Alpha to Omani

Kayne and I are eating our way around the world, alphabetically.

And slowly.

We started almost three years ago in Argentina. From there it was on to Burma, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and so on. The process has been instructive, in terms of cuisine -- we learned, for example, that it’s risky to be a cow in Argentina, or a chicken in Peru -- and not particularly expensive, since we don’t actually go to any of the countries involved.

That’s one of the benefits of living near the Big Apple Pie.

For example, Germany was a relatively easy drive to the Zum Stammtisch in Glendale, Queens. (Kassler rippchen, bratwurst und leberkase mitt sauerkraut. Yum!) Ethiopia? LIRR to Penn Station, walk to the Queen of Sheba on 10th Avenue. (Assorted meat stews and vegetable mushes, basically, scooped up with spongy bread. Better than it sounds!)

We did burn some miles for Lebanon and Morocco, both of which we sampled while on vacation last year in Vancouver. The food was pretty interchangeable, as was the belly dancer above, who appeared at both restaurants.

I’m not complaining. I love Middle Eastern food. And, given the right belly ...

A highly flexible rule is that we aim for less-familiar cuisines when possible: Filipino, not French; Tibetan, not Thai. Over all, there have been more hits than misses. At the top: Burma, at Village Mingala in the East Village.

There have also been some cases of what even a generous soul might be inclined to refer to as “cheating.” For “O,” we ate “Oriental,” on Chinese New Year. (Hey, Omani restaurants aren’t as easy to come by as you might think, even in New York.)

Most recently, we fudged some more on “Q,” with a single dish called poutine that originated in Quebec. (French fries with cheese curd, smothered in chicken gravy. Let me just say that Filipino, long at the bottom of my list, has edged up one notch.)

But at least now we can move on to hit Russia in Brooklyn, followed by a few relatively simple to find countries scattered around the vicinity.

And though “X” was looming as a potential stumper, a friend, in the spirit of further cheating, has recommended Xunta, a tapas restaurant in the Village. Onward to the former Yugoslavia, or Yemen! Zambia, or Zimbabwe!

But I will not eat zebra.

Ever Endeavour

My house is full of books, most of which I’ll never read. Some were gifts that didn’t match my tastes but I can’t bring myself to toss. Others I know I should read, but don’t.

But there’s only one I bought with the specific intention never to read.

The title is "The Remorseful Day." The author is Colin Dexter; the protagonist is Inspector Morse. Chief Inspector Morse. Fans of the PBS television series “Mystery” may be familiar with Morse. This is him in a nutshell: Thames Valley, England, police official; brilliant and enigmatic; devotee of classical music, crossword puzzles and a well-pulled pint; chronic failure with women; thorn in the side for superiors; mentor and tormentor to junior partner, Sergeant Lewis (seen with him above); grumpy.

Endearing.

I got the chance to interview Dexter in 1993, while he was on a book tour in England for the paperback edition of his 10th book, “The Way Through the Woods.” I asked if he had lots of other Morse tales up his sleeve.

“Certainly not,” he said. “I have to struggle to get any ideas at all.’’ But, he added, “I know if I start, something will come.’’

Dexter added three novels. The last one I read, “Death Is Now My Neighbor,’’ revealed a long, jealously protected secret, the chief inspector’s first name: Endeavour.

A revelation of that nature should have been a clue to what lay ahead.

There’s precedent for authors killing off their detective creations, most famously Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s dispatching of Sherlock Holmes. The public was outraged, and so Doyle brought him back. Holmes lived on to retire and keep bees in Sussex, where for all we know he still is.

Dexter rejected any such riding-into-the-sunset.

“Morse never would have lasted in retirement,’’ he told an interviewer in 1999. “He had no lawn to mow. He would have gone spare. No, it’s better this way.’’

Better for Dexter, perhaps, whose health, I gather, has not been the best and on whom the writing came to take a physical toll. Not better for those of us who dearly miss the good, grumpy inspector.

To Have and To Hold

Kayne wanted a travel adventure. I wanted a handsome, suitable-for-framing marriage certificate to display proudly and invite envy.

So we decided on a destination wedding for our nuptials in 1998.

