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The Quaker City.

As one at floor 99 of a hundred story fall, “so far s’ good.”

My appreciation, however, of the odd and ironic is being stress tested. Not easy dealing with contradiction. Reminds me of dealing with the most anti=authoritarian person I know being way up on the authoritarian scale.

Funny how a strict standard is more easily applied to others than self. Sam Clemens, who I will often refer to, was well aware of the many loving attributes found in “the damned human race.”

We are one hell-of-a-work of God, whatever that means. In many case, nothing a tall good, or barely.

There was, no doubt of it, bureaucracy in Twain’s day and before, meaning as far back as we’re able to peer.

As example, the Barbary Pirates were effectively states dealing in piracy and slaves. If you showed up with sufficient force (say in gunboats) the pirates would negotiate instead of attack. I believe was Jefferson who decided an aggressive response to pirate states was preferable to honoring them with tribute.

I think, regardless of the lens applied, another person’s grass (cargo, property, resources, etc.) has an amazing ability to appear appealingly lush and green.

In light of our own current concerns over borders and entry I can, without yet having left U.S. soil, tell you that by gum, by gosh and golly it’s not all free, fun and easy out there in the nebulous global nether land.

Entering, as in crossing into, a foreign territory isn’t a free-pass given. In many instances you’re not allowed in without a visa. My private sarcastic belief is many an independent land would require a vise in order to fly over it’s domain if they had a way to do so at 30,000 feet, which they don’t. Not yet anyway.

You’ve likely heard of ships being flagged. In a simple sense, flagging means the ship or craft is recognized as a foreign entity with some degree of separate standing.

In other words, if you’re a cargo ship making multiple stops this means (as a crude example only) paying duty only on what’s off loaded rather than the entire cargo. Makes sense, keeping in mind these maritime conventions go way back, in a sense to the oddities of Etruscan times.

Being sovereign, independent, dignified and somewhat sacred, each nation insists on such treatment as it sees as respectful. The old way (I recall it well) of getting a visitor visa was to send to a consulate or embassy for the necessary pre-approval paperwork.

Them days is departed. Convenient as all can be is the electronic application process. Precise requirements vary, as do fees. Like a barrel of maple syrup, stay onboard, no charge. Step a toe on sovereign soil and pay up, non-refundable.

Is it sarcastic to suggest that the dignity and solemnity of sovereignty is a matter of cash or credit with a suitable charge attached? Seems so.

My grasp of all the niceties of cross-border travel and transport (inter and trans national waters and all that) is far from total, but paying to set foot upon the turf of the other seems a common thread.

For you, readers, I’d investigate the extent of riparian rights, but suspect (only that, mind you) the twelve or whatever mile (in some places kilometer or local standard) limit puts one into water too deep to ankle along in safety. No pay no walk ashore.

This, in my estimation, paints a pall on the oft imagined ease and freedom of the tropics. You can loll barefoot at your leisure under a swaying coconut tree (a tree never seen along either north or south Superior shores) if and only if you have the permit paper (visa) and have acknowledged sovereignty by cash or card. I’m not jovial about this; any of it, frankly.

Before steaming boldly westward toward the Sandwich Isles in the far Pacific I have first to spend a night in Frisco. No problem there. Good chance to hi-how-are-you to some of the Cuban arm of my extended who for reasons all too clear avoid Minnesota like a frozen wintry plague or summer infestation of tick, mosquitoes and flies. They have a point, don’t they?

Not that, even now at an age when swatting bugs is too much like aerobic exercise, I’m willing to give up the special appeal of unpredictable northland summers.

Twain (who I much admire without hero worshiping) had, early in his writing career, gone to, as I am going, to, as they were widely known then, the Sandwich Islands.

Sam (aka Twain or Mas for the dyslexic) was much taken with the promise and ease of native religion.

I much agree, especially in regard to dealing with mothers’-in-law, but hold back a gigantic fudge because the appeal of convenient morality would attract too many, enough I fear to overpopulate or even sink those blessed isles.

What good paradise if its embrace brings ruin?

In any case, if one wanted crowding and high costs amid a sea of grifters there’s always Frisco, Chi Town or the Apple, all available without need or cost of a sea voyage where mal de mere might strike, as it did even the illustrious Lord Nelson of Trafalgar fame.

For the curious of mind, which near-border lake on the Canadian (formerly a Province) side honors the victorious admiral?  Having many times paddled by, I can tell you a canoe feels very, very wee slipping along as if in hope of not being seen by the awesome powers of nature. If the wind starts cranking, best stay put.

Too aged to be held as innocent, I’ll do my best to point out whatever features on board or ashore that fit Sam’s model from the Quaker City.

I’ll wager, you can take me up, there won’t be Vatican treasures or mummies on any of the Pacific isles. Too damp. Mummies and water don’t mix.

I ‘spect, too, there’ll be a shortage of native beauties bathing in the sea as Sam saw them. Pity, as I’m a keen fan of local color.

Someone I know was described as assertive. I think arrogant more precise.