Kidnapped Brides, Arranged Marriages, and a Marble City, Oh My!: My Trip to the 'Stans (and Sicily)

                I recently got back from my trip to the ‘Stans, and what a trip it was.

                First, a few preliminaries. In the early days of Living Cheap News, I was criticized by one of my nuttier readers for traveling. “You can’t be frugal when you’re paying for two places to live,” she huffed. “One here and one wherever you are.” I ignored her and traveled anyway. And, as for having to turn in my frugal card, I remind everyone I have always said frugality is deciding what’s important to you and doing without what is not important. Amy Dacyczyn decided having a house and a family was what is important for her; Jeff Yaeger decided not having a nine-to-five job was important to him. I decided seeing the world for myself rather than believing everything others told me the world was like is important to me. Unfortunately, as I’ll discuss later, between the airlines and the TSA, I may well decide the hassles of travel these days outweigh the benefits.

                The group I have been traveling with is Overseas Adventure Travel (OAT), part of Grand Circle Travel. My first trip with OAT, to Tunisia in 2010, was a real eye-opener. It was my first exposure to older travelers. On that trip we had a couple—he was 85; his wife was 80—who were the first up the hills and probably the most energetic people on the trip. These kinds of people—older and physically active—were outside my experience. It was the first time it occurred to me that, yes, we do have to age, but we don’t have to become decrepit. That alone was worth the trip. The next trip I took with them was to eastern Turkey, and I met more of the same older yet energetic people. So, when OAT offered this new trip to the ‘Stans, I signed up. Ours was the second trip they’ve done of all five ‘Stans, and, while the trip needs a few adjustments, which I’ll mention later, I’m glad I did.

                A trip like this requires a sense of adventure and, perhaps more importantly, a sense of humor. Recommended also are hepatitis A and B and diphtheria vaccines, Imodium, and antibiotics. The overriding question—especially once you’re outside cities--regards toilets. Eastern or western? If you’re older, a woman, or a man needing to do a number two, eastern toilets are a challenge. Sometimes they are literally a hole in the ground. Oh, and never be without your own toilet paper. Never.

                I left Kansas City Sunday, April 9; the flights took me from here to Detroit, then to Amsterdam, and then to Istanbul where I had to pick up my bag and check it with Turkish Air for the flight to Bishkek. This is not as easy as you’d think. I had to go through Turkey’s long entry visa line to get access to the baggage, pick up the bag, take it to the Turkish Air counter, check it, and then go through Turkey’s long exit visa line to get to the Bishkek flight. By the time we got to Bishkek, at 3:15 AM local time, I’d been in airports and on planes more than 24 hours. The Detroit-Amsterdam flight featured a little monster in the row just ahead of me that did not allow anyone any sleep. It seemed to me his parents were trying to keep him awake—perhaps so the brat would sleep once they got to their destination. The Istanbul-Bishkek flight was one of the new Airbus planes that are so narrow that evidently there isn’t enough room for both my shoulders and the asses of people using the aisles, so there wasn’t much sleep on that flight, either.

                After a few hours in the hotel, we took off to see Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan. One highlight was the American University of Central Asia where a variety of students from all corners of the world are taught in the liberal arts tradition and in English. This university is in a modern building and would do many of our universities proud. Most of the students we spoke with were interested in international studies.

                The next day we took off for the bazaar, which, as it turned out, would be like many other bazaars in Central Asia. But this one was the first. We met our local guide who so closely resembled—both physically and especially in accent--Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle that at times it was difficult to keep a straight face (and even though it was not her real name, we referred to her as Natasha). Natasha was not my favorite local guide. Someone once said Pinocchio is the patron saint of guides, and I suspect that was the case with Natasha, who could not have been very old when the Soviet Union imploded in 1991 but who still missed the “good old days.” As we toured Bishkek she commented on the new apartment blocks that were going up, saying the old Soviet-era apartment buildings were built better even if they were smaller and more spartan.

                I would like to have seen more of Bishkek. It is a city that is growing by leaps and bounds (hence the new apartment construction Natasha bemoaned). And it is overrun by cars. We were told the cars “come from” western Europe. I suspect many come without the consent of their former owners. At any rate, even though people drive on the right side of the road, as we do, there are cars with right-hand drive and cars with left-hand drive, and traffic laws seem to be considered advisory. But in the too-brief time I was there, I didn’t see any accidents.

                We took a brief hike in a national park, where Natasha frequently talked about squirrels much to our amusement. Too soon we left Bishkek for Lake Issyk-Kul, which has very little to recommend it. The hotel was right out of the old Intourist days even though it was built in 2007. Old habits die hard, I suppose. The staff was trained to say “no” in several languages. The only “yes” I ever got out of anyone was when I asked if this is where I turn in my keys as we were leaving. In this part of Kyrgyzstan there’s just not much to see. There is a field of petroglyphs, but once you’ve seen one, … . The one highlight was a golden eagle. We got to pet the eagle and have it sit on our arms. It was darling—a one year old female that was very much like a puppy. It was supposed to kill a rabbit, but all it did was land on it, much to our relief and Natasha’s chagrin. One of the most memorable experiences—for all the wrong reasons—was our visit to the museum and memorial dedicated to the memory of Nikolai Mikhailovich Przhevalskiy, a noted Russian explorer who happened to die and be buried in Karakol. Natasha droned on and on and on and repetitively about this guy. I felt sorry for him, since she mentioned his 1888 death from typhus so often that it seemed like that was his major accomplishment. Several of us wandered off on our own to explore the grounds.

In Karakol we had lunch with a local restaurant entrepreneur who had been a kidnapped bride, so we got to hear first-hand about this practice which, though technically illegal, still goes on in the ‘Stans.

                The practice of kidnapping brides does not usually involve rape. Women—especially in the villages—are so incredibly restricted that simply spending the night away from home ruins their reputation. Strangely, the parents of the kidnappers will sit the kidnapped woman down and explain to them that their families will not take them back now that their reputation is ruined, and that their son is not really such a bad dude, after all. It comes down to a choice of marrying the kidnapper or well, who knows what? In the case of the entrepreneur who served us lunch, she married her kidnapper whom, she said, she learned to respect but never loved. Interestingly, her husband had come around to where he favored education for his daughters—quite a modern approach.

                Natasha claimed she was once in danger of being kidnapped, but I think the group found it unlikely that even in Kyrgyzstan someone would be that desperate.   

                Natasha impressed me as an extremely negative control freak with a tenuous hold on the truth. For example, when we were approaching the Soviet-style hotel, she gave us a cock-and-bull story about how expensive wi-fi would be and that there would be one password for each device. (I had suggested that if one person paid for wi-fi we could all have access to the password.) It turned out wi-fi was free although not very good. Given how lazy the staff was, it was ludicrous to think they’d go to so much effort to assign so many passwords. Why Natasha felt it necessary to invent such industriousness for a staff so lazy remains a mystery.

                While we were driving one day there was a big clunk noise on the bus, after which the air conditioning no longer worked. Natasha found it necessary to invent a story about how the buses were used and built for different climates and when the temperature got to a certain level the air conditioning would come on again. We’d all heard the clunk. Many of us actually knew something about mechanics. But Natasha persisted.  I’ve known a few compulsive liars in my time, and, sad to say, Natasha fit the profile. Hopefully OAT can find a better local guide.

                In my opinion, the Lake Issyk-Kul part of trip needs to be reevaluated. Admittedly the eagle experience was memorable, but I think more time in Bishkek and Almaty would be more meaningful. As it turned out, we only spent a day in Almaty, our only stop in Kazakhstan. I’d have much preferred at least another day there.

                We spent the better part of the day getting to the crossing for the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan border. There are some very good roads in Central Asia, but many are really bad. OAT recommended women wear sports bras. It seems the border closes for two hours at lunchtime, and while we were there well before lunch it looked like we might not be processed in time to avoid the two-hour wait. Fortunately, one of our group was persuaded to have an episode. The border guards decided they didn’t want to be bothered with the paperwork in case one of the American tourists died on their watch, and we were soon on our way for our limited visit to Almaty.

                And then we went through the looking glass. 

                We left late in the evening for the flight to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. We arrived in the early morning hours to a huge but empty airport. As it would turn out, huge but empty would pretty much describe Ashgabat, but more on that later.

                I was already prejudiced against Turkmenistan because to get a visa requires a “letter of invitation” (and a sizeable visa fee). I sent the required information and copies in January. In March, just a few weeks before departure, OAT called and said I’d copied my passport too close to the edge and could I send another copy? Ummmmm. Well, since OAT’s visa service people had my passport, I couldn’t, but fortunately I’d kept a copy of my passport photo page. That worked, as it turned out. But it was just a hint of things to come. When you come through the cavernous airport, there’s an unmarked booth. As it turns out, that’s where you pay an additional $14 (in U.S. currency) and drop off a varying number of photos. (I had three—they took them all.) Then you go to another unmarked booth and get your passport stamped. And then you run into Turkmen, who refuse to que. It seems they all have a reason they should go ahead of you, and it seems the country tolerates this one area of rebellion. I wondered what the Turkmen word for “asshole” is. If anyone can help me out with that one, I’d appreciate it. I’ve tried Google, and while I find “asshole” used frequently to describe various and sundry border guards and officials, I’ve not found the actual Turkmen word for it. Anyway, if you ever visit Turkmenistan, that would be a good thing to know.

