Saturday commute lvii: Sharing the burden of the quiet

for our native

dancers

                   Every now and again one would

                   feel honour-bound to pile into

                   a cranky red Alfa and commute

                   to Carmel, 90 miles from Tele-

                   graph Hill, to visit the sec-

                   ret of her quiet, even at the

                   beach, even at the Bach Fes-

                   tival, at least in the Par-

                   titas. The pacific atmosphere

                   was exacerbated by the prox-

                   imity of Fort Ord, site of a

                   an intelligence academy for

                   recruits the US Army really

                   was not allowed to accept,

                   my dearest friend in life

                   among them, whose musical

                   ear for Hungarian, Russian

                   and other Cold War tongues

                   allowed for unadmitted bend-

                   ings of the rules. Our lin-

                   guistic infantry could gain

                   liberty on most weekends,

                   and took to it well.