Different Slants

© October, 2008

(# 3 of 4 chapters)  

My last day in Wales had a very full agenda, so I was up at 6 am, ready for double-barreled tourism.

I filled my gas tank, loaded in some road food and set out for adventure.  My first objective was Caerphilly Castle, about twelve kilometers west of Cardiff.  I had read about it, imagined it, and even seen some pictures of it. But it turned out to be cooler than any other castle I’d ever been in before. 

Before includes Denmark, Sweden, Germany, France and William Randolph Hearst’s (stolen from Europe) vast San Simeon Castle in California.  Since seeing Caerphilly, I can add The Czech Republic’s Prague Castle to that list, too.  With the herds of beautiful women floating all around Prague like gazelles, I’m amazed I even noticed the somber castle. But, I did. And Wales still trumps them all.

 

No, I haven’t seen every castle in those countries, and the ones I did see were big and impressive, especially sailing north up the Rhine River.  But after a while, you can get “castled” out.  A kind of sensory overkill, with yet another vast pile of chiseled stone and hand carved everything inside of it.

After a while, I was able to accurately follow the many twists and turns on my intense Welsh road map, which eventually led me to the drab little town of Caerphilly.  The town seemed to me to be a post-industrial kind of place where the local coal mines finally ran out of extractable coal and the local economy reflected the hard times that followed after that.  I was initially disappointed, as I slowly drove through the grey and empty streets trying to find some sign that would tell me where the castle was.

But that didn’t take long, and I quickly understood why the town would do nothing to slow down travelers seeking their claim to fame.  A couple turns here and there, and…Damn!

I was inside of a Disney movie!

The castle stands alone, surrounded by a moat.  It has a drawbridge and four massive, round, tower-like structures at each corner.  It’s not the largest of its kind I’ve ever seen, but there is a kind of majesty to it that the others just didn’t have.  They were all very nice museums of former royalty, but this was a CASTLE.

As a kid, I played with my little plastic armies of mounted knights in shining armor, as well as cowboys, Indians and World War II soldiers, sometimes all taking part in the same battle.  In my imagination, all the wars I waged on my South Side of Chicago basement floor were equal opportunity conflicts, and neither time nor technology were barriers to my assorted armies from different centuries.  

 

So, while sometimes this meant a medieval knight was blasted off his horse by a bazooka shell, it also meant that about as often, the uniformly green-colored plastic United States Army soldiers were crushed under pounding hooves of massive English battle horses or speared by the knights, too.  Sometimes, the Sioux Indians would join in with the knights in battle, so that meant modern American soldiers were shot by the deadly arrows of 19^th century whooping braves, riding bareback on their swift ponies, as well.  

My basement was a very dangerous place to be a plastic military man of any century.  There were endless negotiations between the different armies, and frequently personality conflicts among the respective leaders, preventing alliances.  No matter what, everything inevitably led to war, over and over and over.  Sigh…

So, given a childhood filled with a lushly vivid imaginings of such unlikely happenings, and a steadily increasing self-taught knowledge of real historical battles fought by actual armies all over the fields of Europe, the USA and ancient Asia by Persian, Greek, Roman, Viking, English, French, German and American armies and navies, my encountering this wondrous and perfect castle was simply enchanting for me.

Even though there were no other tourists out as early as I was that particular morning, that only added to the sublime sense of “floating back through time” feeling, and it was no challenge adding sound effects in my mind to the (imaginary) intense siege that the valiant Welsh defenders inside of the castle were trying to survive, despite the overwhelming numbers of their English attackers.

I was eight years old again, on that lovely morning in South Wales, and the sense of delight at being able to experience those feelings with a real castle right in front of me, was delicious.

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I waited until the castle opened, and after rummaging through the assorted treasures of Caerphilly’s neat gift shop, I quickly went from exhibit to exhibit, learning that a wealthy man made a decision in the mid-nineteen century to reconstruct what had been an old ruin, and was single-handedly the reason for its resurrection  One determined person can really make a difference and influence the lives of countless other persons.  

But readers, I saved the best part of my story about that castle for last.  Sometime in the last 150 years, one of the giant rounded towers on one of the four corners had begun to detach itself from the castle.  To see it is not to believe it.  The falling tower is suspended, with no visible means of support, at about a forty-five degree angle from the rest of the castle.

 

I know…so very American of me, rushing around like that.  But I did the best I could with the time and money I had available.  So far, it was a wonderful day.

It was time to push on.

After leaving the castle, I was somewhat confused about which road to take to get to that unique and remote Used-Bookstore town.  I wanted to drive to it as directly as possible, but not speed, because getting stopped by the local police would not get me there any faster and might be very expensive, too.  So I ambled along, from small town to small town, trying to aim north for that famous dot on my map, next to the Wye River. 

 

I am a very careful driver.  I never get traffic tickets, including parking tickets.  To me, running a stop sign or a red light is a sin.  A person could get killed if someone did something thoughtless like that.  So, yeah, I suppose I do drive like a little old lady.  But I don’t have any accidents and I pretty much get where I want to go, about when I intended to get there.  Planning helps. 