                As I said, we got there early in the morning. My first impression of Ashgabat was the fountain in front of the Grand Turkmen Hotel being scrubbed. As it would turn out, Ashgabat is probably the most scrubbed city in the world.      

                To get an idea of what Ashgabat looks like, I’d suggest you Google “Ashgabat Turkmenistan monuments.” Ashgabat is a city of white marble. From 1991, the end of the Soviet Union, to 2006 it was ruled by a dictator who took the name Turkmenbashi and proceeded to fill the city with monuments. I can’t decide which is the most pathetic, but certainly in the running is the Earthquake Monument, inspired by a massive 1948 earthquake that killed Turkmenbashi’s mother and two siblings. The monument includes a bull on which a cracking earth is mounted. The cracking earth is capped with a woman who is holding a golden baby—Turkmenbashi. Also in the running is a monument to—no shit!—a book Turkmenbashi wrote. He also built an over-the-top mosque and gravesite for himself. He’s buried there, but he also had four mock tombs for his mother, two siblings, and his father, who was killed in the Second World War.

                Ashgabat is filled with six lane streets that are almost devoid of cars. We had a great local guide who began by telling us that everybody in Turkmenistan is “heppy.” Even the women sweeping the streets are “heppy.” Everyone, she said, has at least two cars—especially the rural people, who have four-wheel drive vehicles for their farms and a sedan for fun. At first I thought she was serious, but I think it was a case of laying it on a tad thick. One day, and we were there four days, a schedule glitch enabled her to introduce us to a friend of hers at the friend’s house. The house was quite nice, but it was a far cry from the white marble and a good distance from the six-lane streets. And it was a nice break. It may what the the areas of white marble apartments were like before Turkmenbashi’s building spree.

                Turkmenistan is said to be the closest one can get to being in North Korea without actually being in North Korea. I believe it. Our tour bus was stopped because a guard thought someone had taken a photo of something forbidden. (And not to put too fine a point on the Turkmen, the area around the U.S. embassy in Ashgabat is another zone where photos are forbidden.)

                One thing I found interesting is women are not allowed to buy clothes off-the-rack. They must choose their material and have their clothes made. The clothes are colorful but cover the wearer from neck to ankle, and are worn by every woman—even the “heppy” street sweepers. Men, on the other hand, are not bound by these rules.

                In order to maintain control, I suppose, rules in Turkmenistan are arbitrary and inconsistent. For example, some of our group visited a museum. The museum would only take dollars, and the museum gift shop would only take manat, the local currency.

                I also noted there were almost no dogs or cats in sight. I was told people had pets, but they walked them after dark. I figured the pets were probably kept near all the imaginary cars we didn’t see on the streets. When I got home I discovered via Google that Tutkmenistan’s leader requires that stray animals be destroyed. (See one article at http://www.eurasianet.org/node/64582)

                At any rate, our time in Ashgabat ended, and we flew (again at night) to Tashauz, a Turkmenistan city near the Uzbekistan border. The flight was on Turkmenistan Airlines. A meal of sorts was served, and passengers were not allowed to refuse the meal. We didn’t have to eat what was served, fortunately, but we could not refuse to accept it.

                OAT advised the weight limit for bags was 33 pounds for this internal Turkmenistan flight. As a result of that advice I took a much smaller bag than I had originally planned to use. It turns out the limit was not enforced (for us, anyway), and even when it is enforced the overweight charge is not all that much.

                Tashauz was much more like a typical town with a market and friendly people. We drove to the border, where we changed buses and drivers.

                I guess the border crossing was smooth enough if you’re used to that sort of thing, but it involved going through Turkmenistan’s exit process, carrying our bags about a mile over unpaved paths to a waiting van that took us to the Uzbekistan entry point. As many of you know, I take supplements, so I got interrogated about my supplements both leaving Turkmenistan and and again when entering Uzbekistan. In all fairness, I suppose there is a serious issue with drug smuggling, but really. Swansons? Puritan’s Pride?

                We entered Uzbekistan, which was by far my favorite of the countries we visited, and not the least because Batir, our trip leader, who lives in Uzbekistan, was also our local guide.

                We started in Khiva, one of the old Silk Road cities. I learned that, while the Silk Road itself is ancient, the name “Silk Road” only dates to the Nineteenth Century.

                Khiva is a charming and relatively compact city. It was here I ran into Uzbekistan’s confusing currency situation. It seems there is an official rate of exchange: 3700 som to the dollar. Most vendors will take dollars, and that’s the way to go when possible. I exchanged $25 at the official rate in Khiva. I stopped in a “mini market” and bought a small piece of cheese for the equivalent of $5 in som. I thought, “My God! These prices are outrageous.” As it turned out, the prices were not outrageous, they were based on black market exchange rates, which I’d learn more about in Bukhara, our next stop, and you’ll learn what I learned when my travelogue gets to Bukhara.

                On one of our Khiva days, we traveled all day to Nukus, which is in the autonomous Karakalpakstan Republic. It’s part of Uzbekistan (for now), but if it wished it could become its own country. The primary reason for the lengthy trip was to visit the Savitsky Museum, which contains art that was controversial in the Soviet times. If you’d like to explore the subject further, there is a documentary about the museum narrated by Ben Kingsley titled The Desert of Forbidden Art. There was some discussion as to whether the museum visit was worth the lengthy trip. From Nukus we returned to Khiva and then were off to Bukhara. Bukhara is where I got my education on Uzbekistan’s currency.

                We arrived on a Sunday, and as we were doing an orientation tour a young man approached me with postcards. I told him I might buy some the next day. He said he’d be in school, so I looked at what he had and bought a packet and some stamps. Then he said he’d like to change money. He offered 6,000 som to the dollar. It may not be the OAT way, but selling dollars for 6,000 som was a lot better than getting 3,700 for them, so I took him up on his offer. As it would turn out I was offered 7,600 by a man who would soon be travelling to the U.S. and needed dollars. I began to understand why the $5 piece of cheese was happening. Uzbekistan—at least urban Uzbekistan—is on a dollar (or euro) economy. Vendors who deal with tourists deal in dollars, and not too many people exchange at the official rates, which must make life hell for people who have no access to hard currency.

                For example, Chevrolet has a factory in Uzbekistan, and many people drive Chevys because Uzbekistan charges an import fee on foreign cars. Chevy makes, for example, a Cobalt that will run on either gasoline or methane (and has two tanks so drivers can switch between the two). The cars sell for $8,600, which is a lot of money for most Uzbeks. And it’s difficult to get dealers to accept som. And that’s just one example of why locals need access to hard currency.

                At any rate one mild criticism I have of this trip is I would like to have had a better understanding of how the currency situation worked before I exchanged any money at the official rate. Fortunately, I hadn’t changed too much.

                I think Bukhara was the most friendly of the cities I visited in Uzbekistan. People would stop and try out their English on me—which was always better than my Uzbek. This old city has many remnants of its days on the Silk Road including beautifully tiled madrassahs which have been converted into hostels, the Ark—the old city fortress, and, of course, bazaars and the usual souvenir vendors. In Bukhara I ate something that disagreed with me violently. Immodium would work for a while, and then it would hit again. Finally I gave up and used the antibiotics my doctor had prescribed “just in case.” Eventually that worked.

                Our next stop, Samarkand, was one of my main reasons for the trip, and it didn’t disappoint. I’d seen photos of Registan Square, but, oh my, they don’t do the place justice. Three blue-tiled madrassahs face the square. One, with its portrayal of lions (which look like tigers), would seem to violate Islam’s dictate against portraying live animals, but Islam in this part of the world had to compete with Zoroastrianism, so it’s a bit different and much less rigid than what we usually think of when we think of Islam.

                I was still fighting my whatever-it-was, so I learned to be on the lookout for restrooms and, to the best of my ability, not be too messy when the restrooms inevitably turned out to be eastern. We saw many of Samarkand’s sights including the beautiful necropolis and the observatory of Ulug-Bek, which was built in the 1420s.

                We were scheduled to visit Shakhrisabze, the birthplace of Tamerlane, but thankfully, we didn’t, since it would have resulted in yet another day of driving many hours. From Samarkand we next visited Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan. I didn’t know much about Tashkent before I went there, but it is a charming town. To get oriented our driver dropped us off a few blocks from the hotel. Our walk took us through a flea market. The next day I visited the flea market and found my favorite souvenir of this trip—a plexiglass trophy from 1961 commemorating Yuri Gagarin’s space flight orbiting the earth.

                We were in Tashkent a short two days and then continued to our last ‘Stan, Tajikistan. The border crossing was another of those where we were also changing buses and drivers and walking between the two countries. At least this border crossing was paved. When we made it to the Tajik side we discovered the thirteen of us, our trip leader, and the two local guides (more on that in a moment) would be traveling in a 20-passenger bus. Our luggage would follow us in another bus.

