SANTORINI ISLAND, GREECE

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

"I chose the road less traveled, now I don't know where I am." -- seen on a poster

Legendary Santorini is a short Air Bus flight from Athens (no cocktail service, that short). In 1968, my crew of three guys from our semester aboard program and a fraternity brother and Athens resident Thrasus arrived by cargo ship. It
took 20 hours, we slept on the deck. (It didn't have a cocktail service either). Only four other people got off when we did. We camped for five days on the roof of the only restaurant. The one hotel on the island was closed permanently. This time, there were four

cruise ships in the harbor and if we wanted to sleep on the roof we needed to have booked it six months ago. I would like to wax how much better it was 47 years ago, but I don't really remember. I think we thought it was stunning, but were pretty disappointed that there were no college girls there. The beer was cheap, however. Circumstances had changed. But the thing about beauty, I think, is that it doesn't disappear when a bunch of people look at it, even if they arrive on over-crowded cruise ships. Santorini remains agonizingly beautiful.

The island is part of a circular archipelago. We got the history of the archipelago from Tamara, the Serbian sweetheart who was a crew member on a charter catamaran we found ourselves on. I am sure her version was totally accurate. Here is an exact transcript:

Tamara: "Long time ago, I don't know when, let's say 3,500 years, these islands all big volcano. We say caldera. The caldera blow up. So now many islands, you see in the middle, lava rock." We were  

anchored in front of a mammoth pile of ugly jagged magma that apparently boiled up in the blow up. Nothing grew, nothing. It looked a lot like our backyard since the drought and water rationing. Tamara continued. "Then, I don't know, let's say 2,500 years ago, it blow up again. Now two lava in middle. No one live here for, I don't know, let's say 1,000 years. Then village of fisherman come, I don't know, let’s say 600 years…then we have big earthquake, I don't know, let's say 60 years ago. Now many peoples in Santorini.  Only one peoples live on the lava island. An old guy. They say he broke up with his girlfriend and move there. He Old McDonald. He has many goats, cows, sheep, I don't know, let's say many." Tamara obviously went to the same school of public communication that I did. People want answers, most don't necessarily care how accurate the answers are. Close is good enough.

 

We lucked out. We made all the right travel decisions despite a total lack of research, planning or information. In short, as usual. The first night we raced to the cliffside walk off the main town Thira and sat in the first bar we came to. It turned out to be a perfect place to watch the sunset, which is the primary activity in the town except maybe taking hundreds of selfies of yourself and the sunset. Four teen girls in an awesome display of me-ism, selfied themselves and their drinks for an hour and a half straight. The sun slipped electric orange over the magma pile. It alone was worth the trip. Turns out it would be the only clear evening.

 

The next day on a whim we signed up for a charter sail at 9:30, the bus to harbor came at 9:35. It was supposed to be for 14 people, only eight of us showed up. The crew and the eight were like something casted by Wes

Anderson of the Royal Tenenbaums. There were the overly enthusiastic seniors: us. There were the hilarious mid-thirties Brits: Rob and Nathan. They had just purchased a cottage together in Gloucester. The cottage was built in 1586. Rob said, "It was actually

two years before Sir Francis Drake and his mates sunk the Spanish Armada. It sounds ghastly but it is really quite brilliant." Rob had been a child actor and now directed local theater. "It was

a bloody cock up not to grow into Colin Firth. Not dishy enough so its bugger off, get me arse behind the curtain." Nathan was "knackered" to return to his staid job as an HR consultant. "Feeling a bit narky, been to cheeky Santorini, fancy ouzo, the thought of me barmy job! Makes a mate want to get pissed." We think that meant, he was feeling blue because he liked Greece, disliked his job and wanted to get drunk. Which he did. There was the mid-forties yuppie Alaskan Airlines pilot and his stewardess wife: Chris and Diane. They were trendy outdoors sorts –bikers, skiers, hikers, energy drinks and craft ale. We were not sure they grooved on the Euro crumbling, aged elegance thing. Their Mecca was Bend Oregon. No sitting at a quiet cafe nursing an expresso; they were renting ATVs the next day. The cherry on the top and a

Wes Anderson's casting coup was the couple from Beijing.  He didn't speak English, was a nice guy and had a striking resemblance to that wing nut leader of North Korea. His girl Audrey was not the young girlfriend of the older rich financial guy stereotype, she was achingly pretty, a wispy butterfly—sweet, independent and energetic. He had never been to Paris, she had many times—they were flying there next. It looked like the butterfly was driving the bus. The sailing crew, Tamara, her lanky, charming girlfriend and the handsome captain, were all Serbian. Not a good sailing pedigree, Serbia is a landlocked country. We formed a kind of family during our day at sea which made me the grandfather. I worried about having to pick up the check.