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But just like I was unaware of that big soccer event in Cardiff that made finding myself a place to sleep so difficult, I also missed a couple of details about driving in Britain when I was reading all my Guide-to-Wales books.  I had a nice full-color video, too, but that just showed me more pretty scenery.

 

The next town north of Caerphilly was Risca, then Crosskeys, Abercarn, Cwmcarn, Newbridge, Abertillery and Blaina, with eight more to go before I arrived at Hay.  Such romantic names.  I drove the speed limit, not a kilometer more, watching the picturesque towns flow by.  So, why were all those cars piled up behind me?

 

I was also a bit sleepy, after dreaming about beautiful horses running free and missing my wife and my three dogs to cuddle up to.  A lot of nocturnal galloping, but not much real sleep.  So, as my eyes drooped occasionally, I would drive too close to the curbs of the roads, sometimes hitting them, causing a sudden jolt to my car which immediately woke me up.

 

The roads were pretty narrow to begin with, and passing me was not possible, so there were some unhappy Welsh drivers behind me, honking sometimes, but nothing like blasts I’d be enduring in Chicago.  It was, uh, polite annoyance, I guess. 

 

By the time I rolled through Abertillery, I saw a couple of police cars up ahead of me, with a few policemen standing around. One of them waved me over to a side street on my left.  Immediately, a mass of cars shot by me through the town.  Surprisingly, the other police didn’t seem to notice how fast they were all going.  That was odd.  Maybe they didn’t have to write their certain quota of traffic tickets every day, as the thousands of Chicago cops (unofficially, of course) have to turn in each day, to help balance Chicago’s fiscal budget.      

 

The two cops standing closest to me were talking to each other and also into a walky/talky kind of a radio, while they were watching me.  They both walked over to where I was patiently sitting in my car, mostly concerned about how long this unexpected situation would take.  One of the two cops went on one side of the car and the other one came over to my window.  I looked at him.  Serious. Young.  With a look of concern on his face. So far, no one barked at me to stay in my car through a bull horn.  Nobody was writing anything on a ticket pad, either. 

 

I must be in a foreign country, Toto.

 

Then the cop standing by my window spoke to me for the first time:

 

“Sir, are you alright?  Have you been drinking?”

 

I replied to him, mystified: Yes and No.

 

“Well then, are you taking any medications that might impair your ability to drive?”

 

I responded, hesitantly, unsure what to say…or what not to say.

 

“Um…Officer…I take many prescriptions—should I call you Officer?–so I can’t drink any alcohol at all, but none of them have any effect on me, as far as becoming drowsy goes.” 

      

He made a note in a small notebook he was carrying.  He was writing with this little stub of a pencil. He was not in any hurry.  More cars whizzed by us, going north.  Then more questions, as he appeared to be reading something else already written on that little notebook’s page.

 

“How was your driver’s side car door damaged that way?”

 

I thought to myself…driver’s side door…driver’s side door…which side is that?  Oh, yeah!  Right side.

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I, of course, remembered exactly how it happened, and answered the polite cop, slowly, but kind of concerned too, because from the many European films I’d seen over the decades, a friendly, urbane, soft-spoken but extremely observant British or Continental policeman was no less effective in getting their man, eventually.

 

This polite cop was speaking to me like I was possibly late returning a library book, except he wasn’t quite sure about it…yet.  I wasn’t nervous, but he knew more than he was telling me.  I sensed it.  But then, over the years I’ve talked to a lot of cops—some voluntarily, some not.

 

“Officer, I went by the Three Cliffs historic park yesterday—you know, where all those beautiful horses run free…?”

 

The young cop smiled at that comment, and I continued,

 

“Anyway, I am brand new at driving a car over here and I haven’t gotten the hang of it yet, driving on the right side, I mean.  But my insurance will cover it, from American Express.”

 

He wasn’t really interested in the damage, I could see.  More like, just generally curious about me, like I was some kind of imported insect.  He went on.  So did all those other cars.

 

“So…you’re not drinking…no prescription problems…can I see your license and passport please?”

 

Except for the present situation, I was fascinated by all this.  In America, the first thing cops ask for, is your ID.  There is generally a presumption of guilt.  They speak to you like you just escaped from someplace, and they caught you.  They want your hands to be visible, at all times.  The fact that you aren’t already in a jail is, unfortunately for society, assumed to be some oversight on the part of, most likely, a do-gooder liberal judge.  God damn liberals….

 

My polite Welsh cop was carefully looking over my passport and license, to see if they matched up, probably.  Then he smiled, looking at me.

 

“Chicago?  I have a cousin in Chicago.  Do you like the White Sox or the Cubs?”

 

Surprised at the question, especially expressed in the center of a tiny town in Wales, eight thousand miles from our two local baseball teams, both of whom I never, ever cared to see play ball.  How do I answer that question?  Sox?  Cubs?

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In Chicago, the wrong answer on the wrong side of town could have serious physical consequences.  What side of town was I on here?  I decided to punt.

 

“Well, Officer…who does your cousin like?”