                Our local guide, Shabazz, was pretty good. I think he’s new to the guide business and not quite as, um, inventive as Natasha. He is from one of the villages. At first he was accompanied by a female guide whose name I never caught. She is one of these very accomplished (a legend in her own mind) people who are always so cheerful that people tolerate (because she is so nice) but would like to escape at their earliest convenience. My first encounter with her was when she insisted on taking my bag with my laptop and I insisted on keeping it. I won that one. If anyone thinks Muslim women in Tajikistan are not allowed to speak their mind, I’d suggest spending some time with her. She interrupted and contradicted Shabazz at will.

                We drove to Khujand and stayed in the worst hotel I’ve experienced in my life, and that includes fleabag hotels in Prague and Montreal that until now were in competition for the worst ever. As one of our group commented, “This reminds me of a women’s correctional facility.” And I would say that’s putting it kindly. Khujand is kind of a nowhere, and it’s where some tour groups (notably Road Scholar) end their ‘Stans tours. If it had been the only city in Tajikistan I visited, I’d have advised people to forget the whole country.

                But since I spent a couple of days there, I’ll tell you what I remember. We went to Arbob Palace, which Lonely Planet’s Central Asia guide describes as “strangely pointless.” I’d have to agree, but it’s modeled (loosely) on the Hermitage in St. Petersburg and it seems couples about to be married use it as a backdrop for their wedding photos. Weddings are a really big deal in Tajikistan. There were people having their wedding photos taken at the palace. And Shabazz’ female helper simply insisted that we be in those photos as a treat to the wedding party. To me it was clear the last thing the bride and groom wanted in their wedding photos was a bunch of dirty, badly dressed Americans who’d been on the road for nearly four weeks. It would have been obvious to someone suffering from severe Aspergers, but helper girl insisted and both we and the unfortunate couple found it easier to yield than argue. She asked the couple nosy questions about how long they’d known each other (four years), how they met (I forget), etc. At any rate, we finally had to say goodbye to helper girl because she had another group to guide. Awwwww.

                Shabazz proved to be surprisingly competent without all her help. He told us about how, when one area got too crowded, the Tajik government would establish another city and “encourage” people to move there. We noticed Tajiks drove very nice automobiles, mostly Mercedes and BMWs. Shabazz explained that the cars were used. It seems, according to Shabazz, that when Western Europeans tired of their cars after a couple of years, they’d allow them to be stolen, and their insurance would pay for them. Many such cars wound up in Tajikistan. But no right-hand drive cars were allowed. I think Shabazz believed this.  And then Shabazz told us about marriage customs in the villages of Tajikistan.             

                Shabazz told us of his own marriage. His parents and those of his bride-to-be arranged their marriage. Shabazz did not meet his wife until the day of the wedding, although he said he’d spoken with her a few times on the phone. After the wedding she told him she’d seen him in town a few times. And this is the way it’s done in the villages. This is so common in rural Tajikistan that Shabazz seemed surprised we didn’t do the same in America.

                We asked him what would happen if a woman chose not to be married. He said there had been one unattractive woman who had a job and a car in his village who did not get married for years. Eventually she married a widower and had to give up both her car and her job. I don’t know whether to consider that a happy ending.

                Once a couple is married they generally live with the husband’s family. The wife is permitted to visit her family when her husband and his family allow it. The youngest son is expected to care for his parents, and, as a result it is the youngest son who inherits the bulk of the family’s estate.

                From Khujand we hit the road for Dushanbe, and what a road it was. The reason we downsized to a 20-passenger bus became obvious—the roads through the mountains were simply neither good enough nor wide enough for the larger bus we’d given up. On the way we stopped at Istaravshan and visited traditional artists who made wood combs and knives. We had lunch at the home of an artist who is (allegedly) the last person in Tajikistan who specializes in the art of block printing on textiles.

                This artist is (allegedly) so famous that the president of Tajikistan (allegedly) came to his house and (allegedly) was so impressed the president (allegedly) gave the artist the president’s car. The artist has a very nice house. For some reason the (alleged) toilet available for visitors is (literally) a triangular concrete hole that appears not to have been cleaned this century (and maybe not a good part of last century, either). The smell was enough to trigger my gag reflex, and I’m not all that finicky. After using that restroom—or actually not using the restroom because it was just too filthy, we were supposed to eat. Thank heavens for Purell. If this guy is truly the legendary artist we’re supposed to believe he is, he really needs to do something about that bathroom.

                Anyway, we were soon back on the road to Dushanbe. We stopped at a couple of scenic sites, one of which had vendors selling dried fruit. At this site we were able to witness a man yelling at the vendors that they were unfair competition for vendors selling the same products elsewhere. Eventually we descended into Dushanbe, which is a charming city for the most part. For some reason, though, whoever designed a good portion of the tourist attractions seemed to have a stair fetish. You go up stairs, then down stairs only to go up stairs again. Go figure. The Tajik Museum of Antiquities is a definite must-see if you’re ever here. We had a museum guide that started taking us through the museum, but it was obvious that if I was going to see the whole thing, I couldn’t rely on the guide, so I broke off and did a self-guided tour. I was glad I did. One really nice thing about this trip is our trip leader did not take it personally if we split off from the group. I really appreciate Batir for allowing us this flexibility. We visited a museum of musical instruments and the local bazaar, but I simply must tell you about the Palace of Nowruz. This is a fairly new building decorated by 4,000 (or so) local artists over the course of five years. It was completed in 2014 at a reported cost of $60 million. According to a source I won’t name the actual number is closer to $2 billion. Supposedly this was all private money.

                At any rate, after entering the palace by climbing the requisite couple of stories of stairs, we were treated to a giant room which is available for weddings and other functions. The guide, who was so enthusiastic about the palace, told us the room would rent for $2,000. If you wanted food with that, it would be $5,000. Given the average annual wage in Tajikistan is $1,600, this was clearly beyond the reach of most Tajiks. We were then treated to yet another room on yet another level of the palace. This room was more ornate than the $2,000 room. In fact, by now we were on the verge of tacky, but more was to come.  There was a crystal room, a marble room, etc. All of these rooms are huge. In one of the rooms I spotted an open door and a restroom. I pointed that out to one of our group who had expressed a desire about to become a need to use the restroom. As he headed for the door our guide flew to the doors and slammed them shut saying, “That is for diplomats only.” The final room was full of mirrors. In fact, the mirrors had mirrors. By now we were having trouble not laughing—OK, not laughing too loudly. When the guide said she hoped the building would make the Guinness Book of World Records, I wondered what category they were aiming for.

                We met with a French student who lived in Dushanbe and told about how she’d adjusted to life in Tajikistan. When some of the group mentioned that Facebook was unavailable in Tajikistan, she responded there were ways to get around that (which Shabazz confirmed). Facebook was also blocked in Turkmenistan as was CNN. (Please note I don’t know much about Facebook; I have met too many people who have let it become a job, and I’m not looking for a job.)

                We ran into helpful girl who was guiding some British campers. Those poor Brits. First Brexit. Now helpful girl. And not even able to escape to a hotel room.

                We had the afternoon to prepare for our departure from the ‘Stans and our one-day stay in Istanbul. Our flight (sigh, again) was a late night one. We arrived in Istanbul in time for breakfast. I was thrilled that our trip leader was one I’d had on my first trip to Turkey in 2003, but I was truly sad for Istanbul. There were armed soldiers everywhere, and the two tourist sites we visited—the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market—had metal detectors at their entrances. I hope the world and Istanbul will get back to normal one of these days.

                The next day we left Istanbul. I headed for Sicily (more on that later); most of the others in our group headed back to the U.S.

                I would say this trip was one of the best I have taken with OAT. The itinerary needs some work—especially the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan part of the trip, which has that “If-It’s-Tuesday-This-Must-Be-Belgium” feel, and I’d suggest that, rather than driving from Tashkent to Dushanbe with the stay in Khujand, it would be better to fly to Dushanbe and spend more time there.   

                All-in-all, I would take this trip again based on what I learned and the sights I saw—especially the Silk Road cities in Uzbekistan. Batir was beyond excellent as a trip leader. And finally, the trip could not possibly have been as enjoyable had we not had such a fantastic group. We had three couples and seven single travelers. We spent more time with each other in four weeks than most of us spend with our families, significant others, partners, etc. And we got along amazingly well. Oh, we got on each others’ nerves at times—and I probably got on a lot of people’s nerves—those who’ve read some of my writings know I can be a bit, ummm, er acerbic at times. You can imagine what I’m like in person.

                One question I’ve been asked a lot is what was the food like. It was very meat based. And the quantity of food was more than adequate for the most part. (There was one meal at a stop on a highway that consisted of a small hamburger patty and clumps of mashed potatoes and rice; that was the only meal I remember being really bad, and who eats potatoes and rice at the same meal, anyway?)

                Well, as I said, for me it was off to Sicily.

                I have done some really stupid things in my life. Doing what OAT calls a back-to-back trip may be right up there. OAT offers some really good discounts, and on a back-to-back trip there’s usually no added airfare. As a result my trip to Sicily was probably half price. But I hadn’t planned on being exhausted, and I was still on antibiotics when the Sicily trip began. And there was more I hadn’t planned on.