An anglophile, I liked the idea of Britain. I figured a place displaying such pomp would be able to serve up a pretty nifty marriage certificate, too. One with a handsome likeness of the queen, perhaps, and a regal golden seal. Maybe even a knight in armor, or appropriate heraldry. With printing and wording along the lines of Magna Carta:

"Joe, by the grace of God, born of Mississippi, and Kayne, helpmeet and co-equal, do hereby and forthwith..." etc., etc.

We settled on Scotland, which has no pesky residency requirement, opting for a civil ceremony in Edinburgh. A fax to the register office announced our intentions, and we set about collecting the required documents and forwarding the paperwork.

It wasn't simple. We had trouble downloading the forms. We had trouble understanding why some of the information - like our parents' occupations - was required. But we managed, and forwarded it all, including birth certificates to attest that we were at least legal age, 16.

After several weeks, the office informed us that we had an appointment for a wedding at 1 p.m. on our requested date. We flew to Glasgow, rented a car, and drove to Edinburgh. The next day a taxi took us from our hotel to the office for the ceremony.

The wedding party was small. The wedding party was us two.

That, the registrar reminded me, was at least two people short. We needed witnesses. I was about to step into the street in search of a pair of strangers, wondering what might be the proper approach:

“Excuse me, witness my wedding? Buy you a pint!”

Luckily, the registrar spotted another couple who had stopped by the office to fill out forms for their own coming wedding. And so J.M. Blues and S. Mouat of Drumdryan Street, Edinburgh, became part of our official record.

After the ceremony, a decidedly unromantic affair, Kayne and I headed for the nearest pub, the Bow Bar. At about that point the wedding segued into honeymoon trip, with later visits to St. Andrews, Aberdeen, Stirling, Glasgow, and with friends near Loch Lomond.

A successful mission, from my wife's travel adventure perspective.

Unfortunately for me, the marriage certificate did not live up to my hopes. I had traveled thousands of miles for a piece of paper about as impressive as a car title: a washed-out, mint green sheet with a swirling background of cream lettering that repeats Registrar General of Births Deaths and Marriages for Scotland. (Somehow, the word "death" seems to pop up more than any of the others.)

A dimly produced Scottish thistle topped by a crown doesn't add much luster. And all the pertinent information is typed, in a font reminiscent of a term paper.

In aesthetic terms, our friends Glenn and Nancy did much better a few months later, with a ketubah evoking the Garden of Eden, as pictured above. It has lavender butterflies, blue and green pansies, two peacocks in full and colorful display, a lyre and other colorful, if hard to recognize, adornments. Their commitment to each other is spelled out using words like “cherish” and “honor” and “faithfulness” and “integrity."

They solemnized it before their lovely and moving wedding ceremony - on the backyard deck of friends in Nashville. A rollicking celebration followed.

We keep our certificate in a file folder along with old tax forms, bank statements and car insurance policies. Glenn and Nancy's ketubah is proudly displayed on a wall and invites envy.

Especially mine.

Headed for a Fall

Spring is supposed to be the season of renewal, and maybe it is for Planet Earth, but for Planet Joe, it’s fall.

That’s because decades after I last stepped into a classroom, internally I still function on a school calendar. Fall always offered a fresh start, no matter what complications the previous school year had brought.

New clothes, because I’d outgrown the ones I got last year. (My early sartorial models were Timmy on “Lassie” and Opie Taylor, which meant blue jeans and high-top Keds.)

New notebooks, rulers, protractors, compasses, pencils. (I was a big believer in the proper tools of the trade. Major advance: the authorization of ballpoints in the fourth grade.)

A new teacher, or set of teachers, who could help make or break a year. (Which is why fifth grade sucked.)

New subjects and challenges. (I recall wondering whether I could master cursive writing. The answer: not really.)

New textbooks, or at least unfamiliar ones, to be diligently enclosed in manila covers for protection. (Turning the covers inside-out allowed for personalized lettering and artwork.)

New classmates, to offset the ones who had moved away. (Growing up in a paper mill town, the transfer of parents helped provide both.) And reconnecting with others you hadn’t seen all summer, because they lived across town or didn’t play baseball.

A new season of high school football. (Perhaps the highest level of football that can be played with true integrity.)

Of course, none of those new starts apply directly for me now, one reason why each year tends to blur into the next with little distinction.

But I still find myself, in the August heat, straining to detect traces of the coming cooler, drier days. I try to imagine the smell of burning leaves, the feel of the approaching crisp evenings.

And I think: Fall sure comes a lot faster than it used to.

