Well, back from Vancouver, lovely trip. On the way to the airport, my taxi driver, a self-described musician, middle-aged, and a very pleasant fellow, recounted stories about his father-in-law, who had been the last surviving World War II veteran to receive Canada’s Victoria Cross, and so was flown to London to meet Prince Charles, etc. The driver described the colorful character of the old man and I was enjoying it, when he added, “He was never any good at business, but his wife was Jewish, so they made a good living.” Would you hear this in New York, I wonder? I immediately said, “Well, I’m Jewish, and I have no head for business at all.” After a minute he said uncomfortably, “Well, it’s a bit of a myth, I guess.” I couldn’t help adding, “A relative of mine by marriage married a black man [the driver was white, by the way], and there were members of the family who were amazed that he didn’t have any talent for singing or dancing, no rhythm whatsoever.” Silence. Nevertheless, I carried on a cheerful conversation afterward and gave him the usual tip. He really was a nice guy. And that just shows you — make of it what you will.
On a different note, you can’t help liking the very civilized and pretty city of Vancouver, but I can’t say I loved it the way I loved New Orleans or Charleston or San Francisco when I first saw them. What surprised me was how much I was attracted to those snow-capped wild mountains that rose up in some distant North across the bay. I’ve seen wonderful mountains before — the Rockies, of course, and the Alps, both the French and Italian sides. But there was something about the way these mountains kept going ever more north, getting wilder and wilder, that felt different to me. I kept returning to see them at odd moments during the conference, which took place in the dull law school building on campus, and when I looked at them, I wanted to put on hiking boots (which I don’t own) and just walk and walk through those sublime fir forests towards the snow.