                The Central Asia trip is new, and OAT is still ironing the kinks out of it. To me, that’s OAT at its best—constantly tweaking to get the trip to be the best it can be. The Sicily trip is OAT on an assembly line. This time of the year there’s a trip leaving every day or so. I guess I should have known that, but it didn’t register. Unfortunately, I started on an assembly line that was not the one I was supposed to be on.

                I had a day between trips, and I thought it would be an opportunity to relax and unpack for an extra day. That would make me wrong. First, I had the issue of flying to Rome on Turkish Air and flying to Palermo on Alitalia. This meant I once again had to pick my luggage up and recheck it at a different terminal. When I landed in Palermo I found my driver, who was holding cards for both OAT and Explore. I got to him first, but shortly after I got to him a woman who was on an Explore trip walked up to him. He was holding the Explore sign, after all. He told her to call her driver, which was simply moronic, if you think about it. How was she supposed to call her driver? She didn’t know his number. And he was holding the sign, after all. I told him I wasn’t in a big hurry and maybe he could offer the woman more assistance. So he called her driver. He and I took off, and he delivered me… to the wrong hotel. I showed him I thought it was the wrong hotel, but he showed me on his phone that this was the hotel OAT had told him to drop me at. He wouldn’t stick around. And it was, indeed, the wrong hotel. My hotel was a mile away. OAT has said they’d give me a $100 travel voucher to apply to my next trip for the inconvenience, but there may well not be a next trip. I’ll talk about that later.

                I need to back up just a tad. Before the trip, while I was in Central Asia, I received an email from Plinio, our Sicily group leader, advising how difficult it was to exchange money in Sicily. Plinio advised using an ATM card. I hadn’t known I’d need one, so I didn’t bring one. So I changed money in Istanbul with a vendor at the Spice Market I’d done business with previously, and I didn’t change a lot of money.

                So here I was in Palermo at the wrong hotel with my luggage (thank heavens I don’t buy a lot of souvenirs) and on antibiotics. I sucked it up and walked to the right hotel. It wasn’t really that much different than walking between the border checkpoints in Central Asia. When I got there I discovered my room for the first night was really small and I’d get to move into the right room when the group arrived the next day. So I wouldn’t be unpacking for four days after all.

                The next day the group arrived. There were fifteen of us.    

                We explored Palermo, which had some interesting sights including a cathedral that had been built on the site of a mosque which, in turn, had been built on the site of a church. Another cathedral was decorated with (and I don’t think I’m exaggerating) millions of tiles. The workmen included people of all religions which resulted in a Byzantine look. One of many annoying things about this trip is it seems every city and site had a “local guide.” Some of them were very good. Some not so much. The guide in Palermo was one of the good ones. She pointed out an area of flea markets. The next day I visited them, which was interesting although I didn’t find anything.  That evening we were told about the Sicilian Mafia by the son of the man who was in charge of the Mafia for many years. This was probably the highlight of the trip. The next day we left Palermo for Mazara, where we explored the city, which included a Tunisian area built in Kasbah style. Our guide knew a resident of the Kasbah, and he showed us around. We saw the museum where the “dancing satyr” discovered in the Mediterranean by a fisherman is now housed. That evening we prepared a dinner in a restaurant. The next day we saw how salt is produced from the sea. This is about as interesting as it sounds. The next day we visited the Valley of Temples dating back to the 3^rd and 4^th Centuries BC (or BCE if you prefer). That night we stayed at an “agriturismo,” or an agricultural activity the Sicilian government has allowed to cater to tourists—sort of a B & B. The next day was one I was looking forward to—a tour of the Villa Romano del Casale, a Roman villa discovered buried in mud in the 19^th Century. Our local guide knew every detail and wanted to share them with us. I just wanted to look at the mosaics. That day we continued to Ragusa. The next day we were treated to rides in Fiat 500s. This was a real treat for me as it may be the first time I wedged myself into a space smaller than a modern-day coach seat on a plane. The following day the group took a dairy farm tour. I took a much-needed break and rested.

                We then headed for Catania, stopping in Syracuse on the way. Syracuse was the birthplace of Archimedes of “Eureka!” fame. By the time we reached Catania, our final city, I was thrilled just to have survived. We visited the local World War II Museum which had a sign recommending we see a film. The group followed the local guide; I wanted to watch the film, which was an excellent history of World War II, starting well before the war and continuing until it suddenly stopped in 1943. It seems the film is supposed to take us to the Allied invasion of Sicily, and the museum takes it from there.

                We were in Catania as Sicily was preparing for the G7 meeting in Taormina, so I skipped the trip there and rested. The final day of the trip we took a drive to Mt. Etna. And the next day I came home.

                As you can tell I did not enjoy the Sicily trip. I take responsibility for being tired when the trip began, but there are some issues with the trip that OAT really needs to think about. The trip has too many activities that are questionable, among them the Fiat 500 drive and preparing dinner in Mazara. And there are a lot of activities that drag on longer than they should, among them the painted horse carts. These carts are indeed beautiful, and a brief explanation of their history would be interesting. The operative word being brief.

                Another issue is I was frequently not aware what we were going to do—for example, a visit to the chocolate shop turned out to be an opportunity to be told how chocolate was made, sample some tiny samples, and buy something. This was a “discovery?” I think it would be a good idea also to advise people in advance that the day will be strenuous when that is the case. It’s not great to board the bus, become part of a captive audience, and find you’ve wasted a day when, at worst, you could be doing something you’d prefer to do—even if that something is reading a book at the hotel. Every minute of a vacation does not have to have some activity!

                Again, I acknowledge I started this trip tired and not feeling great, but even now, a few weeks later even writing about some of these experiences is unpleasant.

                Which brings me to travel in general these days.

                I started flying on a somewhat regular basis in 1971. At that time I was 6’6” tall. I’ve since shrunk to 6’5”. In the 1970s I fit in airline seating. I do not recall having my knees embedded in the seat in front of me, inches away from someone’s kidneys. Nor do I recall having to sit with my legs in a V-shape with one knee in the aisle and the other keeping my seatmate from lowering their tray table (and I’m talking to you here, Alitalia—your seating sucks). With the exception of the flight from Detroit to Amsterdam and the flight from Minneapolis to Kansas City, every seat on every plane was taken. On the flight from Paris to Minneapolis I actually had to ask the man in front of me not to put his seat back. (“Excuse me, sir. My knees are embedded in your seat, and I’d like to be able to use my legs when we get to Minneapolis.”) And with the exception of the flight from Minneapolis to Kansas City, not one airline employee even noted my discomfort. On that last leg of the trip, a flight attendant told me there were seats in the exit row if I’d like one. I did. Thank you, Delta.

                Even when I flew to Greece two years ago airline seats were not this uncomfortable, even for me. I’ve been flying for a long time, and I’ve been tall for a long time, so I can truly paraphrase Norma Desmond here and say yes, I am tall; it’s the airline seats that have gotten small. And I guess that’s not going to change. I have reservations for a trip to the Suez Canal next February. After this trip, I’m about 85% sure I’m going to cancel. It will cost me to cancel, but when I think of getting on another long flight, I shudder. I have until October to decide.

                I’d hoped to be able to use some of the many American Airlines AAdvantage miles I’ve accrued over the years to fly business or first class on the Suez Canal trip. Even this far in advance that’s simply not possible. Even coach seats are not available. Evidently American has decided it’s enough that they let you accrue miles; using them for something of meaningful value is simply beyond the pale.

                Add to the discomfort and the inability to use frequent flyer miles the hoops TSA puts you through these days, and you’ve got a trifecta of reasons not to travel.

                In short, while I enjoy travel, traveling is more trouble than it’s worth. The cost benefit analysis does not work out when you take into account that the flying part of the equation is downright painful.

© 2017 Larry Roth

Frugality Books Old and New & Some Other Books Just for Fun

Frugality may not be for everyone. Not too long ago I explained to someone how he could easily save money on an item he was getting ready to buy. He looked at me with an expression that said, “Who cares about saving money?”

                The Unitarian church I was a member of once pointed out I’d not met my pledge. Their fiscal year was July through June. I itemize every other year, so I explained I’d give them two years’ contributions, but one would be after January 1 and the other would be before December 31. I got blank looks. I also got blank looks when I asked for a donation receipt for many boxes of books I gave them for a book sale. It was as if saving money on taxes was against their religion. For those and some other reasons I no longer consider myself Unitarian. But that’s for another post.

                At any rate, saving money is certainly not against my religion. I’m always looking for ideas on how to do it better, and I like to see what the younger generation has to say about saving money.

I read a review of Lauren Greutman’s The Recovering Spender and got the book from the library. There seems to be a formula these days for these books. Ms. Greutman says she grew up middle class (in a six bedroom, three-and-a-half-bathroom house on seventeen landscaped acres in Saratoga Springs, New York—I’m not sure what class she thinks that would put her in the middle of). Her husband is evidently a saver who was shocked when she put a full-price package of Doritos in her shopping basket right after they got married. (Perhaps the lesson here is: Go shopping with your fiancé BEFORE you get married.) At any rate, Ms. Greutman wound up in charge of the family budget and racked up $42,000 in consumer debts behind her husband’s back. She fessed up and they worked their way out of debt, which led to Ms. Greutman’s starting a blog, which led to this book.

