Category Archives: Wednesday Blog

Ghosts in the Wind, Part 1

Ghosts in the Wind, Part 1 Wednesday Blog by Seán Thomas Kane

This week I'm beginning the three part Season 2 finale titled "Ghosts in the Wind" which follows the astrobiologist Dr. Olivia Stephens in the year 2055 as she tracks down traces of past life on Mars. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

All of the images used in this story were generated by Open AI’s DALL-E 2 software. For more information see: https://openai.com/product/dall-e-2.


Act 1

            Olivia had always preferred to read over watching TV or movies, her whole life a book worm, yet here on board the Opportunity she found reading wove itself the smoothest into the routines aboard and the constant hum of all the computers and machinery that were central to their mission. Opportunity had made the six month outbound voyage three times now, yet each trip was a daunting challenge, the crew all settled their affairs before boarding in case they never returned. Olivia had a tearful goodbye with her parents and siblings the day she entered quarantine to prepare for the mission. It was a moment which had rested in her memory for the last four months as they continued ever further from home into the dark unknown.

            Opportunity III was a mere relief mission, bringing new astronauts to replace the crew already stationed at Elysium Base, ending their three year mission out on Mars, the furthest of all human outposts in the Solar System. Still, every flight of Opportunity brought the same jitters for while the spacecraft had shuttled astronauts back and forth between Earth and Mars, the allied astronaut corps still had new astronauts allocated to the Mars missions. There were some prerequisites, among which they had to have served a shift at the Shackleton Crater Station on the Moon in the Artemis program, and they had to undergo extensive psychological screenings to ensure they would survive the four years in total they would spend away with Opportunity III. Olivia went to the Moon with Artemis XVI in 2052, a mission that seemed odd to some, considering her specialties in astrobiology and anthropology, yet she proved her merit in the station greenhouse and as a regular contributor to several Space related publications back on Earth with her “Life in the Cosmos” column. That same column was expected to continue throughout Opportunity‘s voyage, and while Olivia was on Mars, yet at this moment her own voyage was far from her mind.

            Reading allowed Olivia to forget her troubles in the present if only for a short while. She could imagine herself living in the stories she read, interacting with the characters, living in the places, and experiencing all these stories had to offer firsthand. She especially loved stories about exploration, from the great races to the South Pole of 150 years before to the biographies of mountaineers like Sir Edmund Hilary and the Artemis II astronauts who preceded her own first lunar mission 28 years previously. Whereas her crewmates had brought along playing cards, small musical instruments, and drives filled with movies to pass the voyage, Olivia brought a veritable library on her tablet, a near-endless supply of books. In the first four months she had already made it through seven stories, mostly comedies by Douglas Adams, an old favorite in her family, yet she was unlikely to run out of things to read anytime soon with hundreds more titles stored on her tablet. 

            She’d grown a bit tired of the comedy though, and turned to a far older book, written 500 years before by another explorer who ventured out from home into the dark unknown of the Atlantic far to the south in Brazil. He was a cosmographer, a sort of anthropologist, biologist, and geographer all wrapped into one, the kind of interdisciplinary skills that would be useful on a mission to Mars where your survival depended on your ability to think fast and outside the box when all the protocols failed. Olivia was fascinated by these older stories; they were written at a time of change when visions of monsters on the edge of the map slowly gave way to a realization of the true diversity of life on Earth. There had been a resurgence of interest in this particular book, the Singularites of France Antarctique by André Thevet since its translation into English twenty years previously, fueling renewed interest in Thevet and France’s attempt at colonizing Brazil in 1555 among English-speaking readers that had previously only been so vibrant in Brazil and France where memory of Thevet’s books had survived. He had many ideas that to Olivia seemed bizarre, such as the idea of giants dwelling in Patagonia, yet she could see the potential in Thevet’s words about the variety of life in Brazil. He had seen a world unlike his own where he observed so many curious things which would redefine life, just as Olivia hoped to do on Mars. Martian life had likely died out millions if not billions of years ago, but she still hoped to be the one to find more evidence of it than just chemical traces of carbon and hydrogen in the Martian rocks. While Thevet devoted his book to a study of the local Tupinambá in Brazil, Olivia had so far used her column to write about life among the small crew heading to Mars. 

            The mission commander was an American Space Force veteran, Colonel Jim King, who had made the move from active military service to the Astronaut Corps after the last war and had in the last decade served on four Artemis missions and on Opportunity II five years previously. Colonel King was the figure of the old Astronaut corps from the Apollo era, strong jawed, crew cut blond hair, reaching 6 feet tall, with a resolve instilled in him from his cadet days at the Academy in Colorado Springs. Olivia knew some of his service during the war, that he flew missions over hostile territory and engaged in fire on several occasions. Much of his service had been limited to protecting air convoys over the Pacific between Guam and the American forward bases to the northeast. Alongside Jim was his executive officer, a Finnish astronaut named Anneli Korhonen, herself a veteran of the war as well, albeit in the European front where she served as a captain in the Finnish Army with NATO’s forces. Anneli was about 5 ft 6 in tall, strong, with blond hair that had begun to show signs of white. During their prelaunch orientations and training on Earth she quickly became known for her determination and steely resolve to complete her mission, yet always with a deep-rooted passion for serving others. Anneli could be equally stern but had a dry sense of humor, and often enjoyed talking with Olivia about her science and what she hoped to find on Mars. Their other Mission Specialist officer was a younger astronaut, too young to have served like Jim and Anneli, named Jo McGonigle. An American like Jim, Jo came into the astronaut corps after having proven herself in NASA’s robotics division at JPL in Pasadena. She had moved to JPL straight out of her undergraduate years, having earned top place in her class with a B.S. in Engineering at Cal Tech and earned her M.S. while working on the latest Mars rover, Odyssey, that had been sent to the red planet aboard Opportunity II yet had run into trouble with a dust storm in Utopia Planitia that, like the Opportunity rover before it, had covered its solar panels with a film of dust and drained its batteries until it could no longer move. Some quick thinking by Jo caught the attention of the NASA Astronaut Office and she was offered a seat on Opportunity III to work on Odyssey there on the Martian surface. The four person crew was rounded out by Olivia, the mission’s scientist. Before they left Earth several reporters at their last press conference asked Jim what he thought about commanding a mission made up of him and three women, “would it be a flight of the Valkyries?” the newspaper man asked.

The Odyssey Rover

            Jim chuckled, “It will be a mission to explore with three of the most capable people alive today, and I’m honored to serve alongside them.”

            Olivia wasn’t as sure about Jim before that moment, like Jo she wasn’t a veteran, she was a schoolchild during the war, she remembered the fear that her parents radiated, no matter how hard they tried to conceal it for the sake of her brother and her. She grew up knowing war, just as her parents had after 9/11, and her grandparents had during the Cold War. She thought back through her family history one Christmas after dinner with the whole big family and it occurred to her that every generation as far back as she knew had experienced war in some way or another. That was one of the reasons why she was resolved to study astrobiology and anthropology, she wanted to find ways to use science to bring people together, to stop the fighting just long enough for enemies to think of each other as humans. The allies who signed the Artemis Accords in the 2020s at the start of the new generation of lunar exploration closely mirrored the allied countries who fought side-by-side in the last war, and whose common experiences had brought them closer together than ever before. In her lifetime Olivia had seen greater movement toward a global sense of human identity than ever thought possible. Her own country was among the smaller ones in population, yet Canada proved decisive in the Arctic front, protecting the Americas from attacks by air and sea, building a missile defense network that brought Canada onto some much-needed equal footing with the Americans militarily. The kids in her school would gossip and wonder aloud about possible bombers coming over the North Pole to hit the gleaming towers of Toronto, but she always felt safe there. That safety gave her the chance to explore questions that intrigued her about life, space, and human nature. When she was 18, she earned a full scholarship to study biology at the University of Toronto where she stayed for much of the rest of the decade, earning her B.S. and M.S. there, along with a B.S. in Evolutionary Anthropology. While working on her Master’s, she undertook an exhilarating internship at the Royal Ontario Museum in their Natural History Department, and was even offered a full-time position there while she worked on her Ph.D. 

            It was at this moment that the Canadian Space Agency first contacted her. They were looking for scientists with biology backgrounds who would want to look for evidence of past life on Mars. Olivia had mused about becoming an astronaut like every other schoolkid had since the days of Yuri Gagarin’s first flight, yet that childhood dream hadn’t developed the same way as her interests in terrestrial life. She would need to apply to join the Canadian astronaut corps, complete her Ph.D. in Biology, which if accepted into the program the CSA would willingly fund, and then undergo her astronaut training with her American counterparts in Houston. Olivia took the weekend and began working on her application the following Monday. After a lengthy application process, several interviews, including a board of review, she was accepted into the Canadian Astronaut Corps Class of 2042 as a Science Officer, and given orders to report to Houston for further astronaut training.

The Launch of Opportunity III

            By the time she boarded Opportunity III in December 2054 on Launch Pad 39A at NASA’s famed Kennedy Space Center in Florida she had become one of Canada’s more experienced astronauts. Her service aboard Artemis XVI, working to prove a theory that life could exist in microbial form in zero-gravity environments like on the surfaces of comets, had made headlines on Earth, and made her a minor celebrity in Canada. So, the announcement in 2053 that she would be assigned to the crew of Opportunity III was met with a series of talk shows, awards, and honorary doctorates across her home country. More would come, she was warned, when she returned from Mars, especially if she became the one to confirm evidence of past life on the red planet.

