The Adventures of Marco Polo in Baton Rouge

The Road Warrior is waiting for the traffic on the "new" (I-10) bridge to thin out.

Even though the I-10 bridge is over 30 years old, we still refer to it as the "new", as opposed to the "old" bridge, the Huey P. Long Bridge, not to be confused with the Huey P. Long Bridge near New Orleans.

Alas, the Road Warrior made a pact before leaving home. He would notice someone doing a kind act, or at least a courteous act, on the road, and note it. After all, the Road Warrior just does not go through the Apocalyptic WasteLand, meting out justice to the Bad. He, although sometimes reluctantly, also helps the Good. It took almost thirty minutes and twenty miles, but just before I pulled into work, a shining beacon shone through. But not before some false alarms.

First, there was someone in the inner lane, and he actually signaled to get into the middle lane. I thought to myself, "I have a winner." But before the thought was through, he proceeded to veer across two more lanes to get onto the exit ramp just before it ended. It was a scratch.

Then there was the tail-gater in the pickup truck, who tailgated the vehicle in front of me for at least two miles before he whipped into the two-car-length gap in the next lane, and sped off, arriving at his destination a full 30 seconds earlier than if he had driven like a sane person. (Aside: It may sound like I pick on guys in trucks ... not true. I once owned a Ford pickup and am not predjudiced toward truck drivers. But it does seem like more idiots own trucks than cars. Oh, yeah, just about every other vehicle is a truck.)

And then when I thought I would make it the whole way, someone restored my faith in humanity, or at least some portion of it. A line of cars slowed for some men working (loosely defined) on the right side of the road. Since we had to come to a near stop and the line was dozens of cars long, a kind soul allowed a car turning from the opposite direction to turn in front of him. It took only seconds, and the cars behind him barely noticed. I was unable to catch up to him, but thanks to the unknown Samaritan.

So, how did I come up with the name Marco Polo as a nom de plume?

Of course, Marco Polo was  a great adventurer and trader, much like myself. He visited China. But Marco Polo was also considered by many of his fellow Venitians to be a liar.

Also, it is the name of a version of blindman's bluff played in a pool. I did not know about it until I was in my late teens, maybe even twenty, but the game wistfully reminds me both of childhood and that I am no longer a child. I have no childhood memories of the game.

And maybe the most important reason, it sounds good and my name is part of it, sort of.

I have stolen liberally (at work, we call it "leveraging") from several websites. More information on Marco Polo, the famous one:

"When a man is riding through this desert by night and for some reason -falling asleep or anything else -he gets separated from his companions and wants to rejoin them, he hears spirit voices talking to him as if they were his companions, sometimes even calling him by name. Often these voices lure him away from the path and he never finds it again, and many travelers have got lost and died because of this. Sometimes in the night travelers hear a noise like the clatter of a great company of riders away from the road; if they believe that these are some of their own company and head for the noise, they find themselves in deep trouble when daylight comes and they realize their mistake. There were some who, in crossing the desert, have been a host of men coming towards them and, suspecting that they were robbers, returning, they have gone hopelessly astray....Even by daylight men hear these spirit voices, and often you fancy you are listening to the strains of many instruments, especially drums, and the clash of arms. For this reason bands of travelers make a point of keeping very close together. Before they go to sleep they set up a sign pointing in the direction in which they have to travel, and round the necks of all their beasts they fasten little bells, so that by listening to the sound they may prevent them from straying off the path."

---- Marco Polo, Travels

 

His book was known as The Description of the World or The Travels of Marco Polo.

 

The book was [also] known as Il Milione, The Million Lies and Marco earned the nickname of Marco Milione because few believed that his stories were true and most Europeans dismissed the book as mere fable.

 

When he was near death, a priest entered his room and asked him if he wanted to admit his stories were false. Instead, Marco Polo replied, "I do not tell half of what I saw because no one would have believed me."