Ms. Greutman has some good information for her readers (like deciding cable TV, for example, is not necessary to life—especially if you’re drowning in debt) and for some time I wondered what it was that I found so disagreeable about this book, and it finally hit me: Ms. Greutman is approaching frugality as a chore, not as something she enjoys. She tells about her first time using coupons. She was embarrassed. She gave up credit cards for some time, and when she decided to see if she could control herself if she got one, she found she couldn’t. She was feeling down and took her card to Walmart and made a bunch of impulse purchases. She found that she had spent an extra $2,000 on the card and didn’t know where the money had gone or what she had spent it on. She wisely gave up the card. I wonder about her long-term commitment to frugality.

Ms. Greutman’s book is a sad commentary on our times. So many personal finance books these days seem to be tales of how people did stupid things, got in way over their heads, found God or a reasonable facsimile thereof, got themselves out of debt and are now getting book contracts to tell their stories. One (and I forgot the title and author) even shared the author’s many failed suicide attempts, which gives the term “too much information” new meaning, and, while I sympathize with the author, that’s not what I was looking for in a book on saving money.

Anna Newell Jones’ The Spender’s Guide to Debt-Free Living is better. Ms. Jones also was in debt—to the tune of $23,605.10—that’s the exact amount. Not bad, she says, but bad enough for her. She is a spender, not a saver, but she decided to stop spending until she paid her debts. She called what she was doing a “spending fast.” Once she was out of debt, she realized what way too few people ever find out—she could live on a lot less money, and that gave her more control over her life. She discusses the negative impacts of debt. In our society it’s so accepted that everyone has debt that few people give it any thought. If you’re one of the people who has that sneaky feeling that debt is not all it’s cracked up to be, you need to read this book. Ms. Jones gives many concrete ways to save money and, while she ends the book by telling her readers once they’ve gotten out of debt, they can go on a spending diet rather than a fast, I have the feeling that many readers will have gone a long way toward realizing their life is fuller and more theirs without debt and will maybe stay on the fast a while longer.

At the other end of the cheap spectrum is Jeff Yaeger, who has a series of “Ultimate Cheapskate” books and Amy Dacyczyn (and there’s a reason this lady remains a legend more than two decades after she retired her newsletter). These people and their followers ENJOY being cheapskates. They are having fun. They go curb shopping. They see nothing to be ashamed of in what they’re doing—in fact, they’d be ashamed if they didn’t get a deal. And they’ve taught others their secrets. If you take a look at Amy Dacyczyn’s books, you see happy cheap people repurposing everything including dryer lint and frozen orange juice lids. I saw Jeff Yaeger do a presentation, and the one thing I remember is he repurposed one of those mesh orange bags into a dish scrubber. He seemed to be having a lot of fun, too. Jeff Yaeger decided long ago he did not want to devote his life to work, so he didn’t. One of his books, How to Retire the Cheapskate Way tells how he managed to live outside the cubicle.

While I was writing this I happened on a copy of Amy Dacyczyn’s The Complete Tightwad Gazette that had been donated to the library. It was $2, and I was happy to get it. I had loaned my (autographed) copies of The Tightwad Gazette, The Tightwad Gazette II, and The Tightwad Gazette III, and, well, you know how that went. Maybe I’ll get them back in the borrower’s will. At any rate, re-reading Amy’s suggestions was refreshing and enjoyable, and it’s nice to have them all in one volume. This book is 959 pages and includes an exhaustive index. It far exceeds anything I’ve read on frugality lately. As Amy has said since day one, she is “promoting thrift as a viable alternative lifestyle.”

Both Jeff Yaeger and Amy Dacyczyn decided before they got in financial difficulties what they wanted and what they could do without. And that they could have fun doing without stuff they didn’t need. And they and their readers have found that, even if their neighbors might think they’re a little eccentric, well, so what? And who cares?

Another writer who truly seems to enjoy his take on frugality is John Hoffman, who wrote The Art and Science of Dumpster Diving. John tells how he’s found treasure (really) in Dumpsters. The treasures include the wedding ring he gave his wife. Dan used to live near The Ohio State University, and he tells me that when the spring quarter ended and students were departing for the summer, the Dumpsters in his neighborhood became full of treasure. Another book on what’s free for the taking is Mongo: Adventures in Trash, by Ted Botha. It is amazing what gets tossed.

I’ve lived in my house for nearly nineteen years, and I know most of my neighbors. I realize I’m a source of amusement for some of them, but so what? A few years ago one of our neighbors was suddenly taken ill at the age of 93. His house was sold to a rehabber who emptied the house into a Dumpster. One of the neighbors mentioned it, and I said, “Oh, yes. There was some good stuff there.” The neighbor said, “We wondered how long it would take you to go Dumpster diving.”

A house on my street is being rehabbed. The previous owners had metal awnings. A couple of years ago one fell off the back of the house, and the owner put it on the curb. I put it over one of my basement windows to divert water. (All right, before you say, “Ewwwww!,” it’s on the back of the house, and it really doesn’t look THAT bad.) The rehabbers removed the rest of the awnings. One of my neighbors said he supposed those awnings were in the Dumpster in front of the house. I told him I’d checked, and they weren’t there. He laughed and said, “Of course you did.”

Well, why not? You never know what’s there unless you look.

On recycle days, I can usually find the past week’s New York Times when I walk my dog. And maybe even some coupons. People get used to my looking through their recycle bins. They don’t care. And I don’t consider it a chore. It’s free, and I get a kick out of it. (And in 1988 the US Supreme Court ruled in California v. Greenwood that garbage on the curb was fair game, so it’s legal, too.)

Last weekend I went to an estate sale. I spent $10 for three great shirts and a pack of unopened underwear. I don’t know if Ms. Greutman would be caught dead at an estate sale, much less buying used clothing. But $10 doesn’t go very far in a retail store.

Last year I went to an estate sale that was being done by the family of the deceased. Everything was high priced and not selling. (That’s one reason estate sales are best left to professionals.) There was a bunch of lotion, and I asked if they’d make a deal if I bought it all. I wound up, after some negotiating, with enough to last a couple of years for $7.50. (I have very well-controlled diabetes, and I learned the hard way to keep my feet moisturized.) There are frequently some good deals on unexpected items at these sales—even on canned food. I went to one looking for books and wound up with a bag full of cheap groceries. (If you decide to buy groceries at an estate sale, be aware of the use by dates; it isn’t a bargain if you have to throw it out after opening it.)

A few weeks ago I picked up Joan Ransom Shortney’s How to Live on Nothing at yet another estate sale. This book was first published in 1961. The copy I found is a Pocket Book edition published in 1968. I had read the book before, but I had forgotten how good it is. A lot of what Ms. Shortney recommends would be somewhat difficult today, and much of it would be more effort than we’d probably want to expend (taking envelopes apart, turning them inside out, regluing and reusing them stands out as something that would be more trouble than it’s worth), but a lot of it remains valid. I’d forgotten how powdered milk can make recipes more appealing. It’s on my shopping list. She discusses material, things to check when buying clothing at thrift stores, how to find good furniture at auctions (although these days, I’d go for estate sales instead—I don’t think the modern-day estate sale had come into its own when this book was written). Somewhat off the point, but, hey, it’s my blog, are Ms. Shortney’s recommendations for taking care of your teeth. Don’t floss unless your dentist instructs you to and use a firm toothbrush, which brings me to one of my many pet peeves. I like firm toothbrushes, but they’re really hard to find these days. I found some (unopened) at an estate sale and used them. My dental hygienist commented on how clean my teeth were. I told her I’d been using a firm toothbrush. She said, “They’re not supposed to be selling those anymore.” When I said I’d found them at an estate sale, she wasn’t thrilled with that, either. To me using a soft toothbrush feels like brushing my teeth with cotton candy, and, darn it, I should be able to buy firm toothbrushes if I want to.

Ms. Shortney makes an excellent point about reuse. “[W]hen you use something ordinarily thrown away you can be extra proud—proud you’ve avoided spending money you cannot spare and proud you’ve done the national economy a service by cutting down on our national vice—waste.”

One thing I find interesting is how the further back you go, the more frugal our ancestors were, which leads me to The American Frugal Housewife, a book written in 1829 by Lydia Maria Child. A copy of the book was discovered at an old book auction by Alice Geffen and reprinted in 1972. A quick read reveals that frugality really was a chore in the 19^th Century, but then there was no TV, so people had a lot more time on their hands. We should be grateful being cheap takes much less effort these days. It often boils down to: Don’t buy stuff you don’t need.

As I’ve mentioned before in “The Chickens Are Coming Home To Roost,” we frugal folk are often considered a little off by those in the media-approved mainstream, but when we look at our lives and realize how much there is to be had just for picking it up off the curb and how little we actually must spend to have enjoyable lives, we also look around and wonder what is wrong with people who spend way beyond their means on things that will only keep them in debt and trapped in their jobs. And we have learned what Madison Avenue has hoped will remain a secret: Things will not make us happy.

Neil Wertheimer recently wrote about lessons from the rich in the AARP Magazine. Noting that the most popular vehicle among the wealthy is a Ford pickup and that the wealthy routinely shop at Amazon, Walmart, and Target, he concluded: “Frugality isn’t a punishment; it’s a positive, commonsense approach to life. So focus on value and quality, not prestige or appearances.”