            Olivia always admired the way that Thevet talked about the diversity of life he encountered that was known around the Atlantic World in his day. His ideas were based on older visions of life and diversity born out of the eyewitness observations of naturalists going back to the days of Aristotle and Pliny in antiquity. Thevet had a way, no matter how outdated it was, of capturing the wonder of experiencing finding unknown life for the first time. The proof that there were things out there still to discover was all the motivation Olivia needed to buckle herself into her seat on the Opportunity and be launched with the power of a pair of next generation SLS rockets out of the atmosphere and beyond Earth orbit on her six month voyage to Mars. Thevet traveled to Brazil in 1555 onboard an old wooden ship powered with sails by the wind. The Opportunity was largely driven by its engines, yet a pair of solar sails inspired by the Planetary Society’s Light Sail 2 mission of the 2020s also helped propel the Opportunity starship on its voyage, carried by the power of the solar winds. She marveled at this technology, which was expertly managed and maintained by Jo at her engineering station. The sails had to be kept at just the right degree of exposure to the Sun to work, and needed monitoring for space debris to ensure they would not get torn or picked apart by the untold numbers of microscopic particles floating about in Space, pieces of comets and asteroids broken apart in collisions or by the gravitational pull of the planets and their moons. Thevet and his fellow Frenchmen had to be ready not only for natural dangers in the open Atlantic and along the European, African, and South American coasts, but for Portuguese ships who patrolled the South Atlantic waters between their colonies in Brazil, East Africa, and India. Luckily for Olivia and her crewmates, they would not need to worry about attack from a hostile vessel on their own voyage, “unless someone is out there who doesn’t want us going to Mars,” Jim joked on one occasion, so in at least one aspect her own voyage had remained safer, and by all accounts more uneventful, than Thevet’s had been.

            She saw something of a common link between herself and the cosmographer, a bond that stretched across five centuries between explorers venturing out into what was only recently explored territory for the both of them in their own time. They weren’t the first to arrive on their respective alien shores, yet even on these later voyages in the first generations of travel between worlds a certain amount of danger was ever present. During Artemis XVI she proved that water ice frozen in zero gravity had the potential to hold microbial life, so finding the fossilized remains of some ancient Martian seemed possible, though Olivia didn’t want to get her hopes up with the whims of luck. There was some evidence of water ice on the Martian surface, the many probes and rovers that’d been sent from Earth to investigate Mars had been sending data about that ice back for decades, yet Olivia would be the first astrobiologist to set foot on the Martian surface. They had a mere month left until their arrival when she could set to work.

Shackleton Crater

            Five months aboard the Opportunity had given her ample time to comb through all the rover data collected since Sojourner, the first of the rovers, arrived in the Chryse Planitia in July 1997. With 58 years of information available to her, Olivia had done her homework and began her survey of Martian water ice, with a particular focus on the later rovers, CuriosityOpportunity, and Perseverance. In the 15 years since Opportunity I first brought humans to the Martian surface and established a base on Elysium Planitia, a broad equatorial plane where the InSight rover landed in 2018. It was a region that once had the geological activity necessary to facilitate life, the plain was dominated by Elysium Mons, a 41,000 foot tall volcano, the third highest peak on Mars. The Alliance’s leaders chose Elysium Planitia as their Martian base of operations figuring that its recent geological activity (as recent as 50,000 years ago) could make it a strong candidate for terraforming in the distant future. 

            The Elysium Base had stood firm against all odds for 15 years, and its latest crew was ready for their five year rotation on the planet to be at an end. Olivia worried that she wouldn’t be able to stand living on Mars for a full five years. It was a very long time to be away from home, from her family. She chose to keep her lakefront condo near Sunnyside Beach, her brother’s family could use it while she was away, and it gave her somewhere to think about going home to when she became tired of living in the Elysium Base. Resupply missions to Elysium arrived every 18 months from Earth, a new spacecraft launching from either NASA’s Kennedy Space Center or ESA’s Guiana Space Center carrying new crews to Mars every two and a half years. This meant there was always a new crew overlap, so NASA’s Opportunity crews were not alone up there, instead joined by ESA’s Metis crews. When Olivia and the Opportunity III crew were going into quarantine at Kennedy there were reports that the Australians and Japanese were interesting in adding their own series of joint missions to Elysium’s resupply schedule alongside their individual missions, meaning the base which normally could house up to 20 astronauts would need to be expanded to meet the needs of new missions arriving every year rather than every two and a half years as it stood.

            A voice came from the engineering station of Opportunity, “Dr. Stephens,” Olivia turned at hearing her family name, “can you come up here and take a look at these readings?”

            “Sure,” she took a hold of one of the hand bars that were strategically placed along the length of Opportunity‘s central corridor, propelling herself in zero gravity forwards to where Jo sat at her station on duty occupied with some atmospheric readings they’d taken a few weeks before of Mars following the dust storm that drained Odyssey‘s batteries. Olivia reached engineering with only a few passing breaths and found Jo gazing intently at a screen on which appeared a three dimensional image of the Martian surface and atmosphere around Elysium Planitia. “What’d you find?” Olivia asked, peering over Jo’s shoulder.

            Jo turned away from her monitor, “The rover appears to have kicked up some dust from the surface that has traces of carbon in it, which leads me to wonder if this could be evidence that something once lived down there.”

            “Can you tell by the wind speed and direction where the dust came from? How far it might’ve traveled across the surface?” Olivia asked, recognizing an opportunity to realize her own mission.

            “Well, windspeeds of at least 18 to 22 meters per second are needed for these dust storms to form, and this was a doozy, so I’d guess we’re looking at winds around 25 m/s that got kicked up by and funneled around Elysium Mons, so honestly it could’ve come from anywhere.”

Jo McGonigle

            Olivia sighed. On Earth she would be able to follow well-tracked weather patterns to see where dust originated. In North America, the continent she was the most familiar with, summer winds came from the southwest and winter ones from the northwest. The one wild card out there were the lake effect weather patterns that made winters snowier in her part of the continent around Lake Ontario. Yet on Mars the climate was still only just being explored and understood, and not enough data existed to use these same models to make sense of where this dust originated. Yet if she could track it, somehow, someway, then she might be able to follow the breadcrumbs to the rocks where it originated, and if those rocks had traces of carbon in them then it was possible there could be fossils.

            “Do we have any satellite data from the Mars orbiters on that storm?” Olivia asked, looking Jo in the eye hoping the engineer might be able to surprise her yet again with some ingenious work-around.

            Jo turned back to her monitor and ran a search on Mars satellites for six months previously, the storm was first recorded in the mission control centers on Earth in October last year. “One of India’s Mars Orbiter satellites was in orbit over Elysium Planitia at the time of the storm’s impact,” Jo replied.

            The Indian Space Agency was not a part of the alliance, yet they also had stayed out of the big confrontations between the various allied space agencies and their rivals, preferring to let those organizations open a clear path for India to become a viable third power in the latest round of the Space Race.

            “What do you say we give Houston a call?” Olivia said.

            “It wouldn’t hurt, the Indians have nothing to lose in helping us,” Jo replied, locking her monitor and moving out of her station. Olivia let her pass, and Jo floated forward toward the helm where Jim and Anneli sat, the mission commander and his executive officer at their posts. Jim was operating the helm when they arrived, while Anneli did her duty of making sure nothing went awry until her own duty shift at the helm began in five hours.

            Jo reached the helm first, turned to their commander asking “Jim, can we add an item to our next transmission back to Houston?”

            “What’s on your mind?” he asked, turning to see both the engineer and science officers at his door.

            “We think we might have a way to trace the origins of that dust storm that hit Elysium Planitia in last October, but the only satellite that saw it was Mangalyaan-4,” Jo replied in her usual earnestness.

            “So, we need Houston to request the data and possible video from the Indians,” Olivia continued, “If we can trace the origin of that storm then we might be able to find the source of those carbon traces in the dust–”

            “Which might lead to evidence of past life,” Anneli finished Olivia’s thought. “It’s a reasonable request, I imagine the Indians would be okay with that.”

            Jim turned to his monitor, “I’ll add it to the list. Our next transmission window is at the end of my shift here in five hours. We’ll see what Houston can do.”

            “Thanks, Jim,” Olivia said, smiling as she turned back toward her own science station near the rear of the craft.

            “On the Moon you chased ice, and on Mars it sounds like you’ll be chasing dust,” Jo said as the pair floated back to their stations. “If they ever send you out any further maybe they’ll have you chasing shadows or ghosts on the Jovian moons.”

            Olivia laughed, “That’s Space for you, you never know what you’re going to find.”

            Olivia left Jo at engineering and soon found her way back into her own station. Her science station was small, as was engineering. It consisted of a monitor hoisted onto the bulkhead, a microscope, and a keyboard to control it all. Until some engineer could figure out how to create artificial gravity there was little reason to try to bring desk chairs let alone desks on board a starship like the Opportunity, the occupant and anything else left on that desk or in that chair would just float away. 

            Olivia went back to her own monitor, pulling up what little data she had on the dust storm already. Most of it was collected by the Emirati Hope orbiter and NASA’s MAVEN orbiter, the two oldest spacecraft still in operation over Mars and uploaded to the computers aboard Opportunity while they were still on the launchpad in Florida. She could see this storm was not as violent as some had been, it hadn’t ensnared the whole planet for one thing, but it did enough damage regionally around Elysium Planitia that even the Elysium base on the far side of Elysium Mons went into lockdown, its crew relocating to their bunkers carved deep into the Martian rock. The NASA reports talked about winds rising out of the north and driving dust up onto the Nepenthes Mensae, burying areas of exposed rock that had previously been considered possible locations where a geologist currently stationed at Elysium named Dr. Rosalind O’Brien might be able to study a wide range of Martian strata, yet now those rock layers were buried under meters of dust and soil. She met Dr. O’Brien once at a SETI conference in 2050 held in the Bavarian mountain town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where the geologist presented a paper arguing that further study of Martian strata could prove greater nuance in the accepted geological chronology of the planet, that there was more of a nuance to the early few million years of the current Amazonian Period, named after the Amazonis Planitia located to the west of Elysium Base.

            There was another month of space travel ahead for Olivia and the other three members of the Opportunity III mission, another month of staring at outdated sensor data, hoping the Indian Space Agency would grant their request of data from Mangalyaan-4, and wondering about what five years of life on Mars would truly be like for her.