 

Officer Friendly told me he had no clue, and that his cousin worked in an American pub someplace near Chicago known as Wrigleyville.  Moving on, he peered at me, more closely,

 

 

He continued,

 

Those other police departments, in the towns you passed through, called us to watch out for a rental car with a single occupant and with scratches on the driver’s side door.  You were the first person to exactly match that description.  You haven’t actually broken any laws. 

 

Are you sleepy?

 

Seizing the moment, I nodded and answered,

 

“Well, maybe…a little.  Y’know, jet lag can do that…”

 

He responded, in a sympathetic voice, telling me to go to this local pub and get myself a hot cup of coffee.  Maybe it would help me cope with my tiredness.  I was thinking that this guy missed his calling, that he was perfect for the priesthood.  Then we shook hands—just try and touch a cop in Chicago!—and he waved to his partner to come with him, whom, all this time, was watching me from the other side of my car.  He could see everything I was doing from his perspective, especially my hands, or if there were any beer cans crumpled up on the car’s floor.  Standard procedure and perfectly executed, without a word from him. 

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Culture shock, for me.

 

I waved goodbye and drove to where he told me to get coffee.  Nice people in there, too.  I decided not to bother to bring up the fact I didn’t drink coffee.  Didn’t seem to be the prime moment to volunteer something like that.  I used a lot of cream and sugar.  It was ok, I thought, as I slowly drove away.  Not bad at all.

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 So, I went on my way toward the next town, Blaina, not too far from Abertillery, and to my surprise, there were some more cops waiting for me.  No cars behind me this time.  One cop approached my car and looked in at me.

 

“Are you ok then, sir?  The men from the other town asked me to see if you were feeling better.  Are you?”

 

This was another universe of law enforcement, man.

 

I thanked him and said yes, sir. And that the coffee in Abertillery was very good.  I took for granted he knew which pub I went to.  Probably knew if I left a tip or not.  And my address in Chicago, too.  I smiled at him.

 

“Okay then, Mr. Katzman,  be careful driving!” 

 

And he waved goodbye to me and walked back to the other cops.

 

Of course he knew my name.

 

Ebbw Vale and Nantygld, same reception committee—this was fucking amazing—wasn’t there any crime in Wales to keep all these guys busy?  How many police departments knew about me, at that point?

 

But in Bryn Mawr, there were cars behind me, impatient, annoyed at my slowness.  I was driving thirty kilometers an hour, the posted limit.

 

An older cop there waved me over, again, and asked me why I drove so slowly, like I was a welcome brother-in-law or something.  Not accusing, not irritated, just casual conversation over the fence in our backyards.

 

“Well, officer, I felt I was doing the right thing in your country by sticking to the speed limit, meaning thirty kilometers an hour.  But everyone seems to be going faster, so I don’t know what else to do.”

 

He smiled broadly. 

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Mystery solved? 

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Why was he smiling? 

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He told me he’d be right back and then he walked over to the rest of the welcoming committee, including some people not in uniform.  He said something to them while pointing to me.  Everybody smiled.  Some people laughed.  One woman put her hands over her mouth, like she was amazed.  I felt left out.

 

Then the older cop, grey hair, bushy grey mustache, ambled back over to my window.  Now I would get to hear the joke, too.  How nice.

 

“Young man, it’s miles, here.  Miles.”

 

I looked at him, stunned.

 

“Miles? 

 

Not kilometers?”

 

He was chuckling to himself, amused by the clueless American tourist, who was unwittingly antagonizing everyone who had the misfortune to become stuck behind him on the rural Welsh secondary roads.

 

 “Miles, son, “he continued.  Everyplace, miles. 

 

In France it’s kilometers, but never here. 

 

Get along now, and try to drive a little faster. 

 

It’ll be good for international relations, too.” 

 

I realized that I had just become part of Welsh lore, like the Headless Horseman, but funnier. That old cop would now become famous, in all the little towns I’d been in and was still going through, on my way to Hay-on-Wye this afternoon. 

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He, after all, had solved the: Great ‘Tourist Driving Like A Damn Snail’ Mystery.

 

He’ll be riding on the head float in the Christmas Parade this year, I bet. 

 

I drove away, waving, smiling, but I drove away quicker this time, too.  My driving at a strict speed of thirty kilometers an hour was equivalent to creeping along the Welsh highways at 21 miles per hour.

 

In the next two towns to come, Gilwern, Crickhowell, there were still little clusters of cops waiting for the American Joke to sail by, but they were all smiling and waved.  No one asked me to pull over.

 

Miles, he said. 

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Miles, not kilometers.

 

Hysterical.

 

But it would not be so funny in Talgarth, a market town farther up ahead of me, as I drove through the deeply blue/green Black Mountains which rose up on either side of me, dotted with white sheep.

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Very serious scenery.

 

Somewhere between Talgarth and Three Cocks, another town, I had the accident.  It happened so fast.  Good thing I was insured by American Express.  There would be yet another Welsh cop waiting for me, in my future. But he, however, didn’t seem to feel like smiling very much.

 

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All that will be in the 4^th and final part of,

The Compassionate Cops of Wales, soon.

 

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                                              About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.