It's hard to put in words how exceptionally hard linoleum is. Especially when you are lying on it and wondering if pinning two blankets together instead of bringing a real sleeping bag was the best plan on this cub scout outing to Des Moines. Yes, we were on a trip to Des Moines from Cedar Falls, pack 49, all in blue, complete with yellow neck scarves. And we were awarded with a large room to camp out in in the Red Horse Armory on Harding Road. The only thing was those linoleum floors. Clean, shiny, linoleum tile. Yes. Very hard. But sleep eventually finds you, sleeping bag or not.
We were coming to Des Moines to see the Iowa State Capitol Building. We were going to climb every one of the hundreds of steps that led to the very top of the gold dome. And we did just that, the next day. We climbed and climbed. We climbed up above the house and Senate Chambers. We climbed past old frescoes and paintings. We got into a kind of chamber above everything and kept climbing. Finally we got to a viewing area where you could see out all over Des Moines. There was a higher, outside viewing area, but they didn't let people up there any more. That was a disappointment, but as kids, you just go with it. Whatever the big people say, that's the way it is.
I wasn't much of a scout. I guess I was okay as a cub scout, and even ended up as a Webelo, the meaning of which I've lost forever. I just know it was some kind of status just before you became a real boy scout. I washed out of the boy scout path right at that point, basically because I never could get the knots down. You had to learn to tie the knots in order to become a real boy scout. And somehow I let that be my obstacle.
I can just see myself at the door of heaven and St. Peter and Isaac Bashevis Singer are standing there trying to decide whether to let me in. St. Peter looks at my record and says, "But how come you never accomplished more with your life?" And when I mention that I really never learned my knots, they nod to each other sympathetically, say, "Yes, how sad, how sad," and then admit me to some lower, kitchen-staff portion of demi-heaven.
But really, there's no future in knots. Or any past, either. One guy came up with the greatest knot in the world, called it the Gordian knot, just for effect, and then along came this Alexander the Great joker who pulled out his sword, cut the whole thing in half, and then got famous instead of the knot guy. It's like slam dunking better than Michael Jordan, but with a ladder. On the other hand, it was a good joke. But why don't they just call him Alex the Great Comic?
Anyway, knots or no knots, we made it to the top of the Capitol building, climbed down, got back in cars and drove back to Cedar Falls, the proud conquerors of the Iowa State Capitol Building steps. It's something big when you're nine years old and live in a town of about twenty thousand to trek to your state capitol, get the overview, and come home wiser and experientially broadened.
But a few years later, when I moved to Des Moines, I mentioned to my new eleven and twelve year old friends that I had climbed the State Capitol Building and they gave me a blank stare. "What building? Oh, that. Nah, never been there." It was a shock to know that people could live so close to something that I had travelled hundreds of miles to see, and they had never even gone over.
But this is the situation all over the world. When you live somewhere, you don't visit it. The public monuments and beautiful areas of the world are really owned by the tourists. The only thing that gets the real residents of the area out to see the stuff is children or relatives. When you have kids you all of a sudden become excited to show them the wonders of the world around them, and you find yourself doing things and going places that you definitely wouldn't think of on your own.
Then there's relatives. And out of town friends. To completely understand how relatives and friends affect local consumption of local delights, you have to live in Orange County, near Disneyland. When your father comes, you take him to Disneyland. When your nephew comes through town on a tennis tour, you take him to Disneyland. When your old high school girlfriend and her new beau show up, you take them to Disneyland. When your mother comes to visit, you take her to Disneyland, too, which is not so bad because she walks with a cane and you get to put her in a wheelchair and go to the front of all the lines. That saves hours. But you get to the point where you don't actually want to hear the tiki birds sing anymore.
Otherwise, you don't visit things where you are. Let's say you live in Laguna Beach, California, a quarter mile from the ocean. You have to remind yourself constantly, "Hey, this is a beach town, I should go to the ocean." But you rarely do. The only way to make sure that you go to the ocean enough is to live right on the beach. And if you have enough money to do that, you're probably reading the reviews of your latest movie, not this book.
But I make an effort. I like to go to the local attractions, wherever I live, and see why they are special. But when I go to another country, I get contrarian. I don't want to go to the museums. I don't want to see the sights. I want to sit in a cafe where the local people eat. I want to shop where they shop. I want to feel the breath and the life in that area. And the locals don't go to the monuments. Unless they are trying to sell stuff to you.
Which is why I hated travelling to Mexico. We were so obviously gringo. We were staying at the Holiday Inn in Mazatlan. And not only were there desperate looking people on the beach trying to sell us stuff, my wife at the time kept calling them over so that we had to haggle instead of just being at peace on a beautiful beach.
It's better to visit Des Moines. Where you can fit in locally, or go climb a monument, depending on your mood. And in Des Moines, you can drink the water. But I wouldn't recommend the linoleum.