Act 2

            The final month seemed to take far longer to pass, yet with each day the red hue of Mars grew larger and larger in the Opportunity‘s forward windows until at last it dominated the horizon. Jim directed the spacecraft into a low orbit that would three days after their arrival over Mars position them just rightly to begin their descent to the surface. There had been some considerations among the NASA engineers to hold Opportunity III for another year until a new prototype landing shuttle could be loaded onto the ship but there remained too many issues. As it stood, the Opportunity would need to successfully descend through the Martian atmosphere to the surface and then upon its return mission ascend back up through the atmosphere and into orbit to begin its long voyage home to Earth. Olivia was told of the dangers of landing the spacecraft on the surface and that if she wanted to, the CSA would happily hold her ticket to Mars for the next mission, likely the next Metis mission to be launched from French Guiana, that would use shuttles for all atmospheric flying and keep the spacecraft in orbit, but she was too eager to take to Space at the earliest moment. Her return trip would use the new shuttle system, by that time in two years the Opportunity would never leave Space, the remainder of its services would be conducted in orbit of either Earth, Mars, or the Moon where it would be refueled, restocked, and where its crew would come aboard. The allied space agencies were even in the early stages of discussing orbital space docks like Olivia had come to know in science fiction, “but surely,” she thought “those are decades away.”

            For the first few orbits she found it hard to focus on her work for she was drawn to the port windows that looked out over Mars. She had lived in Earth orbit on the space station and briefly stayed in lunar orbit on Gateway Station, but looking down at Mars was a wonder to behold for how alien the planet seemed below her. Sitting down at dinner with Jim, Anneli, and Jo at the end of their first day in orbit Jim called her out on it, “aren’t you supposed to be packing for the trip down?”

            Olivia blushed, “Sorry, Colonel, I mean Jim,” she stumbled over her words, “I just can’t help but look down there at all that red, all that dust.”

            “You’ll be there for two years,” Anneli said, “take more time to look out into the blackness of Space, that’s what you’ll end up missing. You have years of the red planet ahead of you.”

            “If you’re going to miss anything,” Jim had stopped eating and stared out towards the bulkhead behind Olivia, “it’s the blue and green of Earth. You don’t really realize just how beautiful home is until you’ve seen it from above. I remember my first time flying over the Bahamas on my way to Puerto Rico, seeing all that blue and those stretches of sand they call islands in the middle of the Caribbean. Gorgeous!” Jo laughed, smiling at the thought of the warm blue waters of the Caribbean. Jim continued, “You don’t realize it until you’re gone how much you miss home. I think that’s really why you’re entranced by Mars down there, Dr. Stephens,” he winked at her prior formality, “it’s because subconsciously you think of Earth as the poster child of planets, it’s the one you expect to see out your window in orbit. But here instead of all that blue and green with deep white clouds all you see is red and occasional white ice gleaming on the surface. If Earth is the poster child of a planet, then Mars is our most cherished example of an alien world, familiar yes but foreign still.”

            Olivia leaned back in her chair, catching her tear of baguette that threatened to float away through the mess, “I guess I do miss home.”

            “We all do,” Jim sighed, “it’s one of those things we all feel but rarely talk about. For some it’s just too painful to admit how much they miss home.”

            Anneli nodded, “there’s nothing quite like being there with my family, hearing the tram bells rolling down the streets of Helsinki.”

            “Even stoic Anneli misses home” Olivia thought, she could swear she hadn’t seen as much as an emotion on the Finn’s face before now, but there she was brow furrowed, imagining herself walking along the boulevards of her Nordic hometown.

            “What about you, Jo?” Jim asked, turning to his right to look at the youngest member of their crew.

            Jo’s eyes betrayed what she’d been feeling all along, “I love being out here, I love the work, but it’s different for me. I left home almost 20 years ago to go to school, to become an engineer at Cal Tech and to work for JPL. There are a handful of other Kansas Citians who work there, but not many. Normally, I’d see my family maybe twice or three times a year at Christmas and Easter, and maybe for 4th of July but that’s about it. I followed my passion but left a part of my heart behind.”

            Olivia was taken aback hearing that from Jo. She knew Jo back on Earth before they were assigned to Opportunity III from different NASA-JPL events. Jo was the one who tinkered with any sort of computers or machinery. She became well known for her practicality in every aspect of her life, she kept her hair short so it wouldn’t get stuck in any of the computers, gadgets, or other machinery that she worked with. Jim had done his commander’s duty by inspecting Opportunity on the launchpad in Florida before they took off but was happily one-upped by the meticulous and eternally curious Jo who was already halfway through examining the ship atop its SLS rocket when Jim arrived for his inspection. Olivia and Anneli were there with Jim, pre-flight inspections were something they both heard Jim liked his crews to do with him, and Olivia could swear she saw a grin on Jim’s face that could only be described as pride in Jo’s attention to detail and to the crew’s safety. To Olivia then, Jo was the model hard worker, unflinching in her attention to duty, and passionate about the things she’d designed and built. So, hearing that Jo was homesick, even on the ground in the labs and workshops at JPL in Pasadena was a surprise. She came from a big Irish Catholic family, that much Olivia knew, after all the few McGonigles she knew in Toronto were very proud of their origins in Derry, so she imagined Jo’s family was probably from around there too, though how many generations removed Jo was from Ireland Olivia wasn’t sure.

            Despite her tears Jo showed a toughness in her eyes that only bonded her with her crewmates even more. They’d been together now for nearly eight months, two on Earth at Johnson and Kennedy Space Centers preparing for their mission and the long six months there on their long way out to Mars. Now that the red glow of the planet’s surface shone in their windows and on all their monitors and screens, they each let their guard down, these four knew each other better now than nearly anyone else alive knew them after all the time they’d spent together in this isolation.

            Jim broke the silence, announcing “we’re scheduled to descend into orbit tomorrow. This’ll be Opportunity‘s third time going down to the Martian surface. I think she’ll hold up; she hasn’t failed us yet. Be prepared for a delay in case of any bad weather on the surface. We have enough fuel remaining here to maintain our present orbit for another two days if we have to but trust me it’ll be better for all of us if we land on schedule and stretch our legs in Elysium Base.”

            “We all know the backup plan,” Anneli said, finishing her own meal.

            Jim looked at Olivia and Jo who both nodded in agreement. “Good,” he said, setting his hands down on the table with finality, “then let’s get some sleep. Be sure to have your things packed and ready to disembark one hour before we enter the descent stage. I don’t want anything floating about that could rediscover gravity floating over the wrong buttons on each of our stations as we descend.

            “Understood,” Olivia said nodding.

            “Well, good night then. Sleep well, it’s going to be one hell of a day tomorrow.”

            The four turned away from the table and floated to their respective bunks. Jim and Anneli slept in a pair of forward bunkbeds near the helm while Jo and Olivia took a pair closer to their own stations near the middle of Opportunity‘s long cylindrical hull. As they had every night for the past six months Jo and Olivia took turns in the midships lavatory with Olivia taking to her bunk first. She laid her head back on her pillow, the same old pillow she’d used now since leaving Earth. She’d grown so used to the texture and smell of it and the sleeping bag she used, as well as the straps that kept it from floating away mid-sleep that she felt a pang of sorrow at leaving them. “That’s not right, you’re an explorer Olivia, you should be excited for the new adventure down there, a new bed even!” she thought. As her eyes closed, she found herself imagining home, her condo looking out over Lake Ontario, her family gathered around celebrating her nephew Georgie’s birthday party. “Georgie’s turning three soon,” she thought, “I need to record a video outside on the surface for him” to send home. Tears came to her eyes as she thought of yet another birthday she’d miss all for Mars.

            The next morning came fast, Olivia awoke to her alarm thinking she’d only just closed her eyes maybe a half hour ago to discover it’d been seven long hours, seven hours like every other night’s sleep she’d had on the Opportunity. She pulled the curtains of her bunk back and saw Jo was already up, floating horizontally above the floor tinkering behind a wall panel with some wiring. “Morning,” Olivia said groggily.

            “Morning,” Jo waived a hand that held some tool in it that Olivia couldn’t make out at her. Jo was a kind and gentle person, but when she was in the zone, she never really noticed others around her; her work was all-consuming.

            Olivia unstrapped her sleeping bag, rolling her legs out of her bunk in the bag and letting it drop to the floor below. She caught it in her left hand and placed it up onto her bunk, buckling the strap over it to keep it from floating away. She caught her reflection in the lavatory mirror, the door just ajar ahead of her. Her hair was a mess, bedhead, she learned, was still a thing even in the zero gravity of Space. Pushing herself into the lavatory she opened the metal cabinet behind the mirror and took her plastic hair brush out, doing her best to get a handle on her locks so she could put them up into a ponytail as she so often had done during this voyage. Zero gravity made water float rather than settle, making hair washing a tremendous challenge that even the finest engineers and scientists had yet to solve. She’d once heard Jo mutter something from the lavatory about gravity plating and figured if anyone could solve the problem of generating artificial gravity without building a massive rotating space station like Sir Arthur Clarke’s Clavius Base in 2001: A Space Odysseyor Gerard K. O’Neill’s The High Frontier then it’d be Jo McGonigle and the JPL team she’d certainly lead after her successful mission to repair the Odyssey rover.

            Feeling ready to move on with the morning, Olivia floated into the mess and took yet another dehydrated packet out of the breakfast compartment, settling down to some cereal. “You know, I hear they have real food in Elysium,” Jim said, sitting at the table legs crossed reading something on his tablet. Olivia laughed at the sight, “You look like my dad reading the Star at the breakfast table.”

            Jim looked up at her and his momentary uncertainty melted into a beaming, laughing smile. “I met your dad at Johnson, right?”

            “Yeah, my parents came down from Toronto to see me before we went into quarantine.”

            Jim remembered the couple in their late sixties, hair grayed, faces beaming with pride at their daughter’s accomplishments. “You know how proud they are of you, right?” he asked, lowering his tablet ever more slightly.

            Olivia smiled, “Yeah, they want me to send them a message as soon as we’re able to walk on the surface of all those red rocks. Dad joked, as he does, that it’ll be just like the Garden of the Gods only without a breathable atmosphere.”