And now some books just for fun.

One non-frugality book I’ve gone through lately is Noah Hawley’s Before the Fall about the what happens to a man who was thrown clear of a plane that crashes off Long Island and who rescues the other survivor, a four-year-old boy, by swimming several miles to shore. The plot includes a Rush Limbaugh-type blowhard and a co-pilot named Bush from Odessa, Texas whose uncle, a powerful senator, got him in the National Guard for pilot training. (I wonder if he was related to the Bushes of Midland.) The book describes the hell the hero is put through—the blowhard even hints that the hero may have deliberately caused the crash. Behind this excellent story is a capable critique of our 24-hour news cycle.

Another fun book is Edward Sorel’s Mary Astor’s Purple Diary. Mr. Sorel found some old New York newspapers when he was replacing a linoleum floor in 1965. The papers discussed Mary Astor’s child custody trial. Mr. Sorel decided one day he’d write about the trial, and in 2016 at age 87 he did. The book parallels his own story of two marriages and a somewhat difficult childhood. I was attracted to the book because Mary Astor starred in one of my favorite films, Dodsworth. As it turns out, the trial happened during the filming of that movie. During the day, she worked on the film; at night she was on trial. In spite of that she turned in an amazing performance.

Finally, one of my 25¢ estate sale finds was Caravan, by Lady Eleanor Smith, one of England’s interwar “Bright Young Things.” It was a fun read written in 1942, three years before Lady Smith died at age 43. Set in the Victorian era, it is decidedly not Victorian.

Until next time… .

© 2017 Larry Roth

Some Reviews

                I’ve come across one film and read a couple of books recently. I recommend all of them.

                The film is The Big Short. If you’re curious about how the mortgage crisis developed and how ridiculous things got before the crash, this is the film for you. I almost didn’t watch it because it clocks in at over two hours. Since it’s on Netflix, I figured I could watch an hour and then come back to it later for the rest. I didn’t have to. It’s the fastest two-hour film I’ve ever watched. It’s based on fact, and when it takes liberties with the actual events, it tells you. The film is about several people who were sure or were told (one group by a wrong number phone call) the crash was coming. One man was so certain of a crash he had securities designed so that he could short the mortgage market by a firm happy to take his money, since it was axiomatic the housing market would never deflate. The group that answered the wrong number investigated the mortgage market in Florida and discovered a stripper who had five mortgages on houses she thought she could always refinance as well as tenants who were not aware their landlord, who had the mortgage in the name of his dog, had defaulted—I guess it was actually the dog that defaulted (or maybe ate the mortgage). The group investigating Florida mortgages were convinced to short the market. One thing that stands out is how willfully everyone in a position to question the madness, from the ratings agencies to the SEC, ignored their jobs, in no small part because their continued existence depended on repeat business.

With our new administration and congress in the process of dismantling the protections (including the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau) the previous one put in place to prevent this sort of thing from happening again, I recommend this film as a way for us to protect ourselves, since no one else is going to be looking out for our interests.  

I listened to Thomas Frank’s Listen, Liberal, which was written during the 2016 campaign. Post-campaign, Mr. Frank could be considered a modern-day Cassandra. He gives a biting commentary on what’s wrong with the Democratic party—namely that they’ve cozied up to the well-educated and well-heeled elite. The Democrats have abandoned the concerns of their (former) working class base for those affluent (primarily coastal) city dwellers whose concerns are bike paths, meritocracy, and individual opportunity. Perhaps it’s because these people are the ones writing the checks, but, as we’ve seen in the past election, these people are not the ones voting in states needed to win an electoral majority. What’s even worse, is the Democratic elites’ answer for everything is education. If you’re out of work because of NAFTA (which was pushed through congress by Bill Clinton), it’s your fault for not having the education to get another job. Mr. Frank reminds us it was also Bill Clinton who pushed through welfare “reform,” depriving many of a means to a legal income. What is interesting to me is Frank’s quoting Democrats who sound like very conservative Republicans. (Larry Summers, for example, said, “One of the reasons that inequality has probably gone up in our society is that people are being treated closer to the way that they’re supposed to be treated.” You didn’t go to Harvard? Well, you deserve what you got.) There simply seems to be no sympathy or even empathy for the single parent making minimum wage who does not have the time, energy, money or work schedule to get an education. But, then, what kind of contributions will the party get from these losers?

Now that Mr. Frank has proven to be correct, will the party take some action? Or will it just slap some makeup on the dead horse its current leadership has left behind?

Finally, What We Do Now, edited by Dennis Johnson and Valerie Merians (and if I were either of these people, I would be really pissed to have my name in such microscopic print on the cover—it’s a lot of work to edit a book) was thrown together in two months. The book has contributions by twenty-seven writers on “standing up for your values in Trump’s America.” Some of the contributions are painfully predictable (How many ways can Bill McKibben say the same thing?), but there are a couple of surprises. Allan Lichtman, a history professor and developer of a prediction system, “the Keys to the White House,” echoes some of Thomas Frank’s points except Lichtman is more in favor of free trade. Cognitive linguist George Lakoff tells us Trump uses the brains of those listening to him to his advantage. I’m not sure I agree—I’ve listened to Trump, and all I get out of doing so is wondering how the man got as far as he did. Nevertheless, he did win the electoral vote, so maybe there’s something to what Mr. Lakoff says. Dave Eggers gives us several vignettes he witnessed just before and just after the election. He notes that in Michigan, where Trump won by 13,107 votes, 110,000 people voted down ballot but did not vote for president. Writer George Saunders offers a scathing view of the media in his contribution titled, “The Braindead Megaphone.” He savages reporters—especially on the local level. While reading it, I couldn’t help but think of a local station that features a married couple as dual anchors. They’re so sweet it makes me want to barf, and when they show photos of their children and dog (“This is Sweetie Pie in the snow; oh, look here’s another one of him; oh, and here he’s petting Fido, etc.”),  I want to scream, “This is not why I watch the news.” I mean, I like dogs as well as anyone (children not so much), but I have one of my own. Anyway, evidently this kind of thing goes on everywhere these days. Mr. Saunders gives the example of even when local media are reporting they’re frequently dwelling on the obvious—malls are busy during Christmas because people buy presents, so mall parking is more difficult to find that time of year. I’d add to that people buying shovels and salt and what the highway departments will be doing to the roads when a snowstorm is predicted. When I see something like that, I say, to no one in particular, “My, wasn’t THAT informative?” I am glad I’m not the only one who finds such reporting dumb and annoying, but I’d be happier of someone would elevate reporting to maybe at least a third- grade level. 

By the way, and I guess this is a recommendation for a third book, I highly recommend Dave Eggers’ The Circle, which is a novel about a Google world taken to the extreme.

Incidentally, I know people are reading this blog. I’d really like to get some discussions going, so please feel free to comment.

© 2017 Larry Roth

The Chickens Are Coming Home to Roost

                Recently the PBS NewsHour had a segment on the experiences of many middle-age Americans in today’s economy. The segment focused on two people: Elizabeth White, the author of Fifty-five, Unemployed, and Faking Normal, and Neal Gabler, who had written “The Secret Shame of Middle-Class Americans,” which was published in The Atlantic last May.

                Before I go further, let me admit I have not read Ms. White’s book. It was self-published, which is pretty much what writers, including this one, must resort to these days to get their works in print. The downside to self-publishing is it takes a while for libraries to get our books on the shelves. I promise I will read the book when it gets to my library. That said, as I write this, the book has thirteen reviews on Amazon--all of them five stars, and not many books can match that—especially just two months after publication! From the reviews, it appears the book is a resource for those who find themselves laid off after an age-shortened career and features more than 100 online resources.

                I read Mr. Gabler’s article in The Atlantic, and all I could do was shake my head and think, “What a screw-up.” Think of something financially stupid, and Mr. Gabler’s done it. Buy a condo in Brooklyn. Check. Send the kids to a private school. Check. Rent then buy a house in the Hamptons. Check. Sell the Brooklyn condo at a loss. Check. Become a one-income family. Check. (Mr. Gabler is the author of several books, but even though his income is variable, that’s the one income the family chose to rely on.) Keep your spouse in the dark about the looming financial Armageddon. Check. Have your parents use your inheritance to pay for your kids’ expensive college. Check. Become delinquent on your taxes. Check. Drain the 401(k) to pay for a daughter’s wedding. (Paying, presumably, the early withdrawal penalty along with the income taxes. AAUGH!) Check. I couldn’t believe a kid would allow her parents to put their retirement at risk for something so transitory as a wedding, but… . Well, you get the point. Mr. Gabler says, “Perhaps none of this would have happened if my income had grown the way incomes used to grow in America. It didn’t, and they don’t.” Mr. Gabler doesn’t ask for sympathy, fortunately; he merely points out he is in the same boat as at least 47% of Americans his age—unable to come up with $400 if a sudden need to do so arose.        

                How did we get into this situation?

                Let’s take a trip back to the heady days of the 1990s.

                Thanks to an article in The New York Times in 1992 that mentioned my book, Living Cheap, and Living Cheap News, the newsletter I had just begun, I found myself part of what the media called the “New Frugality” movement. I got to see, first hand, how the media regarded frugality.