 

ATHENS, GREECE

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

"I had to go to Greek school where I learned valuable lessons. If Nick has one goat and Maria has nine. How soon will they marry?" -- Tolla Portokalos, My Big Fat Greek Wedding

Athens is mad-dog crazed. There is too much of everything—history, graffiti, beauty, filth, Mopeds, buses- too much (except, money and sensible economic policy.) It's great. We went from Athens purgatory to perfect, or better in Illinoisese from wasteland to Wrigley Field. The first morning we became, in Carol's words, "tour bus lemmings" following our tour group and a four foot ten guide. We and maybe five thousand others were attempting to squeeze up though the six foot wide uber tripping hazard stairs, the only entrance and exit to the Acropolis. Carol noted, "This could be purgatory." It was so stupidly crowded that everyone was in a pretty good mood. There was a lot of time to chat as we baby stepped sort of upward. Brad and Jackie were from Minot, North Dakota. He was a former season ticket holder of Minot's former baseball team, the Minot Mallards, which could be my favorite team name after the Macon (Ga) Whoppees. Pittsburg Lois' daughter lives in San Francisco and has multiple degrees in climate change effect on the ocean (it's real). Rene, to our eye, the only black women on the

Balkin peninsula and her huge husband Theodore (a ringer for Big Pussy of The Sopranos) were from New York City. Rene laughed, “This don't bother me, I do this every day. But I usually don't fly eight thousand miles to do it."   Finally, up top at the Acropolis, virulent giddiness swept over the sweating mass –gag photos, silly dancing, giggling. Plato would have been appalled. Carol figured it was PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.)

We were connected to our tour group only by a purple folder raised up by our midget guide. Held at its tallest, it was shorter than Big Pussy. We were supposed to follow it. Then, Carol went rogue, actually looking at what she wanted to look at. By the time I found her, the purple folder, Big Pussy and our group had been swallowed in a sea of cell phone clicking humanity. We had lasted 45 minutes.

Escaping, we hopped on a Hop on/Hop off Bus. Carol is kind of a Hop on/Hop off junkie.  Seated on top with our ear pieces in, we were on a bumpy diesel powered ride to perfect. We hopped off at Omania and found a not so peaceful (moped short cut), almost American free cafe in an alley way. We gyroed and Greek beered. It tasted like home. Later in the evening, we tried to get to some places that we saw but unhopped, so to speak. We

failed, as usual, but stumbled onto Ermou Street (high mall fashion), Monastiraki (1/2 flea market/1/2 bar scene), and Plaka (old city market/restaurant row/tacky souvenir hellhole). Rivers of locals, bold streams of young people, thin brooks of tourists flowed by. Guitarist, singers, harpists, and flamethrowers performed. All towered over by the Acropolis which looks a lot better from a quarter mile away, btw. Carol found a roof top bar with a scarlet sunset in the west, a spotlighted golden Acropolis in the east and a tasty moussaka in the middle and a couple of ouzos on order. That kind of perfect.                                   

P.S. The Temple of Zeus rocks.

 

 

 

NAFPLIA, GREECE

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)
"Alcohol—because no good story started with someone eating a salad." -- T-shirt slogan

We spent three great days in Nafplia. It is essentially a Greek Carmel—scenic, classy, serene, except not surrounded by overpriced golf courses and cigar smoking rich guys, instead surrounded by ancient, crumbling fortresses and cigarette smoking 45 year old retired Greeks. Nafplia sits on the Gulf of Argolic in north eastern Peloponnedia, a region famous for the old school Greek bad boys, Sparta. Sparta, glorified in the movie The 300, was  a screw-loose  militaristic city state whose philosophy currently appeals to equally screw-loose football coaches, motorcycle gangs and the NRA. Sparta sat on top of the tyranny charts from 446 to 403 BC.  It's downfall was failing to beat the point spread against amby-pamby Thebes in 402 BC, then losing to Cal.