            “Just like it, indeed,” Anneli entered the mess from behind Jim, taking a seat next to the colonel. “I just heard from Elysium, they say ‘clear skies and an empty space for us to park on Landing Pad Charlie.”

            “Good to hear,” Jim replied in a tone that was both formal and hopeful, “so maybe we won’t have to orbit for another night after all.”

            “What time are we entering descent again?” Olivia asked.

            “10:42 if all goes to plan, but that depends on if we’re ready. What’s Jo working on now?”

            “I’m not sure,” Olivia said, “she’s behind one of the wall panels midship by our bunks. I’ll go ask her, you enjoy your paper,” Olivia smiled at Jim and turned pushing off the walls of the mess and out the door into the hallway back toward where Jo still floated above the deck at midships. She seemed to be near the end of her tinkering based on how many tools were now strapped to various parts of her belt. “Is everything okay with the circuits here?” Olivia asked.

            Jo looked up, smiling, “oh yeah, everything’s fine here. I just had an idea of how we could boost our communications signal enough to use Opportunity as a relay for signals coming from Elysium back to Earth to clear up some of the pixelation they’ve been getting down on Mars.”

            Olivia thought more about it now and remembered seeing that some of the communications lines ran through the bulkhead at midships, which made sense considering the engineering and science stations were the ones that needed the greatest bandwidth to send and receive transmissions from Earth, the Moon, Mars, and all the orbital stations they’d been in communication with. On some of the earlier Mars missions that the Allies sent they’d included a communications security officer whose job was in part to defend the ship from any potential threats that the old adversaries from the war had left in Earth and lunar orbit and on the Moon, as well as to keep all external communications encrypted while decrypting potential rival transmissions when Earth’s superpowers were still racing to be first to establish bases on Mars. The Allies: Australia, Canada, the European Union, Japan, the United Kingdom, and the United States made it there first and now twenty years after the war ended their Elysium Base remained the only human outpost on Mars. Still, in those early days of crewed Martian exploration in the 2030s the allied space agencies were directed by their governments to protect their communications from interception at all costs.

            The rest of the morning went quickly, Olivia finished packing up her station, putting all of her equipment and personal belongings into their places in her bags before the call came back from Jim, “suit up, we’re preparing for the descent.”

            Olivia hadn’t put her spacesuit on over her flight suit in a good while, possibly since they’d left Earth orbit, but she still remembered the drill. She and Jo climbed into the backs of their suits, zipping each other up before putting on their helmets and sealing them. Both wore mobile oxygen tanks that were spread across their backs that could provide up to 10 hours of breathable air, enough to get them onto the surface and into the oxygenated internal atmosphere of Elysium Base. Olivia felt the excitement rise in her, the moment reminding her of descending through clouds towards a new country she’d never visited before. She followed Jo up to the seats just behind the helm and strapped herself in, ready for what was sure to be a memorable descent.

            In order to enter the Martian atmosphere and safely land on the surface Opportunity would need to angle itself with the helm facing upward toward the sky and its engines downward. Landing struts would protrude from the bottom of the spacecraft’s cylinder hull and take the force of the landing. It was a system that’d been in use for forty years at this point, since just before the start of the Artemis program, but it was practical for the technology they were still using. The shuttlecraft in development would be able to land like the old Space Shuttles of the late twentieth century facing forward on wheels or skis like airplanes do on Earth, though Jo had mentioned one design that allowed for vertical takeoff and landing that would make the whole process even easier than ever imagined outside of the dreams of science fiction writers.

            “Opportunity to Elysium, we are ready to begin our descent,” Jim said over the comms.

            There was a short pause. “Elysium to Opportunity, we read you. You are cleared for descent. See you soon!”

            Jim turned to Anneli, “Okay, Captain, begin the rotation sequence.”

            Anneli flipped several switches and pressed several buttons on the monitor in front of her, “rotation sequence underway. 3 minutes to descent positioning.”

            “Good. Jo, Olivia, you two keep an eye on our telemetry, make sure our fuel and heat levels stay within safety parameters.”

            “Understood,” the pair sitting behind the helm said in unison. Olivia wanted to look over at Jo, but she knew she had a job to do, a job that if done carelessly could cost the four of them their lives.

            Olivia felt Opportunity turn on its axis and watched as the Martian surface rotated in the helm’s windows before disappearing from view. Anneli called the moment, “rotation sequence complete. Switching to descent thrusters.”

            Olivia felt a jolt as the ship began to move backwards, or rather downwards. Mars still remained out of view, Anneli and Jim were controlling the trajectory of the ship with their monitors only. She was glad she was sitting where she was with Jo, not up front. Sure, she’d trained to pilot the Opportunity, should its commander and helmswoman be incapacitated, but she had hoped that moment would never come, especially during the descent stage into a planetary atmosphere.

            “How’re you two doing back there?” Jim called over the comms.

            “All systems are nominal,” was Jo’s reply.

            Jim shook his head, a chuckle sounded over the comms “Olivia?”

            “I’m okay, but I’ve just got one question.”

            “What’s that, doc?” Jim replied.

            “When will Mars be in view again?” Olivia shouted back over the sound of the engines behind her.

            Jim laughed, “It takes some getting used to, falling like we are into a planetary atmosphere without being able to see where we’re going. What do you think, Captain?”

            Anneli looked at her monitor, “We should be able to see the outer atmosphere pass by the helm in 30 seconds.”

            Olivia counted down the seconds in her head, “one and two and three and,” as she was taught in the Scouts as a kid. Back then it was to measure more mundane things like the amount of time it took to run from one cabin to another up at Haliburton Camp, but now it was all she had to find some comfort in the moment of falling down to the Martian surface backwards without being able to see where she was going.

            “twenty-six and twenty-seven and twenty-eight and twenty-nine and thirty, oh!” she caught her breath in her throat, coughing, as the heat began to build up behind her, rising along the hull as the glow of the Martian atmosphere came into view, by which point they were descending through the carbon dioxide rich layers toward the surface. Olivia looked down at her monitor and saw readings from the hull thermometers, things were looking normal, if 1377 degrees Celsius felt anything but normal to her. She tracked their distance from Landing Pad C in the upper left corner of the monitor, they fast approached the 230 km mark at the upper edge of the Thermosphere, where the temperature readings hit a chilly -98.15 degrees Celsius or 175 degrees Kelvin, the two units of temperature that Opportunity’s computers displayed.

            “We’re close to terminal velocity,” Anneli called.

            “Hold on!” Jim shouted as Olivia looked down to see that they’d reached the Mesosphere about 100 km above the surface. “Elysium, we’re getting closer, get ready for us.”

            “Roger,” the Elysium mission controller called back.

            Olivia began to feel more at ease as she saw the red dust of the Martian surface reflect off of the planet’s atmosphere, it did remind her of the American West, but more of the desert rocks in Utah than the Garden of the Gods in Colorado.

            “Entering the Troposphere,” Anneli announced, “prepare for landing.”

            Olivia stole a glance over at Jo who had a strange mix of terror and joy on her face, their eyes locked for a moment before they returned to their monitors.

            Anneli’s voice returned over the comm, “Impact in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” Olivia felt the landing struts meet their mark on Landing Pad C. “Colonel, we have landed.”

            Jim leaned his head back, a clear sigh of relief fogging up his helmet visor for a moment. “Elysium Base, this is Colonel James King, Commanding Officer of Opportunity III, requesting permission to come aboard.”

            “Permission granted, Colonel. Welcome to Mars!”

Olivia felt herself speaking before she realized it, “21 May 2055, I’ve made it!”

Come back next Wednesday for Part 2, when Olivia begins her work on Mars.

Dalí and the Surreal

Over the weekend I was in Chicago to see a special exhibit at the Art Institute called Salvador Dalí: The Image Disappears. It got me thinking about the appeal of the surreal. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

Over the weekend I was in Chicago to see a special exhibit at the Art Institute called Salvador Dalí: The Image Disappears. It got me thinking about the appeal of the surreal.

I for one really like Dalí’s art, it captures something of the subconscious possibility in the way it bends and transforms nature. Surrealism creates a mirror universe governed by its own laws, inhabited by a cast of characters that are just familiar enough to us to warrant closer inspection and intense curiosity. When developed to its fullest extent with sound and movement, the color and light of the surreal comes to life in a truly radiant and radical fashion. I’m talking of course of Dalí’s collaboration with Walt Disney, which became the short film Destino, a gorgeous film that is available today on Disney+. The Spanish guitar and drums, and singer’s voice pair well with Dalí’s images that find themselves unlocked from the monumental stone edifices they were built into upon their creation, the permanence of place and pose in painting.

The Dalí paintings at the Art Institute reflected the opposite of the great monuments of Destino, and more the impermanence and fragility of life itself. Crafted and devised throughout Dalí’s life, in particular during the troubled years of the Spanish Civil War, these images tell their own stories of paranoia and chaos. They show how Dalí expressed his emotions and innermost thoughts in his art. When world events on his doorstep forced him to contemplate horrors that pulled him from his passions, those horrors showed themselves in his work.

The Persistence of Memory

I’m drawn to Dalí’s most classic examples of surrealism, The Persistence of Memory being the type painting of these. They remind me with their distant hazy horizons of a book of labyrinths that I was given for Christmas one year in the early 2000s that had the same eternal yet present horizon line which stretched out from the central object echoing the idea of infinity yet not quite reaching that point itself. About a decade ago I was lucky enough to get to see another Dalí exhibit, this one in the Hallmark Headquarters at Crown Center here in Kansas City, where several Dalí images commissioned by Hallmark in the 1950s for a new line of greeting cards were on display for employees and their families. I remember Dalí’s interpretation of Santa for a Christmas card was fascinating, though not what Hallmark, the Norman Rockwell of American companies, necessarily wanted.