                A couple of the newspaper writers, usually the guys, were intrigued by the idea of living below their means. The women not so much. Magazines were pretty much the opposition.

                I got invited to appear on Dr. Dean Edell’s show, Dr. Dean. It was a disaster. I’d been told the show was about frugality. It was. Frugality as a mental illness! I was “diagnosed” on the air by the late Carla Perez as “unhappy,” and the reasons for my unhappiness could be I was unhappily married. Or maybe I was single. Or maybe I was unhappy in my career. Well, I was single, but certainly not unhappy—except for being ambushed on TV. I was not happy about that! While Carla was droning on about my unhappiness, the producers kept waving signs that said, “Jump in.” I decided Carla was quite adequately making a fool of herself. And, besides, being the polite Midwestern boy that I was, I would not want to be rude and interrupt such an insightful, if inaccurate, spur-of-the-moment diagnosis.

                When the audience was allowed to speak, their questions were about how to save money. One questioner asked what I did with the money I saved. I said I bought bonds. Dr. Dean quipped, “He just can’t help himself.”

                Actually, if I’d been allowed to speak at length, I would have explained I wanted to build an independent income so I would have the option of doing what I wanted with my life and not be tied to an employer or dependent on a salary. I’d had to make two forced relocations in the previous ten years (one in 1982 and the other in 1987), and I didn’t like not being in control. Not even of where I lived.

                But Carla’s point was frugality is unnatural, and if I were happy, I’d be out spending everything I made—and then some—just like every other red-blooded American male—just like Neal Gabler!

                About a year later a writer for Worth contacted me. We talked at length. He seemed surprised at how good being frugal had been for me. Sometime later I asked him how he’d been able to use the information I’d given him. He said he’d discovered some bad feelings among some of the people in the New Frugality movement, and his editors had told him to pursue that story. The article (“The Three Scrooges”) was negative not only about the movement, but about the people discussed. Fortunately, I was not one of them.

                Shortly after that, I was screened for yet another daytime talk show. I came across as too normal—that’s actually what the producer said. They were going for some “more real people.” I saw the show. I was happy not to have been chosen.

                After Amy Dacyczyn retired, she was conned into opening her life to a reporter for Money. She didn’t really want to do the interview. After all, she had absolutely nothing to gain. After the reporter hinted Amy may have “something to hide,” Amy agreed. The article was savage. This same writer, who was childless at the time, would go on to write articles advising working mothers not to leave the work force. She may still be out there lurking and looking to write other articles that better demonstrate her lack of qualifications and objectivity.

                In 1997 Amy agreed to write a chapter for a book I’d proposed. The book was published by Berkley in 1998 as The Simple Life, although my title had been The New Frugality Anthology. (“Simple” was so much more “upscale” than “frugality.”) When we were talking, she said frugality was a hard sell given the economy was so good. I remember saying, “But when the economy is good, that’s when it’s easy to save for times when the economy is not so good.” But she was right. Frugality was a hard sell in the 1990s.

                Then came the dot.com bust, and the Great Recession. It was like the seven years of Biblical famine following the seven years of feast. Only it’s gone on longer than seven years for many people.

                Neal Gabler is or will be 67 this year. As he admits, he may have dug a hole he and his wife will never get out of. It’s almost certainly too late for him to recover. But at least he can sell the occasional magazine article. Not everyone has that option.

                For Neal Gabler and others in my generation who listened to the media about how silly and at times unpatriotic (remember the message after 9/11 was to go out and… shop!) frugality is, it’s too late. The chickens have come home to roost.

                But what about those who are young enough to take control of their finances? The lessons of Neal Gabler and the 47% of middle-age Americans who would have to scrounge to come up with $400 for an emergency should be clear.

                Get frugal already! Start saving. One thing I will guarantee is when you get to Neal Gabler’s age you will be astounded at how quickly the past 20 or 30 years have flown by. So make some painless adjustments to your spending today to avoid a painful old age.

                Think for yourself. If the media—or anyone else--starts telling you how silly it is to save money, ignore them. I’ll admit I had a much different upbringing than many in my age group in that I was foisted off on my grandmother a lot when I was young. She immigrated to the US in 1912, homesteaded in what would become part of the Dust Bowl, and survived the Great Depression as well as the home front deprivations of World War II. While I didn’t have first-hand knowledge of those times, I certainly heard a lot about them. As a result, I was always careful with money, although if my grandmother were here, I’m sure she’d be appalled at some of the things I spend money on.

                And don’t count on resorting to dog food in your old age. As one who buys food for our canine companion, I can tell you even Alpo is getting pricey.

                Take control. Think for yourself. Learn to decide what you want and what you actually need. Run your life like a business. Eliminate superfluous expenses the way businesses eliminate employees. Save and invest. And earn yourself a nice life.

© 2017 Larry Roth

The Mortgage Deduction

I’ve written before about the mortgage deduction, but now that the new Congress may actually do something about eliminating it, Realtors, their lackeys and lobbyists are having a hissy fit. One such hissy fit can be found here in a January 8, 2017 editorial in the Wall Street Journal titled “Policy Purity is Bad Politics.” The link below will take you to the editorial if you are a WSJ digital subscriber:

http://www.wsj.com/articles/policy-purity-is-bad-politics-1483914192

If you’re not a subscriber, Google around. I found the editorial available at:

http://www.throughtheeyesofgeek.com/politics/2017/01/policy-purity-is-bad-politics-wall-street-journal/

It’s probably available elsewhere as well.

The following is my response. We’ll see if it makes it into the WSJ:

In response to Hugh Hewitt’s defense of the mortgage deduction in “Policy Purity Is Bad Politics,” and especially his assertion that there is a great attraction to this deduction in “Trump country,” I have to ask who, exactly, in “Trump country” is attached to this deduction? Working class people by and large rent or own homes that, if mortgaged at all, most likely don’t throw off large enough mortgage interest deductions to justify itemizing—especially at today’s low rates. No, Mr. Hewitt, those folks not only don’t benefit from this subsidy, it’s probably one of the reasons they voted for Mr. Trump in the first place.

                The middle and upper classes in this country simply must get over the idea they are owed rewards from taxpayers for buying themselves a place to live. At one time mortgage subsidies may have made sense, but that time is gone. Younger people are choosing to rent. Homes on the coasts are far too expensive for entry-level buyers. The mortgage deduction has become just one more way the working class and the poor are subsidizing the wealthy. It’s trickle up income redistribution.

                Beyond that, how much sense does the deduction make economically? The 2016 standard deduction for a couple filing jointly is $12,600. The tax rate for most filers—especially those in “Trump country”--won’t exceed 33%. For those whose mortgage puts them above the standard deduction, they get a whopping $33 back (paid for by taxpayers) for every $100 they send to their mortgagees. It’s not a great deal for most of those in “Trump country.” It’s certainly not a great deal for renters or for those who cannot afford to buy a home or for taxpayers.

                While the Tax Reform Act of 1986, for which Ronald Reagan is still praised, established a precedent for eliminating interest deductions with no period of adjustment, I agree with Mr. Hewitt that it would not be fair to pull the plug on this deduction immediately. But it would be fair to draw a line in the sand and say, for example, mortgages closed before January 1, 2018 will be deductible but those closed or refinanced after that date will not be. In 30 years we’d be rid of this deduction. Those who have the deduction will not lose it, and those who want a house enough to buy one without taxpayers subsidizing them will do so.  

                Eliminating this deduction, which benefits the few, in exchange for a higher standard deduction, which will benefit everyone, is almost certain to please those in “Trump country.”

© 2017 Larry Roth

Stuff

                One thing I really missed when I had a (more than) full-time job was having time to read for pleasure. Nowadays I have the time, and it’s amazing where my reading takes me.

                I picked up Eric Larrabee’s The Self-Conscious Society: The State of American Culture at Mid-Century at an estate sale. The book is a collection of essays published in 1960 when Mr. Larrabee was managing editor of American Heritage magazine. The last essay, “After Abundance, What?” mentions “The Midas Plague,” a 1954 short story by Frederik Pohl. Thanks to the library’s Interlibrary Loan program I was able to find the short story in a collection of Pohl’s work titled Midas World.

                The story is about a world that has resolved all its energy issues and produces so much stuff that people are required to consume. In this society less is truly more. The wealthy are allowed to live in small homes and do not have to consume as much as the lower classes. A young man who is caught committing the improbable crime of stealing a painting is described as a “Pretty poor kid. Forty-two-room house.” It took the police three hours to find the painting, which was hanging on a wall. The kid’s punishment was to be lowered two grades, meaning he’d have to live in a bigger house and consume more. In this society, consumption is nearly everyone’s occupation. Actual productive work is a privilege. The main character works one day a week; when he moves up a grade, he is allowed to work two days a week. The hero of the story does come up with a solution to the under-consumption problem, but I won’t spoil the story for you.

                Of course, this is science fiction written in the heady days when, in post-War America, anything seemed possible—even cars with massive tailfins.

