: Duke vs. UNC men’s basketball. While I agree in some part that college administrations sometimes direct athletics un-due attention and resources that are probably contrary to their founding missions as academic institutions, I also cherish the act of cheering for one’s college team as a form of pure and benign community building. And I think that Morris has latched onto the wrong symbol of collegiate athletic access when he speaks of “Krzyzyewskiville.” Then again, I may be biased because I was there, in line, at the beginning.

I arrive at Duke in the fall of 1982, and I distinctly remember our freshman orientation guide, a junior with spiky blond hair, asking our group if we followed college basketball. All ten of us looked around and then shook our heads. He smiled and said, “a year from now you will be big fans.” Frankly I was most looking forward to the ACC football season as our family were big Ohio State football fans, so I had watched many Big Ten football games growing up and finally wanted to see a college game in person. I didn’t even know if Ohio State had a basketball team, though Dad had mentioned once or twice that John Havlicek of our beloved Boston Celtics had played for Ohio State.
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Two Guys Traveling

Eric in New York City
Brian and Natasza in Belize

Eric and Brian went traveling and made the mistake of sending me emails with pictures. I thought the juxtaposition was great, so I threw them up here. Brian is still out there, so if he sends me any more stuff, I’ll add it.

Swut im tawkinuhbout… 1.14 3.06
Every time I visit Bennett Midland I get a new seat (the *empty* one), and thus a new view. Today the peak of the New York Life building burns through the mist. 1.15 5.32a
Takin’ it Belizey

Tight connexion to Belize flight in DFW turned into 30-min “security check” delay (which was originally called a “cleaning delay” when it looked like it would only be 10 min). This carried over to our arrival in Belize 30-min late, giving us one hour to get our bags, clear customs, & drive 30 minto th last water taxi to Caye Caulker, where we had prepaid for our hotel & needed 2 b at 8:30 tomorrow morning to catch our 3-day sailing trip. It was quite likely that the 30 min delay was going to screw up our first 3 days in Belize. Well, as u can c by th photo, we made it to th water taxi (of course nothing here happens on time) escorted by our warm, cheerful taxi driver Solano who didn’t even have to speed. It would’ve been completely out of character for th place (although th water taxi threw up a righteous rooster tail for 45 min straight). Got a golf-cart taxi from the pier to th hotel and was greeted by proprietor Rob, a US transplant about my age with th permanent spacey smile of one who makes a good living hanging out in a tropical Eden. We decompressed for a minute in our rustic room before changing into flip-flops & parrot-head shirts and ambling down one of the islands three dirt roads to find a grilled fish.

Quest for fish

If yer looking for a grilled fish big enough for two that was minding its own business on a tropical reef this morning, walk ~4 blocks thru th salty, steady sea breeze down th main drag of th island (see below) & turn right across from th pier. U may decide to stop along th way at one of several mom & pop stores for some bottled water that is sold at a refreshingly sane price (50¢ for a half-liter) in a place where a) u can’t drink tap water & b) there’s absolutely nowhere else to buy clean water. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Continue reading “Two Guys Traveling” →

He Stopped

Dr. Costan W. Berard 1932 – 2013

In Central Africa — I learned this when I traveled to Uganda for the NIH — the Bantu people have a saying when a person passes away. They don’t say “he died,” or “he is dead.” They say “he stopped.” — Cos Berard

If he had been born in his father’s home town of Monteferrante — a little mountain village high above the Adriatic coast of Italy — his birth certificate would have read “Costantino Berardinelli” just like his dad. Instead, “Costan Berard” was born in Cranston, NJ, just outside of Newark, the last of four children. His mother, Frances Coma (changed to “Comer” when her family arrived in the US), was widowed when Cos was only three years old, and after that she was busy running the family lumberyard business and Cos was raised by his sister Claire. The family knew him as J.R. (and the “Uncle June” similarities don’t stop there…)
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