On Monday, I decided to compliment the Dalí exhibit with a visit to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art here in Kansas City to see Alberto Giacometti: Toward the Ultimate Figure, a collection of sketches, paintings, and sculptures by the Swiss master artist whose work spanned the first six decades of the twentieth century, and was in many ways Dalí’s contemporary. Yet where Dalí sought to interpret the human form through distortion imbued with a great sunny sense of Catalan romance, Giacometti’s works narrowed down their focus to the purest and ultimate human figure, which he crafted throughout his life’s work into sculptures notable for their roughness, slenderness, and height. I for one prefer Dalí’s vision over Giacometti’s, though I respect both artists for what they were trying to create.

The surreal appeals to me because it echoes the disorderly world of my own dreams, the images that dance through my mind when I sleep are best described as surreal. Dalí collaborated with one of my favorite comics of his day, Harpo Marx, to create a film which ultimately was dropped by MGM for being too strange and finally in the last decade adapted into a graphic novel called Giraffes on Horseback Salad. Neither man spoke each other’s language, yet they both knew how to approach the language of the surreal, and so crafted a story that is the definition of weird and silly, that proved to be too strange even for Harpo’s brother Groucho. It’s good for us to have this alternate to our own world to turn to, this dreamlike fantasy realm where things don’t quite add up to how we expect. We humans are too imaginative to really fully be the normal people we make ourselves out to be. We have dreams, all of us, and rarely do they turn out to meet our expectations of what is normal.

Draft at the Station

Last Friday, I took Amtrak's Missouri River Runner from Independence to Kansas City's Union Station to see how the NFL Draft was affecting public transit in & around the Station. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

The following post is a transcript of the audio from the podcast episode this week. I strongly advise you listen to this one rather than just reading it. Thank you, and enjoy!

Independence, Missouri: hometown of President Truman.

“I’m at Independence Station, the only person here, the station house is locked, looks like it’s been abandoned for a while. I’m about 50 minutes early for my train, nothing here, no seats. We’ll see how this adventure goes!”

That was on Friday, 28 April 2023 just after 12:30 pm on a cloudy but calm day in Independence, Missouri, one of the eastern suburbs of Kansas City. I got a ride out there so I could try taking Amtrak’s Missouri River Runner service into Kansas City’s Union Station located just south of Downtown. Normally, arriving at Union Station is a moment of awe and wonder at the grandeur of that Beaux Arts station, built in 1914, one of the great reminders of the time when trains were the fastest and most comfortable way to cross North America. Last weekend though Union Station hosted the NFL Draft, a big event where all 32 professional teams in the top American Football league on the planet gather to pick who among the top prospects from the college teams across the U.S., they want to offer contracts to and invite to start their professional careers with those teams. That about sums it up. I’ve known about the Draft for most of my life and have so far spent the better part of the past thirty years not caring about it.

This year though is different, the Draft has landed squarely in the center of my city. Union Station has been a stage for many important moments in my life, from my first volunteer job at the Kansas City Irish Center back in 2006 to the place where I began several trips back to my original hometown of Chicago onboard Amtrak’s Southwest Chief to birthday lunches and dinners at Pierpont’s and Harvey’s and even a date. So, for me it feels personal to have that most public of spaces be taken over for the biggest, richest, pro sports league in the country for the whole weekend.

“It’s now begun to rain. Some church bells ringing. According to the Amtrak app the train is about 10 minutes out from Lee’s Summit, which is about 20 minutes down the line from here further to the southeast. Here I am, hiding underneath the overhang of the roof of this station that’s still deserted.”

An empty platform under a gray sky.

As I waited a long Union Pacific freight train passed by the station on the further of the two tracks in front of the platforms. [train recording] It was carrying carriage upon carriage of double-stacked cargo containers that had come from one of the many ocean ports to the south and east of Kansas City, marked with the logos of a number of different cargo shipping companies including the Taiwanese Evergreen Group, whose container ship got stuck in the Suez Canal last year. At this point I was joined by a Salvadorean trainspotter who came down to the platform to take some videos of the train. We talked for a few minutes, or rather spluttered back and forth not speaking each other’s languages. I really need to properly learn Spanish one of these days.

“I happened to just meet a rather friendly Salvadorean gentleman who’s here for a conference. Charming. Oh, my Spanish is so terrible, and using French didn’t help. Train’s on time now, should be here in about eight minutes.”

Those eight minutes turned into 10 minutes as the River Runner arrived at 13:30 rather than 13:26, which by my book is alright when it comes to Amtrak delays.

[Sound of the Missouri River Runner arriving in Independence]

The Missouri River Runner approaches!

I let a handful of passengers disembark before telling the conductor my name, which he recognized from his passenger list, and boarded. The best thing about Amtrak’s service is even in coach on these state-run smaller services the seats really are quite comfortable. Plus, if you just want something to eat to keep you going, you’ll be able to find something in the café car. I was so thankful to buy a bag of really salty chips in there, my lunch for the day. There were probably about 30 other people on the train, most of them traveling into Kansas City from points east in Missouri, but some were on board going to the Draft.

On board the River Runner in coach class.

[Missouri River Runner ambient noise]

This meant that once we arrived at Union Station 20 minutes later, the passengers who disembarked were a good mix of excited at seeing the station taken over by the NFL and frustrated that the station was closed off for its original use, to welcome rail travelers into Kansas City.

The Amtrak platform at Union Station was occupied by a force of about 10 Homeland Security officers, who stared at us emotionless as we disembarked. We were directed by the Amtrak conductors to walk down the platform towards its western end and then to use a gate in the fence separating the railyard from the parking lot beyond. In that parking lot were more Homeland Security officers, stern faced and resolute. They didn’t need to tell anyone not to cross them or try to enter the station, it was pretty clear that wouldn’t be received lightly. Despite the emails that Amtrak sent out every so often in the days before the trip about how the arrival procedure would go there was still some confusion among the passengers as to where we were being taken. I tried to help, having studied the plans as thoroughly as I could to make sure I did what I needed for this trip to happen without a hitch.

Arriving at Union Station walking from the platform to the shuttle trolley party bus

“Well, it’s going to 25th St, it’s south of here, it’s going down here, past Broadway, and to the left.”

Amtrak Police officers then guided us towards a set of shuttles, in fact trolley party buses, that would take us to the drop off point at 25th and Jefferson, one block west of the IRS building’s Broadway entrance.

At this point, I should say that this whole idea began a few months earlier. I thought about going to the Chiefs’ Super Bowl Rally in February by train, catching the River Runner either in Lee’s Summit or Independence, again just to see what would happen when it got to Union Station, but on that cold, windy February Wednesday I forgot all about it and took the Main Street Max bus downtown with my Dad. On our return trip we got stuck in Midtown for a good two hours waiting for a southbound Main Street bus to pass us. A part of the plan, and the risk, of this Friday’s adventure would be seeing whether the Ride KC city buses would be running on schedule & on route or even running at all.

This time, I’d done more of my homework, so I knew if the buses weren’t running on time or at all, which in my experience as a former bus commuter in Kansas City is sometimes possible, I could be home in around 2 hours on foot. Sure, it’s a 6 mile walk south from 25th Street to my home in Brookside, but I had my best gym shoes on and lots of water available if needed.

Thankfully, I only had to wait for about 10 minutes before a southbound Main Street Max bus arrived at the stop on Broadway at 25th Street. I didn’t get any audio of this, my goal was to get on board and not be left behind or somehow make what was turning out to be the best possible situation into one that I’d come to regret.

I boarded my bus at 14:15 and was at my local stop without any trouble or problems. All that remained was a delightful walk home through the tree-lined streets of Brookside listening to the birdsong and fountains in my neighbors’ front yards.

[Audio from my walk home from the bus]

So, as it turned out, things worked out. One big difference I noticed between today and the Super Bowl rally a few months ago was the crowd control on Pershing Road and around Union Station all together was much stronger. I guess I could put it down to the NFL paying for stricter security than the City of Kansas City did, plus I read a story earlier this week that KCPD still owes the 350 officers who worked and managed the crowds during the Super Bowl Parade & Rally their overtime pay 73 days later. Not having thousands of people, myself included, walking down the middle of Pershing Road and Broadway to try to get out of that crowd that some have numbered up to 1 million people at the Super Bowl Rally really helped keep traffic flowing, and keep the public transportation network moving.

Far less chaotic on Pershing Rd. during the NFL Draft than it was during the 2023 Chiefs Super Bowl Rally.

I’m still frustrated, as were many of my fellow Amtrak passengers, that the Union Station organization sees itself less as a transportation hub, which the station was built for, and more as a big center for the city and a tourist attraction. I like all the things that Union Station has to offer, yet I think it would be better for our city if we increased our focus on the rail services that the station was built for and improved those services to be more frequent, and more useful for everyone in this metro. I’m glad that I chose to take a train into the station rather than try to get a train out of the station during the NFL Draft, for while I was able to disembark on the platform and board my city bus to go home all in the course of 20 minutes, the departing passengers were told to be at the platform 2 hours before their trains left, and were given trailers to wait in or else they’d have to sit outside in folding chairs with few amenities to speak of. It’s a solution, but it’s not great.

So, I’d consider Friday’s adventure to be a success. Truly, the only part of it that didn’t quite go to plan was my decision to leave home when I did, it took me far less time to be driven to Independence Station than I thought it would. Otherwise, I’m surprised to say it all worked. Would I do it again? Sure.

Some celebratory chocolate mudslide ice cream from the Tillamook Dairy in Oregon after the adventure was at an end.

Springtime

This week I want to share a few words about the beauty of Spring. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

I’m so glad to have enjoyed this April, to have had some truly beautiful days in short sleeves out under the blue skies listening to the birdsong that rings around my neighborhood. Throughout my life one of the most commonly asked questions has been “what’s your favorite season?” For the longest time I’d say Winter for the mystery of those long, dark, cold nights, for the appearance of the constellations like Orion that I remembered seeing the most in my childhood, and for the exuberant joy of Christmas and New Year’s. Yet today, I don’t think I have a favorite anymore. There are things I like about all four seasons, from the radiant red leaves of Fall to the warm days and nights of Summer. Spring is perhaps the most beautiful of the four seasons for how much joy it radiates. Spring sees the rebirth of the gardens and trees here in Kansas City, it sees our wild neighbors––the birds and beasts alike––returning from their wintering to a new year of life here in the Fountain City.