                Recently stuff—getting it and getting rid of it—has been on my mind. As I mentioned, Dan and I consolidated 4,000 square feet worth of stuff into 1,600 square feet. Actually, we’re still in the process. As I began writing this, Dan presented me with four more boxes of stuff to take to a thrift store. It’s amazing how all the stuff we once thought we needed can quickly become a nuisance.

                About now would be a good time to take a break from this article and Google “Bargain Hunting” by Truckstop Honeymoon. Listen to it. I need to listen to it every once in a while, too.

                I still go to estate sales. These days, though, I’m pretty much limited to looking at books, which don’t take up too much room. Once I’m done with them I either sell them through Amazon.com or Half Price Books. Some of the hoarder estate sales I’ve been to have been amazing. And really, really depressing. At one sale in a very nice part of town, the large house was so crowded that there was only a path through the house. The basement was packed, and there were several storage sheds in the back yard. Another large house in an older part of town was packed so tightly that parts of the house were off limits because there was too much load on the floors. The ad for the sale mentioned there were books, and there were, indeed, thousands of them, but the owner suddenly decided he couldn’t sell any of the books. I overheard him telling someone, “I started bringing stuff into this house in 1968.” I wondered if he’d ever taken any stuff out of the house. At another house, which has since been converted to a Bed and Breakfast, the owners had taken out second mortgages to travel abroad and buy stuff, including tons of tailored clothes. The mortgages exceeded the value of the house, and the heirs were letting the house be foreclosed. Dan bought one of the tailored shirts for 50¢. It had probably cost $200 originally, not including the trip to London for measurements.

                What is it with stuff? Why are we so willing to part with the money we spend our lives earning for stuff? And by “we,” believe me, I include myself. I don’t fall into the stuff trap very often, but it happens. I found two mid-century pilsner glasses at a sale last spring. I paid $1 for the pair, and, yes, they’re “worth” a lot more, but are they really? And how do you go about finding someone to pay what they’re “worth?” I guess it’s best to admit that I, too, can fall prey to what Your Money or Your Life author Joe Dominguez called the “gazingus pin” that I suddenly realize I simply must have. I will admit that I enjoy looking at books at estate sales, and I like it when I pick up some that look interesting and find I’ve wound up with one that I can sell on Amazon.com that will pay for the day’s shopping.

                Dan has been training with one of Kansas City’s better estate sale people, and he tells me people are in line when the sale opens, and it’s a mad rush when the doors open—people grab stuff right and left, afraid they’ll miss out on a bargain.

                But consider estate sales, and I do love them enough to go to them myself. The people having the sales are usually heirs who already have a lifetime supply of their own stuff. Often they don’t want any more or they live elsewhere and moving stuff is too much of a hassle, so (if they’re wise) they hire an estate sale professional who will charge them to get rid of the stuff they don’t want. Charges will vary from a fixed percentage of the net proceeds to a fixed price plus a percentage of the proceeds. By the way, if you’re going to be in the market for an estate sale professional, find out first how they charge and if you can, find out how well they price the items. I’ve attended a lot of estate sales, and some of them price items so high they just don’t move. So I don’t go to their sales. I’ve been to a couple of sales families held after some of the higher priced professionals failed to move their stuff, and I can tell you they were not thrilled to be doing the sale they paid someone else to do. If you don’t know the estate sale professionals in the area, ask people who go to sales for their recommendations. Believe me, we’ll tell you the ones we like!

                As far as do-it-yourself estate sales go, it can work. But the odds are you’ll have a family member (or two) who is so emotional that haggling is seen as an affront to their late whatevers. Or, even worse, you’ll have a family member (or more) who is familiar with antiques and thinks shoppers will pay at least as much at an estate sale as they would in an antique shop (or shoppe). (They won’t.) In either case, the end result is the stuff doesn’t sell, and people get upset. If you’re going to go this route, I’d highly recommend a family meeting to emphasize the purpose of the sale is to get rid of stuff—not to honor grandma or to make a fortune on her stuff. Marni Jameson, in her book Downsizing the Family Home: What to Save, What to Let Go advises the average estate sale grosses less than $6,000. She also gives several options for getting rid of an estate.

                Anyway, back to my point about stuff. It costs us to buy stuff and it costs our heirs to get rid of our stuff. If they don’t pay an estate sale professional, they do it themselves, they give up their time and probably get into fights and think nobody’s doing as much as they are, and life is so unfair, and they should get more than everyone else, and someone is going to cheat them out of their inheritance, etc. Yep. I’ve been there.

                When my father died in 2005, two years after my mother died, we cleaned out their house. We thought we would soon be selling it, but as it turned out we let my brother live there another eight years, but that’s a story for another day. There were four of us. Dan, who has four siblings, says three is the limit for maintaining good relations. And that turned out to be true in our case.

                For decades my parents had told me who was to get what when they died. Their biggest concern was that my younger sister get the dining room set she liked. My parents treated me like their sole executor. After my father died it turned out that the older of my two sisters, Fang, had been named co-executor. What our parents intended, of course, was for her to be an alternate executor. Our parents had used an attorney who was a friend to draft their will. He screwed up, and I was stuck with the screw-up. Fang had no idea what our parents had told me. She had no idea she was to be co-executor. She told me our father had told her he was leaving more to her because she had children and the rest of us did not. He didn’t. Looking back, I think she believed because she had given our parents grandchildren she was entitled to a greater share. But she was stuck with an equal share, and I was stuck with her as co-executor.     

No sooner had our father died than Fang, who lived 700 miles from our parents’ house, located someone she knew who had ordered a horse trailer in Oklahoma. She offered to deliver the trailer if she could use it to haul some stuff. And haul some stuff she did. She and her husband made that trip with the trailer and at least another trip with a pickup. At the time I thought if it makes her feel good to have that much of her parents’ stuff that’s great. I didn’t need it. I wound up with my parents' 1989 Oldsmobile (which was no bargain) and, after insisting, some coins and a very few other items, most of which I wound up hauling back to Oklahoma and giving Little Sister (LS).

                My father had asked that after he died my brother, Little Darling (LD), be allowed to live in the house six months. Fang insisted she be paid her share of the value of the house immediately, which she was.

Fang somehow decided our parents had made us co-executors because they feared I would cheat the others. This, mind you, after she had a horse trailer and a couple of pickup loads of their stuff safely spirited away. I decided that Fang should contact me only by email in the future. To further compound what turned out to be a comedy of errors, our parents’ attorney friend decided he liked golf better than practicing law, and he did a walkabout. I don’t exactly know what all went on behind the scenes, but Fang eventually decided our younger sister would be executor. This turned out to be such a wise choice that, eight years later, we wound up in a mad rush to correct probate so we could close on the house. Of course, Fang was out of the picture, so she missed out on sharing the legal fees.

Anyway, back to stuff. If I had it to do over, we would have hired a professional and had an estate sale. Fang was afraid we’d be cheated. Notice a trend here? Fang’s always afraid she’s going to be cheated. And somehow she is never the one who winds up on the short end of the stick!

Had we had an estate sale, we could have cleared the house and split the proceeds. There would have been no need for a horse trailer. We could have put our parents’ car up for bid, and if I wanted to buy it, I could have. And there would have been far fewer hard feelings. I think.

When we sold our parents’ house in 2013, LS had told me there was some Tupperware and asked if I wanted some. I said yes--especially if there was one of the salad bowls because mine had a broken lid. When I got there, I saw two boxes. One was huge. The other was not. I asked if those were my boxes. LS said, “No, just that one.” (The smaller one.) I’d wound up with one salad bowl. Period. Fang and her husband had so much stuff (again) they had trouble getting it in their SUV. But this time Fang must have had some guilt pangs. She sent me another salad bowl.

Continuing a family tradition, which I’ll discuss in another post, Fang always gets her trips paid for (this one from the proceeds of the house sale she didn’t have to pay the legal fees for to get the mess she insisted on causing undone.) Fang never comes out on the short end of the stick.

But in the long run, Fang did me a favor by taking all that stuff. Even if a lot of it wound up being sold in her booth at an antiques mall. (Oh, I forgot to mention she had that, didn’t I?) As I said, most of the stuff I wound up with I gave back to LS, and, when Dan moved in last year the stuff I didn’t wind up with was not a problem.

A few years ago the guy who does my lawn started to spray some fertilizer. I asked him what he was doing. He said, “Fertilizing your lawn.” I said, “So you’re charging me to fertilize my lawn so it can grow faster and you can charge me to cut it more often?” He put the fertilizer away.

I see stuff the same way.

As I’ve mentioned before, we have a new Smart TV. Buying the new TV was just the start. In order to pull in stations, we bought a new antenna. In order to boost the WiFi, we got a WiFi enhancer. Because Samsung’s computer wouldn’t pull in some of the things we wanted, we got a Roku. I don’t miss my CRT TV, but you can see my point. Often when we buy one thing, it leads to a seemingly never-ending cycle of spending. Sometimes it’s best to really think about where a purchase will lead before taking that first step. Denis Diderot wrote about this in 1769 short story titled “Regrets for My Old Dressing Gown, or a Warning to Those Who Have More Taste Than Fortune.”

It’s still true!

And now, maybe you’re ready for another listen to Truckstop Honeymoon’s “Bargain Hunting.”

Up next a look at the mortgage deduction.

© 2017 Larry Roth