 

HERE IS WHY [the pool game] WAS NAMED AFTER MARCO POLO 4/29/2005 8:20 AM Squashua

Because HISTORICALLY, Marco Polo wrote a paragraph about travellers getting lost in the dark in the desert. (SEE the quote from his Travels above).

 

These travellers would get lost and would try to find their way back in the dark by listening to noises that may or may not be phantom sounds. The concept from the game, Marco-Polo, extends from this very same situation that Marco Polo wrote about.

Death is on my mind. It started this past weekend with my wife's cousin's death. That was bad enough. He was 70, and we expected him to die, but it was still hard. But if only that were the only one.

The community mourns the loss of several young people, including one by shark attack in Florida and three by drowning in the Mississippi River. And it only been a few weeks since we lost another LSU baseball player from the 2000 championship team. If you're from Baton Rouge, you are familiar with the stories. If not, you can read about them (www.2theadvocate.com or www.wafb.com), so I won't dwell on the details. I personally cannot imagine losing my son or daughter.  I am at a loss for words. These parents sent there children off, thinking they would return, and now they will never see them or hold them again.

To the families of Jamie Daigle, Cassandra, Johnte and Johneisha Parker, and Johnnie Thibodeaux, I send my heartfelt prayers.

First three lines of "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd"


It is funny the things you think about when faced with death and your own mortality. My thoughts always seem to go back to Walt Whitman's poem "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd". It is a poem of admiration to President Lincoln at his death, so it is appropriate. But it is poignant to me that I first heard a few lines of it in 1st grade, when Miss McClendon read them to the class. She told us that we would not understand it, but we would when we were older. We asked what lilacs were, which we do not have in southern Louisiana that I am aware of. She told us that they were kind of like wysteria. Now, wasn't that enlightening to a roomful of 6 year olds? She was right, though, I did learn later what the poem meant, and today I feel the same loss in my heart that Walt Whitman felt in 1865.

So, what is there to do in Baton Rouge located in East Baton Rouge Parish (not County) in the State of Louisiana in the good ole USA on the ever smaller planet Earth? Well, there's a lot to do, if you are into eating and LSU. If you're not, then you are in a bad place. I will try to keep on subject (Baton Rouge) and try to be interesting, or pompous-sounding. If you think that, then I'll know you're probably a Tulane fan. For my first entry, though, I thought I would talk about something dear to many in Baton Rouge (Louisiana, the Deep South, Dixie, the US), namely, the traffic, especially on the overburdened interstate system in this city. Where are all those policemen, Kip (the mayor) that are supposed to be out directing traffic, that you promised?

The event of the day, as it is most days that I drive to work, happened at Sherwood Forest and I-12. I had a green light, but not an arrow, so I had to wait for oncoming traffic. There was a gap, but a pickup was closing fast. If he turned onto the on-ramp, then I could turn across the two empty lanes, but if he came straight then I would not make it. Of course, if he used his blinker, then I could go and possibly force him to yield if I accelerated like Steve McQueen. But he, as most people in Baton Rouge and other points in the South, did not use his blinker. Instead he made the turn and accelerated. Up to the challenge, even though I knew I had no chance to squeeze him, accelerated. Of course he beat me, but then he performed the second move of people of his ilk, he slowed down to about 20 mph slower than one needs to go to enter the interstate. So, what did I do? Did I give him the universal salute? Did I turn red in the face and curse (spoken "cuss") him? Did I accelerate around him, pull in front of him and jam on my brakes while honking my horn? No, I just memorized his license plate and smiled, thinking about the day I final lose it and become the I10/I12 Road Warrior. On that day, I will purchase a new pickup truck, mount an automatic weapon on the bed, and cruise the streets of Baton Rouge, my Gotham City, searching out these evil people and dispensing justice. Of course, I am only kidding. I tell this to wife all the time. And I have to be kidding, because, after all, I would need her to drive.