I find myself drawn to less dramatic things today, less of the big lightning storms that race across the prairies in Summer, and more to the softer, gentler, more subtle breezes of Spring. Sure, it does rain a lot here in the Springtime, as the winter snows begin to warm up and turn to rain. Spring is a time when we have the rains we need throughout the Summer, the water that keeps life possible here on the edge of the Great Plains, in a region dry enough that really it shouldn’t support a city of 2 million.

Yesterday, after finishing writing my lecture notes for my upcoming Summer class titled The Columbian Exchange in the First Age of Exploration, 1500–1700, I took a break from my desk and went outside into our backyard to get a better listen to the birds that were singing their hearts out on our back fence and in our fountain. There’s one blackbird who spent most of the weekend playing in the bubbling water that burst from the trunk of that elephant-shaped fountain. If a bird could laugh, then that little blackbird was giggling with joy the whole time.

My fascination with Spring began seven years ago in April 2016 when after a long winter I found myself vacationing in France with my parents. We spent our first week together staying in a guest house on the shores of Lake Annecy in the French Alps, the clearest glacial lake I’ve ever seen, enjoying the stillness of the place and the immense natural wonder that the lake, the forests, and surrounding mountains held. Then, as that week came to an end, we boarded a train in Geneva and headed northwest to Paris, savoring a week together there in the French capital before I returned to London, where I was then living, and my parents home to Kansas City. I remember a great deal about that week in Paris, in fact I wrote an entire chapter in my book Travels in Time Across Europe all about that week. 

Yet what I remember most about that city is the light, the brilliant delicacy of the April sunshine in Paris will always stay with me. It made the impressionist paintings that I grew up loving, the works of Monet, make more sense to me having been there in that moment. I remember one day in particular when we traveled out to Meudon to visit Renoir’s home and studio where the grand boulevards of the city give way to a mix of suburbia and creeping remnants of the countryside. I learned to appreciate Renoir’s sculptures far better that day, and to understand more of what makes Spring such a beautiful season in our lives. Vivaldi captured that emotion in his Four Seasons, Johann Strauss Jr. evoked the joy of the Flowers of Spring in his Frühlingsstimmen Walzerand Ella Fitzgerald embodied it in her own famous song April in Paris. I for one will let that little blackbird have the last word.

To hear the blackbird, click on the podcast player at the top.

Ab urbe condita

This coming Friday will mark the 2,776th anniversary of the traditional date for the founding of the City of Rome. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

I find it interesting as an adult that my first understanding of my own religion, explained to me by my Mom when I was little, was that “we are Roman Catholics.” Even at that point, when I must’ve been no more than five years old, I knew what Rome was, I can remember my thoughts from that moment as clear as day: I pictured in my mind a map of the Italian peninsula descending from the Alps down into the Mediterranean. Whether that map was my memory of the globe in my grandparents’ home next to their collection of the 1979 edition of the World Book Encyclopedia, or of some other map I had seen I can’t say for sure. Rome, with all its antiquity, has had a hold over my imagination just as it has over the collective imaginations of those of us in the European and American orbits since its fall.

Several years later, after we’d moved to Kansas City, and I continued my schooling at St. Patrick’s in Kansas City, Kansas, I checked a book on Ancient Rome out of the school library. As I remember it, it was one of the few history books in color, most of them had been donated when the school first opened in 1949 and were by modern standards rather outdated. Still, I had this book in my bag that had a wonderful colored picture of the greatest extent of the Roman Empire in the reign of Hadrian during the 2nd century CE. I had looked over it several times already before this particular memory took place, but when one afternoon I was denied entry into an after school club, I think a geography bee club perhaps, I found myself sitting on the bench in front of the school’s office, reading that book.

My ancestors, the Irish Gaels, were never conquered by Rome. There were likely Roman merchants visiting the Leinster coast during the imperial period, after all the western boundaries of the Roman Empire were across the Irish Sea in Wales, but Roman influence didn’t fully arrive until after the Western Roman Empire had already collapsed in the form of missionaries like St. Patrick who introduced Christianity, the Latin alphabet & language, and fostered a new sense of European connectivity for my people that has never left. For me conversations of heritage are always complicated. Yes, I am an Irish American with roots going deep into that island’s past beyond what’s considered historical, but so much of the culture I’ve lived in and embraced comes from Europe’s classical past: from Greece & Rome, that I feel a strong bond if not in blood, then in civilization to those continental cultures.

When I teach Western Civilization or European History I, or whatever you want to call the intro class that covers European history from Bronze Age Greece to the Reformation, I make a point of trying to define civilization as being inherently tied to the concept of the city. Mapping civilizations is like charting the stars in the sky, with each city glowing bright like those lights in the heavens, at the heart of their own civilizations. In antiquity this ideal makes sense, for the city-state was the most common type of polity. Rome was a city-state governed by its own balance between an aristocratic Senate and an Assembly representing the rest of the People that in turn ruled over an ever growing empire of subjected peoples until at last it became too much for the standing political order in Rome to control and 150 years of civil wars lead to a Principate, rule by the Princeps, the First Citizen, in this case Augustus Caesar and his heirs and successors who we today know as the Emperors.

Today, I look at Roman history and see several ideals that every generation since its conception has espoused. On the one hand there’s the model of the Caesar as the best sort of leader. The Caesars who ruled Rome from Augustus’s elevation in 31 BCE to Constantine XI Paleologos’s death at the Fall of Constantinople in 1453 CE have their heirs and imitators in all the Kaisers, Tsars, and Emperors to rule in Europe and its erstwhile American colonies since, as well as in kings like Louis XIV, le roi soleil, who like Augustus fashioned himself the Sun at the center of all his domain. Yet on the other hand I see the republican ideal of citizen government espoused before the Principate, lauded by men like Cicero and the Gracchi yet never fully realized by anyone then or since. 

I would rather emulate that republican ideal of citizenship, refashioned in a modern sense with the blending of republicanism with democracy. The founders of the United States saw in their new republic a revival of the best of Rome, emulating their ancient heroes in law, government, and architecture. One needs only wander around the National Mall to find all the classical buildings one’s heart could ever desire to see how our new Rome on the banks of the Potomac has come to be. Yet in all honesty, as much as Washington fits this idealized model of a republican Rome reborn, with even the great headquarters of our Department of Defense across the Potomac beyond the confines of the capital in the Pentagon, not unlike Rome’s ancient Campus Martius, experience has taught me that the greatest modern inheritor of the symbols of the Roman Republic in its art & architecture can be found in Paris, a city whose grand boulevards and monumental architecture built during and after the Revolution of 1789 are alive with the symbols and spirit of Roman republicanism. This is in part thanks to one of the great Romanophiles of the last 250 years, Napoléon Bonaparte, whose reign as First Consul and later Emperor of the French sought to create a new Rome in his own day, albeit in the transitional model of Julius Caesar whose reign at least nominally sought to preserve the Republic yet established the foundations for the Empire that Augustus, his adoptive son, created.Today the meaning of the republic has changed so dramatically that I doubt Cicero or even the Gracchi would approve; and as much as I look up to so many of those old Roman republicans as people who I appreciate and enjoy reading, I firmly believe we’re better off without all the trappings of what was inherently a limited and oligarchical Roman Republic. I would rather live in a modern democratic republic, one where social welfare, tradition, and the markets were kept in balance. So, on this the 2,776th anniversary of the founding of the City of Rome, I’m worried to see the reactionaries among us pulling us backward toward that oligarchy that initially established our own Republic here on the far side of the Atlantic almost 240 years ago. The Roman Republic fell because its leaders misdiagnosed the sickness and killed the patient, ignoring the needs of the people for their own power & wealth. Rome continues to provide us lessons today. We should listen to them.

On Perspective

Some words about how changing perspective changes what one sees. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

A part of being a historian is learning how to reach into the sources and find the perspectives of the people you’re researching. In my case that’s a French explorer and writer named André Thevet (1516–1590), who longtime readers and listeners to this publication will now be familiar with. The best way to learn about Thevet’s perspective is to read his books, and in my case to translate them as well. It’s a humbling experience to get to know this man, or at least to get to know the public persona he crafted in his published works over a 45 year career.

These are lessons I’ve found important to carry over into my daily life. I’m more hesitant to get angry at someone who cuts me off driving, or to get annoyed at the crying baby in a café or restaurant because I don’t know what’s bothering the baby or how their parents’ day might be going. I do remember my own phase in life when my initial reaction to most things was to cry, as an adult I figure that’s because I was scared of the unknown, scared of being away from familiar places, people, and things. I hope I remember that when the day comes that I’m lucky enough to be a parent, should that day come indeed.

I’ve learned to adapt my speech to fit the people I’m talking to, using the official wording of a company or that someone in a professional capacity used to make sure we’re talking on the same wavelength. One instance of this that annoyed me to no end was at my local Panera, since closed, where the staff had a different way of referring to sizes of soups and mac & cheese than what was on the menu. Whereas it was written above their heads that portions were served as half or whole they instead would only refer to them as small or large, and often wouldn’t seem to understand what I wanted when I used the printed terminology from Panera. I learned after a few awkward encounters, though admittedly Panera’s mac & cheese has always been hit or miss, somedays it’s delicious with a creamy hot melted cheese, other times the cheese is clumpy and more a lukewarm solid than a liquid.