Our hotel, the Nafplia Palace, was über stylish. It had high tech lighting, music, temperature and lighting controls, none of which we ever figured out how to use. We operated mostly from the light of our cell phones. Carol was enchanted by the expansive jacuzzi bath with the inset TV. She watched the whole Pope at White House/Congress thing looking though bubbles. The hotel is on a cliff side inside the

hilltop fortress Akronafpia (yes, there is an STD by the same name. Or so I’ve heard.) An elevator is dug down though the cliff four stories as an access to the gulf side town. This necessitated a futuristic tunnel drilled back into the cliff to connect with the elevator. It is a hundred yards long and thirty yards wide. Stylistically, it is somewhere between Ming the Merciless's palace in the Flash Gordon series and Dr. Evil's headquarters in the Austin Powers' movie Gold Member. We had a chill time at the Palace, but it was off season already and the place was empty. We ate in the spacious

dining room overlooking the gulf. A pianist/singer entertained. There were two other tables of diners. That was it. The next night the door was chained. We did, however, have an impressive gourmet meal, especially considering there was no food, at least for me. Carol was enraptured, she was in her "When in Doubt go Pork" phase. She had pork. We shared a pear/walnut salad with the kind of lettuce that looks like weeds and a Lego-tiny block of feta. But salad doesn't count. I ordered lamb chops. They looked extraordinary but you had to be an orthopedic surgeon with a bone saw to find any meat. These chops were gnarly. They looked like the current X-ray of my football knee that had all the cartilage removed 52 years ago. Also on the plate was what appeared to be a tasty pile of potatos. On close examintation, the potatoes were speared with toothpicks, forming potato tripods. Nice but, detoothpicked, there was barely a Gulag ration. Actually, the dinner was memorable. The pianist was monumental. He crushed a long Gershwin melody ending with American in Paris and Porgy and Bess. We hardly thought about how hungry we were.

According to travel guru Rick Steves, Nafplia not only has picturesque charm and history, but a reputation as a millennial party destination. Steves describes the port side promenade Bouboulinas "as a catwalk beset by hormone-oozing young Greek males"  and females wearing "the most provocative outside apparel." We did not see that at all, mostly there was just the usual: Euros with fannypacks and tevas, eating platers of meat. I think Rick may have some issues.

We ambled along the pretty shade tree and bougainvillea-lined walk streets and nursed iced caffe latte in the harbor side cafes. We were charmed by the back lanes that climbed to the cliffs—brightly painted homes, curved railed pensions, out of the way tavernas. We climbed the 999 steps (that is what is advertised, we lost count at 72) to a second even larger fortress Palamidi (also named after an STD, not sure what the city founding fathers were thinking). We drove though the rocky countryside along endless olive, lime and orange orchards. This was a damn cool place, put it on your Why Not Bucket List. That is a place that you can validly die without doing but, "Why Not?"

 

 

 

 

 

       

STON, DUBROVNIK, MONTENEGRO, CAPTAIN and TENNILLE

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

I was pumped to score two retro bucket list check offs. A "retro bucket" is when you do something cool that you never thought of doing before. So you add it to your bucket list after the fact and simultaneously check it off. You do this because you might have a massive stroke and you want your surviving friends to admire your bucket accomplishments. It is the accepted definition of the term, see Wikipedia. Anyway, both items were in the difficult to check "Massive Stonewall Division." The first was in Ston, a tiny but pretty village north of Dubrovnik. Ston was surround by a twenty foot high, four mile long, damn good looking wall. It ran high up a craggy hill and was the second longest defensive stonewall in history. The Great Wall of China nudged it out of first place by a mere 13,166 miles. Rumor has it Donald Trump's people are studying Ston for our border issue.

Anyway, I walked up way too many stairs to the wall's highest point following twenty yards behind a surly German couple. They argued the whole way. When I got to the top, I gave them the fists in the air, Rocky victory dance from Rocky One, you know after Sylvester sprints up the steps in Philadelphia while training. They were not amused. The second retro bucket was walking the stone fortifications around Dubrovnik. I went with eight or nine hundred new friends. It sucked but was beautiful. Carol opted on both occasions to shop. She is not that concerned about her bucket list.