Erin Go? Not

I heard Kayne say my name in that drawn-out, questioning tone that, in my experience, never precedes good news:

JOOOOOOEEEEEEE....?

Uh-oh, I thought.

We were five days away from boarding a KLM flight to Dublin. For a week we would explore the Emerald Isle, or such parts as we could get to.

Pubs! The Guinness brewery! Jameson distillery! More pubs!

And of course many cultural, historic and artistic sites. I hear Ireland has them, too.

But then Kayne came into the room, peering closely at something in her hands. A book? Blue, it appeared. My brain ran through the possibilities, and quickly got a hit:

Passport.

Uh-oh.

I like to think of myself as a reasonably seasoned traveler. I do my homework, search for the best fares, investigate suitable lodging, check the weather forecast, take notes on attractions, collect tips from people who have been to my destination before.

Lacking, in this case, was due diligence to the little document that, if you are leaving the country, pretty much trumps everything else in terms of importance. I last renewed in February 1999. Which meant that it expired ... in February 2009. Six months ago, almost to the day.

Kayne, bless her, uttered not one word of reproach, but I had plenty for myself. Efforts to schedule an emergency renewal appointment went for naught. The passport officials, while polite, did not feel obliged to let me butt in line.

So we started trying to formulate fallback travel plans - domestic, obviously. Maybe something within driving distance, even, for three or four days. Upstate New York, say.. Or ... uh ...

Every possibility seemed to me likely to suffer from the comparison: We’re here, when we could have been in Ireland?

Which is why, as I write this, Kayne is on that KLM flight to Dublin. I don’t mind paying for my mistakes. But I can’t let the innocent be punished.

She gets back next week. I look forward to seeing the pictures.

The Test and the Brightest

My job used to afford lots of empty time in the post-midnight hours that required filling, and one early morning my mind found itself attracted to one of those online IQ tests that seem to be everywhere.

So I took it.

And thought, when I looked at the result, I’m smarter than that.

I don’t claim to be an Einstein. I started running into people smarter than I am quite early in life, and the trend has not abated. But still, to have ranked in the IQ vicinity of one of our less-celebrated presidents (according to information thoughtfully provided by the test makers) rankled me. So I looked for a different test, and took it, too.

And scored exactly the same.

Which led to my finding another test, and taking it.

And scoring about 20 points lower.

All right. That last one I attributed to mental fatigue. Testing experts probably would not recommend back-to-back-to-back efforts when your mind has already been taxed by a full day of work and the midnight drowsies and such. Furthermore, I thought, who’s to say that these pop-psychology quizzes of the type that show up online have any real validity, preying as they do on the bored and vain. So I decided to put the test to the test, so to speak.

A few days later, I persuaded my wife to take the first one that I’d taken.

I will not reveal the results. But a word of advice to any fellow husband who might ever be tempted to match brainpower with his wife:

It’s not a smart idea.

Here, There and Everywhere

Cato patiently awaits a decision about what to do with his earthly remains.

My plan had always been to bury him next to his “brother” Clouseau, beneath the day lilies in the side flowerbed. I had a wooden “casket” picked out and the burial shroud - an old, hooded gray sweatshirt of mine. (Clouseau is in a navy blue one.)

But then, on impulse, I had Cato cremated. Ironic, in a sense: After all the time and effort we spent almost every day in his final months to hydrate him, he is now the ultimate in dehydration.

Just as I expect to be someday.

I have plans for the disposal of my own ashes which involve a final trip to my hometown for repose in a place I will not publicly reveal, lest it not be strictly legal. Let’s just say it will be a rare immersion for Joe in water.

A friend with cremation plans wants his ashes divvied up among his best mates, with instructions to disperse them in the place that each identifies most with him. If I should be one of those so entrusted, I will have to find a way to deposit him in the vicinity of what used to be a pool hall on Nolensville Road in Nashville. A private ceremonial scattering in the parking lot, perhaps, with appropriate wording like, “You beat me again, Ed.”

Cato’s ashes could still be buried beneath the flowers, with appropriate ceremony. And I was somewhere between aghast and amused when I saw some of the storage alternatives, including the Buddha cat urn above. But a little research turned up some more palatable choices, and now I‘m reconsidering.

After all, 20 years as the World’s Sweetest (and Sometimes Loudest) Cat certainly earned Cato a permanent spot around the place.