For a while I’ve been thinking about the contemporary efforts underway to find a gender neutral 3rd person pronoun to use in English. The choice of they makes a great deal of sense considering the history of this language. For each person (1st, 2nd, and 3rd) we have two pronouns, singular and plural, except of course for the 2nd person which is you all around. For the 3rd person options we have it and they, and while they is a clunky solution to the conundrum of gender neutrality in language, they is still a better fit than itIt bears an air of inhumanity; it’s what we use to refer to things that are less-than human: animals, plants, and inanimate objects. The division between something referred to as it rather than he, she, or they is murky. I often became quite annoyed with people who referred to my dog Noel as it rather than she, after all she had a gregarious personality. She expressed emotions, love, joy, happiness, fear, sadness, boredom. It was clear to me having lived with her for over a decade that she knew how to think for herself, how to make her desires known to those of us who could understand her. It reflects English’s Germanic roots more than anything else. I tend to think of the English it in the context of its closest German cognate, the pronoun es, as well as in the German distinction between the action of humans eating essen and the action of animals eating fressen

We’ve preserved this distinction in our language because we find it useful to define boundaries between different types of subjects and objects. This distinction demonstrates our priorities toward one set from another, toward the human over what older schools of natural history referred to as lesser forms of life. I for one find that to be an outdated way of thinking for it ignores what we have to learn from the great kaleidoscope of life in all its radiance and color. I became a better person because of the years I spent living with Noel, playing with her, taking her for walks, comforting her when she needed it, and letting her comfort me when I was feeling down.

If we have one great flaw as humans, it’s our hubris. We let ourselves believe that we know all there is out there to know, that we have gotten to a point in our evolution as a species where we’ve developed tools that can make sense of anything and everything the Universe can throw at us. Life has proven to me that that kind of thinking is flawed on so many levels. We know a lot more about what’s out there around us now than we did in the past, but the most wonderous part of being alive is knowing that we don’t know everything yet! I love that fact for how simple it is, and because it means there’s more for us to explore, that there’s still a horizon to look over.

I think that’s why I’m drawn to people like Thevet, like Noel. I like explorers because in my own way I’m an explorer too. I may not always take off for far distant countries or alien worlds, but I do get out of bed every morning not knowing what the day ahead is going to bring. And no matter if it’s a good day or a bad one, I know eventually it’ll make a good story, and that I’ll learn from it so I can wake up the next day better prepared for life.

Holy Week

It's Holy Week in Western Christianity (Catholicism and Protestantism), so some words about that. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

Some years I find Lent and the arrival of Easter just kind of happens without much ceremony or pomp. In our culture Christmas is the more notable holiday, the one that we travel for and take time off work for. Christmas is what defines our academic calendar, our Winter Break is essentially just the time we get off for Christmas and New Year’s. Yet theologically Easter is the more important of the two holidays.

This past Sunday during the Palm Sunday Mass at my local parish, I found myself deeply moved by the traditional recitation of the Passion Story from St. Matthew’s Gospel. From where I sat in the back row of the choir I could feel the trio of voices, two of our parishioners and our pastor, echoing off the walls of the church and moving about the packed congregation. I’ve been preparing for Holy Week a bit longer than usual this year because I’ve got a small part in the Masses on Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, and during the Easter Vigil with the choir, so perhaps that contributed as well. Still, at a time when I’m unsure about my own faith in a way that would seem strange to my younger self a decade ago, Holy Week this year really does have a great deal of deeper meaning to me than I expected five weeks ago.

This week culminates in the Easter Triduum, three days of interconnected liturgies beginning on Holy Thursday with the commemoration of Jesus’s Last Supper, continuing on Good Friday with the Passion Service, and concluding at sunset on Holy Saturday with the Easter Vigil Mass. I’ve long found the Holy Thursday Mass to be my favorite, not just of the Triduum but of the entire year. For me, the mystery of the Eucharist is perhaps the most inspiring and compelling part of my faith that has continued regardless of the doubt and skepticism with which I’ve approached so many other aspects of reconsidering what I believe. One of the greatest lessons I ever heard in all my now 27 years of schooling was from Dr. Daniel Stramara, Professor of Theology at Rockhurst University, who explained that in the old Nicene Church of the Roman Empire, while in the Latin Rite the old Roman legalistic tradition persists in seeking answers to every question under the Sun, in the Greek Rite the prevailing opinion was open to mystery, to not having all the answers. I know I won’t really understand how “the biscuit turns into Jesus” to quote Craig Ferguson, one of my favorite comedians and all-time favorite late night host, yet that’s okay with me. It remains a mystery, and I trust in the long Tradition of our sacraments that there is deeper meaning in the Eucharist.

Good Friday was once described to me by my high school theology teacher Sebastian D’Amico as the one day of the year when we Catholics don’t celebrate, after all the Mass is a celebration of our faith. Good Friday is a somber day. Traditionally I’ve tended to attend the 3 pm Stations of the Cross service rather than the Passion Service later in the evening. The Stations of the Cross is a series of prayers which follow the path of Jesus from the Last Supper to the Crucifixion and eventually to the Resurrection that you’re taught very early on in Catholic school. Still, in the last decade I’ve probably returned for the Passion Service that evening on more occasions than not. Some years that service is so deeply moving, while in others I leave it feeling frustrated or downtrodden. I think of Good Friday as a sort of wild card in that way, it’s a day that has huge significance. It reminds me of other days in the year that mark the anniversaries of the deaths of relatives and loved ones, and historical figures who I have a great fondness for, curiously including President Lincoln who was shot on Good Friday 1865 of all days and died on the following morning on Holy Saturday.

With that segue Holy Saturday is a newer commemoration for me. I didn’t start going to the Easter Vigil Mass on an annual basis until just 2018 but have since found it a tremendously rewarding experience. The same mystery involved in the humble awe of Holy Thursday and the mournful remembrance of Good Friday trumpets itself on Holy Saturday in all the splendor of 2,000 years of liturgical tradition and precedent. I’m excited to serve my parish in this year’s Vigil Mass as one voice in the choir. 

The first of the nine readings said at that Mass always comes from Genesis 1, the Creation stories, which I will likely write about here in the Wednesday Blog at some point. I think of the Biblical Creation in the context of the opening verse of St. John’s Gospel, “in the beginning was the Word,” which with all its original Greek meaning also speaks to me of the idea that this vision of Creation first occurred through the voice, perhaps even as Tolkien wrote in his Silmarillion through song. Now of course, I don’t believe that the Universe was created in six days, I accept the idea of the Big Bang and cosmic evolution. There was a recent awe-inspiring episode of NOVA that talked about the raw energy that came before and propelled the Big Bang, which to me seems like a profound reflection of our own older traditional beliefs of the beginning, of Creation, though I’m not saying we can prove the existence of God, that again is best left to a whole separate week.

I’m looking forward to the rest of Holy Week this year, and I hope it will be a time of reflection and inspiration.

Simplicity

This week to finish out March, a few words on the need to keep things simple. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane ~ Here are the two websites I mentioned regarding the new Kansas flag proposals: Flags for Good's Kansas Flag: https://flagsforgood.com/products/kansas-flag Anson from Lawrence's New Kansas Flag: https://www.newkansasflag.com/

There’s an old idea called Ockham’s razor which slices the complexity out of a problem to find the simplest solution that I’ve grown quite fond of. At first, I was annoyed by this way of working through questions, not because of how it worked, that made good sense, but because of how it was introduced to me as general knowledge that surely, I must already know about. 

There’s a whole category of knowledge that tends to be approached in this way, stuff that’s so accepted that surely the listener will know what’s going on, even if the general knowledge in question has particular nuanced names that rely on a certain amount of specific background knowledge to really understand the general knowledge in question. I find this sort of problem comes up in financial and medical lingo in particular, and in any specialized lingo in general. Topics that were introduced to me in this way, from William Jackson Turner’s Frontier Thesis to Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey still tend to annoy me purely because the people who I first heard about these ideas from expected that I already knew about them. Both of these ideas are themselves quite useful, the frontier is central to my dissertation’s focus on the periphery of the European worldview in the middle and later decades of the sixteenth century, and yes, I’ve seen aspects of Campbell’s ideas play out in the stories I’ve read, seen, and heard. Still, like Ockham’s razor the fact that the people telling me about these just expected I and everyone else in the conversation already knew about them, never bothering to explain what they are, annoyed me.

So, to not be that guy, let me quickly digress a bit here. W.J. Turner was a history professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in the 1890s who gave a lecture at the Columbian Exposition World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893 arguing that at that moment in time the Frontier of the American West was officially closed, that there was no new land to be explored or discovered between Atlantic and Pacific, and that the character of America’s very identity was bound to change as a result. Look ahead a few years to 1898 and the United States gained a small colonial empire mostly in the Pacific, extending the dream of a frontier further beyond the Golden Gate and West Coast to places like Hawaii, Guam, and the Philippines, as well as northward beginning in 1867 with the purchase of Alaska from Russia. Today, that frontier is in orbit, in our solar system, and beyond in deep space. Joseph Campbell’s idea is that every hero story tends to have the same narrative arc, the sort of storytelling format that I was taught in my high school AP English classes. Yeah, Campbell’s ideas make sense, and that’s that.

Returning to William of Ockham and his razor, I think this is a principle that we really ought to use more often than we do. In our efforts to correct past wrongs we often over correct, only making things more complicated in the process. I’ve often thought of the last few decades as a sort of Wild West, a new frontier in certain parts of society, particularly in regard to information and the Internet. We’re also in a time when individuals are defining themselves and societal expectations at large as more than some sort of collective will as occured in past generations. I applaud all the self-investigation, I’ve done a fair bit of that myself, and yes, I find that it rather hard to define myself in so many ways. Still, as I’ve written before in the Wednesday Blog and its predecessors, we have a tendency to at times proscribe changes and reforms for ourselves and our perspectives that aren’t natural and often tend to be a bit clunky, making them uncomfortable to adopt.

One area where we over complicate things is in our symbols, especially for American states and cities. We have a tradition in this country that the easiest way to create a flag is often to use the seal of a government and put it on a field of varying color, often blue. It’s something we got from the colonial period, just look at all the Commonwealth flags that have a Red or Blue Ensign, with a Union Jack in the upper-left corner and the coat of arms of that government in the middle to the right. Here in Kansas City, our City Council just voted to adopt a new design for our city flag, moving away from essentially putting the city’s fountain emblem on the French tricolor with variations on the name of our city beneath the fountain and instead putting that same fountain emblem astride twin fields of blue and red. Yep, we’re keeping the nod to our French colonial and settler roots, which I appreciate, but we’re also making the statement that our flag presents simpler to get.