The road from Korcula was stirring—the vineyards of Peljesac, the salt ponds of Ston, the snaking two laner that hangs over the Adriatic, the insane BMW meatheads passing on the curves.  Dubrovnik appeared all at once, the Oz of the Dalmatian Coast.  It was a homecoming of sorts. In 1975, Carol and I had driven our new red Volkswagen van along the same road with the same insane drivers, but no guardrails, to Dubrovnik. We stayed for a week at an auto camp just walking distance from the main gate to the walled city. We spent an hour with our guide trying to find out just where the camp had been. It seemed there were new hotels everywhere. Shocking, it had only been 40 years. The guide Sanja was a kick, 1/2 Dutch, 1/2 Croatian, 100% vivacious. Turns out, her family home was a block up from our old auto camp. She was eight at the time. She asked if we were the campers playing Captain and Tennille too loud on a portable radio that summer.

We apologized. Even today, "Love Will Keep Us Together" brings back Dubrovnik memories. We took a back roads tour—the residential streets that looked back at the postcard battlements, the natural landscape, caper and rosemary bushes, laurel and olive trees, chapels everywhere. Yes, we visited the Villa that Clooney stayed in. One wonders does George get Villa weary? Does he yearn for a Budweiser, a Days Inn, a meat loaf, a Law & Order Special Victims Unit episode?  Does he get tired of us stalking him? (refer to said stalking moment from around this time last year).

The final day in Dubrovnik, our travel agency comped us on a trip to Montenegro and a dinner at a local Croatian farm. Early in the AM, the guide and driver showed up. Their names were Ranko and Danko. The driver Danko never spoke; maybe because the guide Ranko never stopped talking. This is the exact transcript of our first meeting:

Ranko (60ish wearing lime green jeans): "Hello, hello! I am Ranko and you are Daniel and Carol. Those are such good names I think, you must be proud. I am guide, yes. Now we plan our day together. We have car, we have driver, we have beautiful day, yes. We can do anything, yes?  Do you wish, how you say, a common trip or do you wish thrilling?

(We conferred) Carol: "Let's do thrilling."     

Ranko: "Ahh, I think we are one, yes. I am liking you much. Ranko promises three 'Wow's.' No, at least three 'Wows.' Can you Daniel and Carol give a big 'Wow'?"

(We wowed).

Montenegro is one of the smallest countries in Europe (750,000 people) and one of the most whacked. It is 95% lonely empty mountains and 5% congested, filthy rich beach towns. The Russians now own most of the filthy rich. Remember, James Bond played Baccarat there in Casino Royale. According to Ranko, the locals are legendary for being lazy. He told Montenegro lazy jokes: "Why does a Montenegrin male get married?"  "So someone in the family is employed." A lot of jokes.

We "wowed" first at the gorgeous Bay and City of Kotor. Actually, it was a "wow" because a cruise ship had parked directly in front of Kotor. It was three times as tall, twice as long. and slept five times as many people as this elegant, totally rad, walled medieval city. It was a "This ain't right" wow." After Kotor, Danko barreled from bay level to 4,500 feet on a crumbling, two lane road built by the Austro-Hungarian Empire Public Works Department in 1880. It took 29 switch backs but only 20 minutes. We had an eagle view of the entire bay. We skidded to a stop at a one-oxen gasthaus that hung on the side of the mountain. Those of us who weren't vomiting, ate. Ranko said he had a secret for us when we got to the top. Carol said, "Top? What do you mean, top?" Danko then swerved on to a park service, one lane road and gunned it skyward to the sheer summit of "The Black Mountain": Mt. Lovcen. At road's end was the world's highest mausoleum (6,000 feet). That wasn't the secret. The great Petar the Second, the nineteenth century Montenegrin fav, poet, politician and hottie was in residence. Ranko said that Petar's slutty good looks had driven the ladies of the European Monarchies crazy, even though he was five feet tall. The secret was that there were still 487 more agonizing steps to slug from the parking lot to the mausoleum. It was worth the pain. It turned out to be a Vegas quality mausoleum. Carol said it best, "I would like to party here." There was a 360 view of what must of been most of the country—the beaches, to the bay, to the layers of pugnacious black mountains. It was Ranko-thrilling, double wow and retro bucket worthy all at once. That's pretty rare.  