The flags of the American states generally are a mess, often again just the seal on a field of blue often with the state’s name written beneath the seal; here in Kansas the name is in yellow on a blue field while in my native state of Illinois it’s in black on a white field. We could do so much better than this, and in the last few years some states are beginning to change their flags to somewhat better designs. Mississippi finally dropped their Confederate battle flag design in favor of a new flag depicting a magnolia, the state flower, though they kept some wording on the new flag. Utah also just announced a new flag that depicts the state’s mountains and the old Mormon beehive insignia that appears on their state highway signs. This got me back to thinking, how could Kansas improve upon its state flag? 

I found one proposal from a company called Flags for Good that got rid of all of the symbols of the current flag all together in favor of a green field with a yellow sunflower in the center. Another sunflower design proposed by a guy from Lawrence named Anson who runs the website www.newkansasflag.com kept the blue field except for the upper-right corner, presumably to symbolize the northeastern border of the state along the Missouri River, yet with a 34 pointed sunflower, symbolizing Kansas’s place as the 34th state admitted to the Union in 1861. I quite like both of these, after all Kansas is the Sunflower State, and as I’ve written before here, I personally think Kansas’s sunflower emblem state highway signs are among the finest in the nation. Their simplicity does a great deal to announce Kansas to the rest of the Union and the globe at large.

Simplicity is one of the finer aspects of life that we tend to forget about. Life itself is hardly ever simple, there is rarely ever just a right or wrong decision to be made but always shades of gray that need to be waded through to find the best answer for a given moment. I hope more people will begin to look for the simpler answers, give a yes or no instead of an unnecessarily longer answer when the simple affirmative or negative will suffice. Let’s at least make a few things easier on ourselves.

Terminologies

Today, I'm going to talk for a bit about how the meanings of words change. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

Normally, I’ll have something written for the Wednesday Blog by Monday and recorded at the latest by Tuesday morning. Yet this week I’m sitting here on Tuesday at 2:30 pm with nothing written, and thus nothing recorded. Some weeks I’m abuzz with ideas and others, like this week, the hive remains silent. So, while I was talking this morning with my friend Rebecca Legill, I was in the background searching for something to write about this week.

Our conversation turned, as many conversations in Kansas City do these days, to the new terminal at Kansas City International Airport. The big shiny new building opened to the public a month ago on February 28th and has seen around 300,000 travelers pass through its doors in the weeks since. What struck me while I was talking about the new terminal with Rebecca was that the word terminal itself is a bit of an odd word. Terminal comes from the Latin terminus, a word for a boundary or a limit. The modern context of a terminal as a transportation hub came from the railways whose end stations are called terminals. Think of Grand Central Terminal in New York or the London Terminals that you used to see on old British Rail tickets. Here in Kansas City, it’s a bit of a weird idea because our Union Station was built as a through station. Sure, trains once terminated and still terminate here, the Missouri River Runner’s western end is in K.C., but elsewhere the idea of a terminal station makes sense.

So, when the languages of railways and ocean liners were being adopted for airports a century ago the idea of the airport terminal as one building among others where people board and disembark from planes was born. In many cases a terminal isn’t necessarily where a trip ends, especially on a point-to-point carrier like Southwest Airlines here in the United States, yet for hub airlines like our big three––American, Delta, and United––to say that the new building at KCI is the terminal works pretty well. In a similar way, saying that O’Hare Airport in Chicago has Terminals 1, 2, 3, and 5 or that London Heathrow has Terminals 2, 3, 4, and 5 also makes sense in this logic of aviation naming considering that a flight is most often the equivalent of an express train, they rarely make stops along the way anymore to unload some passengers and bring aboard others.Language evolves with its speakers; my English today is different from my English twenty years ago when I was a spry 10 year old. The complexity of any language becomes more noticeable with time and experience speaking that language. Language is the vehicle that carries us from one terminal in our lives to the next, it’s how we interpret the experiences that our senses describe to us. Language is our mechanism for crafting new worlds and ideas, whether fantastical or ordinary. Language is how we think, so it strikes me as curious to consider which philosophers speak to which people. Some appreciate the Stoics for their straightforwardness, others like me the Existentialists who see patterns and subtext in every interpretation. In the study of history perhaps the most influential thinker is Karl Marx, whose economic philosophy has defined a great deal of historians especially in Europe following the Second World War. All of us have read Marx to varying degrees. I get his ideas though I don’t entirely buy them. Of all the Marxist philosophers the one who speaks the most to me has to be Harpo Marx for all the life and joy that can be found in his chaotic wisdom. Language can be more than just words, and Harpo lived and breathed that kind of expression.

A Letter from San Juan

A Letter from San Juan Wednesday Blog by Seán Thomas Kane

This past week I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico for the annual meeting of the Renaissance Society of America. Click here to support the Wednesday Blog: https://www.patreon.com/sthosdkane

Puerto Rico is an island caught between two waves, one originating in Spain and radiating throughout the Americas, the other originating in the United States whose influence is out of place here yet established enough to be present beneath the surface. I was uncertain what I’d find here amid the palm trees and verdant greenery, the bustling streets and amid the lives of 3 million people who have seen tremendous troubles over the recent past. After a week here I’m still unsure of some questions I came to this island pondering: what would be best situation for the Puerto Ricans themselves, what is it that they generally want of their relationship with the United States, and how can I, an Estadounidese, contribute positively to answering these questions?

It is strange for me spending time in a place like Puerto Rico. I’m familiar with travelling overseas, leaving the comforts of my Midwestern home for distant shores in Europe, but this week was my first spent in Latin America. What’s more, this was also my first time traveling to one of the US territories that are a part of the United States but lack full representation within our federal government. On Saturday, I texted my friend the political journalist Luis Eduardo Martinez that it was strange for me, an Irish American, to be the colonizer in someone else’s homeland when the most central tenant of our Irish American culture and identity is that we are the descendants of exiles who sought refuge from British colonialism in our own ancestral homeland. I felt uncomfortable in San Juan knowing that while I was in the United States, I was still a guest whose presence was perhaps not entirely welcomed considering that the American conquest of Puerto Rico in 1898 came at a moment when arguments for Puerto Rican independence from Spain were growing and quite outspoken.

At the end of the day this question of whether Puerto Rico’s status as a Commonwealth, or Free Associated State in Spanish, of the United States among its territories should change, either towards independence or towards statehood must be decided by the Puerto Ricans themselves. All we in the 50 states can and should do is encourage that decision be undertaken democratically, so it reflects the will of the Puerto Rican people and not just their leaders. I’ve been a bit more glass-half-empty of late, so while I was here on a working vacation, I still found these questions weighing on my thoughts for much of the trip.

When I learned the Renaissance Society of America would be meeting in San Juan this March, I invited my parents to come along with me. We were also joined by one of my best friends from Binghamton, the Italian historian of Italian-Ottoman trade relations in the Adriatic, Marco Alì Spadaccini, who joined us a few days later. Initially we were going to stay in a Marriott property within walking distance of the conference location, the Caribe Hilton, but in between the initial planning and when things finally were booked at Christmas, rooms at that hotel were quite a bit more expensive. So, I ended up finding a couple places on AirBnB around the Caribe Hilton in Santurce and Old San Juan and proposed each of them to my parents and Marco. The one we picked, a large apartment on Calle de San Francisco near la Fortaleza, the governor’s palace in the heart of Old San Juan turned out to be a wonderful decision. I’m writing this now listening to the tropical birds chirping away as the Sun sets on our final evening here in San Juan, in a fine old, terraced room with a balcony looking out over the street, palm trees in view, street cats prowling below.

San Juan is not the oldest city I’ve spent time in by far; when they were building my basement flat on the edge of the old walled City of London, they found a Roman grave dating to the start of the second century CE. Still, it is the oldest city on this side of the Atlantic that I’ve yet visited. At the time of writing this I haven’t left the Islet of San Juan in nearly a week, and if I lived here, I probably could spend most of my life on this islet here in the old city. It is a beautiful place with vibrant buildings painted many colors and blue cobblestone streets that tend to be run by pedestrians more than drivers, unlike our Midwestern cities, San Juan was built at a time before cars when we were all still pedestrians. The sound of joyous music ringing from bars and restaurants in the evenings did a great deal to cheer me up.

Old San Juan’s history is one of the great draws for me. It makes sense that the Renaissance Society of America would hold their conference in a city such as this that was built during the Renaissance. Names that I’ve known for as long as I can remember like Ponce de Leon come to life in this city, where he and his family built their home, the Casa Blanca on a hill just to the north of where I stayed along the western edge of the city walls. To the north of Casa Blanca stand the mighty fortresses of San Felipe el Morro and San Cristóbal who guarded San Juan for centuries from attackers sailing into Puerto Rican waters from the open Atlantic to the northeast. El Morro is impressive in the sheer scale of its battlements, which reminded me of some of the citadels that Vauban built for Louis XIV in France that I’ve visited in Besançon and Lille, and of Fort Ticonderoga on Lake Champlain in Upstate New York. San Cristóbal is a younger fort, its construction largely took place between 1766 and 1783 under the supervision of a couple of Irish nobles exiled into Spanish service named Alejandro O’Reilly and Tomás O’Daly. Still, San Cristóbal is impressive in its scale and in its continued use by the Spanish Army and later the US Army through the Second World War.

Of all the things I’ve done in the last week here in Old San Juan perhaps my favorite has been simply wandering this city’s streets, seeing both the busy shops and restaurants, walking by local places crowded with Puerto Ricans cheering on their team in the World Baseball Classic, yet even more wonderful were my wanderings down Calle del Sol, Calle de la Luna, and around the Casa Blanca along the old city’s residential streets. I often find myself thinking when I travel about whether I could live in the place I’m visiting. In general, as much as I’ve enjoyed this week in San Juan, I’m not sure it would be a place where I could settle down full time. Yet walking along these residential streets I did find the idea becoming more appealing. Still, while I hear it’s going to be quite cold this week in Kansas City, I am looking forward to getting back home.

¡Gracias, mis amigos sanjuaneros!