On the way back to Dubrovnik, we stopped for a prearranged dinner at a renovated medieval farm, now rustic villa-like. Eighteen people lived there—10 adults and eight children—the families of a sister and three brothers and somebody's in-laws. Our hosts Katrina and Ivo served up three kinds of brandy (honey, walnut, sage), a silky Merlot and an arrogant white, two kinds of bread, three spreads (hummus, cheese, red pepper), four jams, a mixed salad with olive oil and vinegar, roasted dates, sautéed unknown vegetables, sautéed green peppers and an entree of roasted pork on bay laurel skewers with potatoes. All of which were grown/butchered/ made/ distilled on site. It was delicious and humbling.

 

BRNA, ISLAND OF KORCULA, CROATIA - DEEP THOUGHTS

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

We bagged the drive from Split and the chance to visit more Roman ruins at Ston and took the ferry directly to Korcula. This saved three and a half hours of driving and the danger of visiting more Roman ruins in Ston. We almost flunked Ferry 101. They said to go to pier 24, 45 minutes early. We arrived and there was a line of cars, but no Pier 24 sign.  We worked out our way up car to car, but all the drivers were from a country other than Croatia and knew nothing. Anxiety reined. Finally, an English women put it all in perspective, "Don't fret, Love. If it is mucked up, we mucked it up together." Despite being there an hour early, we were the last of 40 plus vehicles on board. I don't know, maybe it was alphabetical. We sat on the covered upper deck and watched the backpackers sleep, the Germans eat, all nationalities selfie, and the handsome romantically named islands of Hvar, Brac and Vis slip by.

 

On Korcula, we are staying at the (not making this up) Hotel Feral. Websters says that feral means "...having the characteristics of a wild beast". There were no wild ones at the hotel, but there were quite a few domesticated ones around the pool. The hotel sits on a quiet bay and we took off a couple of days to just chill. We had time to think about some strange stuff we thought we had observed. Here goes:

 Puzzling Croatian Behavior:

1.      Dangerous Gearshift Disability. Twice we asked our guides to drive our rent-a-car. Twice they were unable to master that complex modern gadget: the automatic transmission. By the way, the automatic was invented in 1921. Each guide, lifelong manual guys, tried the manual clutch/gas start up thing, but with the brake pedal and the gas pedal resulting in the engine roaring and the car shotgunning forward when the non-clutch brake was released. One said, "There is a brake on somewhere." We thought, "Yeah, under your left foot." Another guide, in order to slow for a stop light, downshifted from drive to park at 45 miles per hour. We thought, "If you touch the gear shift again, no tip."

Bobbers everywhere

2.      Excessive Bobbing: At the Feral, most of our hotel mates took dips in the bay that bordered the foundations of the hotel. It was warm, smooth, luscious. But no one swam; they bobbed. Everyone, hundreds of people, all genders and ages, freakin' bobbed. No getting your hair wet. There were a few minor exceptions: some light dog paddling, a couple of ladies boldly side-stroked, and one mad man did the breaststroke. A revolutionary, innovative and very brave women put a face mask on, actually put her face in the water (but not her hair) then did a deadman's float. No movement—weird. We swam some laps free style. People adverted their eyes. What do they know that we don't?



Squint and you'll see some nude people

3.      Really Unwanted Nudity: It is a rule, maybe a criminal statute in Croatia, that if you are a male, over 60, and your beer belly hangs down at least to mid-testicle, you must wear a speedo. One old bruiser even had a thong on. Carol still can't sleep. Likewise if you are a female over 60, and your tits sag down eye-to-eye with your belly button and you must, I repeat, must sunbathe topless. One old broad went total newborn. I still can't sleep.

all smiles here

4.      No Gratuitous Smiling. My dad was a vibrant guy with a big positive voice. When he walked down the street he would make eye contact and say, "Hi! How are you doing?" to everyone. It kind of creeped my brother and me out, but the passerbys loved it and burst into big smiles. What are you going to do? His name was Howie—that's what Howies do. In Croatia, if you did the Howie thing, you would get nothing. Nothing! No "hi" back. No smile. Not even a "Screw off" look. You would get blank. Which is strange because every Croatian we have spent any time with, was charming and gracious and get this—had a great smile.

 

SPLIT, CROATIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

Split is a former industrial city halfway to Dubrovnik. It has an impressive history. We know because we had a great guide: Ivo. He was a journalist who had worked for the Dallas Morning News, the Zagreb Plain Dealer (maybe that was Cleveland) and was a war correspondent in the Balkan War. Ivo fell victim to the demise of print news. He is a stringer, blogger and special assignment writer now. He guides on the side. Carol says that he made Roman history actually interesting and relevant, although she can't recall why anymore. Split was Hicksville until Diocletian, Emperor of the known world, built his castle/fortification/palace/retirement pad (historians differ on this subject). Anyway, it was finished in 130 AD, the same year as the Cubbies last won the World Series. It only took ten years to build, the same time, according to Carol, that it is taking our neighbors across the street to remodel. We visited the different chambers where Diocletian, his wife and both Split patron saints were executed. One was grilled. Ivo said execution was traditionally how your time in power was terminated back in the good old Roman days. One wonders if that would work for our U.S. presidents. Think about it. Then we would not have to help them raise money for their "libraries" or watch them appear on the Jimmy Fallon Show. Ivo, who had just watched the Republican Party debates, observed that, at least, politicians would have to think twice about throwing their hat in the ring.

Split was pretty cool, at least after the cruise shippers clear the streets. There is a broad café-studded seaside promenade, narrow bar dotted streets and good size plazas with fancy looking tavernas. We missed the tavernas however. We had declared a Split nutritional vacation and split salami baguettes two nights in a row. Later, we watched a free performance of folk dancing for a bit. Eight couples in Gypsies outfits tore it up, then what looked like a heavily medicated ukelele band dressed in castoff Sound of Music costumes put the crowd to sleep.  Ukes can do that.

PLITVICE LAKES, CROATIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

The Lakes are part of a 300 square kilometer national park (no I don't know the size of a square kilometer but, it's big). There are sixteen interconnected descending lakes. They empty into each other pouring down the mountain via hundreds of waterfalls. There are ponds, streams, lush Avatar/Pandora vegetation, thousands of trout.  The only trails are narrow wooden boardwalk without hand rails that run over the ponds and streams. For miles, you tightrope over the set of Jurassic Park. It is a wonder of the natural world somewhere between Victoria Falls and Sofia Vergara. It's so freakin lush and exotic, that you think what is it doing in fricken' Nowhere, Croatia. And what am I doing here? Where are the raptors? Where is Laura Dern? There have got to be a lot of snakes. Have Marlin Perkins and his assistant Jim ever been here? I feel another epiphany coming on.

There is a flaw in the Plitvice perfection, however. It is those damn other park visitors—5,000 of them a day. All of whom started their hike at the exact same time we did. It was disturbing. It wasn't the pushing and shoving. It wasn't the selfies. It was when you stopped to enjoy, say a typical Plitvice Lake site—6 or 7 waterfalls crash down into an emerald pool—a hundred and twenty people passed you. Even worse was that the line of staggering marchers behind them stretched to the horizon, or at least to the parking lot toilets. You feel driven like cattle. You can't fall back; Bear Griylls says that the trailing wolves prey on the stragglers, right? It's too much like those nasty failure nightmares we all have (OK, that I have). "Golly," you think, "I am on vacation? This is some heavy mojo." But if you hang in there, relax, take in the scenery, and just let the crowd go by. The pressure dissipates. Folks take different paths, some pound ahead or fall behind. Soon enough you are apart, walking at your own pace and it all becomes really, really, really beautiful. I am thinking of sending this to Hallmark Cards.

We met Yan and Anita on the back patio of our Plitvice hotel. Yan approached and won us over. Never underestimate Flemish charm. We had dinner together: foot and a half long trout for us, a four inch high stack of pork and potatoes for them. Dessert was pancakes and jelly. It was pretty hardy Croatian country faire. We had a great time. What stuck was that Yan was truly a gentleman. We think we know why. First, he lived in Antwerp, Belgium. Other than a few centuries of brutalizing the Congo, Belgium is a peaceful country. Their army is, and has been, like the flagmen of a road construction outfit. An invading army arrives at their border, they waive them though. If the invaders won't pass, surrender.  Second, he was a retired schoolmaster. Other than Principal Barkley at Wagner Junior High who had a couple of screws loose (personal opinion), schoolmasters are pretty agreeable sorts. But the real reason, was that Yan ate soup every day. How much of a bad guy can you be if you are eating soup? Why daily soup? Yan explained, "I like soup." Which would make a pretty good t-shirt logo.