29

With My Hat
on the Back of My Head

From 1928 to the present all my positions have required considerable travel. In the course of the last 50 years I have traveled several million miles by every conceivable conveyance—carriage, train, automobile, airplane, tonga, pedicab, and boats both riverplying and ocean-going. From Easter Island to Capetown, Milford Sound to Helsinki, Bangkok to Vancouver, this travel has taken me to some 115 countries of the world including all the principal countries except mainland China (and that is scheduled for the near future). As I have visited many of these countries several times, I have come to know them rather well. Most of the travel has been for business or, on occasion and with some added days, a combination of business and recreation or cultural exploration. In a few notable instances I have traveled for the sheer sake of enjoyment and the satisfaction of my curiosity and cultural comprehension. In the course of this journeying I have witnessed a remarkable evolution in travel. I can remember a time when a gravel road in Indiana was considered a good road. The automobiles have changed from the Model T Ford to the present comfortable and maneuverable cars. I have witnessed the coming and going of electric interurban lines that once upon a time fanned out from Indianapolis like spokes of a giant wheel to reach most of the state. For the most part steam trains were slow and sometimes dirty locals, but there were also the great luxurious trains such as the Twentieth-Century Limited from Chicago to New York, the Southwestern Limited from St. Louis to New York, the Capital Limited from Chicago to Washington, and the National Limited from St. Louis to Washington as well as the transcontinental trains from Chicago to the West Coast such as the Super Chief, traveling at great speed and affording the passenger not just comfortable but also deluxe accommodations, individual bedrooms, flower-bedecked diners, and club-like observation lounges.

In my undergraduate days the Illinois Central, operating from Indianapolis to Effingham, Illinois, where it made connection with the important Illinois Central trains from Chicago to New Orleans, carried in addition to its regular passenger cars a combination Pullman and diner, that is, a few Pullman seats and a demidiner that produced excellent food. I remember to this day the bean soup that they served on that diner. I have never had better, including the famous bean soup served in the U.S. Senate dining room in the Capitol. A favorite route of mine was to travel from Lebanon to Indianapolis by interurban and then to take the 6:oo P.M. Illinois Central to Bloomington. The train was comfortable, the scenery beautiful along the way through parts of Brown County, and the nearly two-hour trip from Indianapolis always enjoyable.

Any true Hoosier writing about trains is duty-bound to remember the Monon with gratitude and pride. The Monon was an independent railroad that considered itself the Hoosier line, and so it was in every respect. It inspired poets to sing its praises, politicians to pay tribute in florid phrase, and collegians to amass a whole body of folklore concerning it, some of it unprintable. Its passenger trains between Chicago and Indianapolis were models of speed and comfort with excellent coaches, parlor and observation cars, and a dining service that was nationally famous. The cuisine was proudly all-Hoosier style: the apple pie with glazed crust served with excellent cheddar cheese was an unforgettable delight; the steaks were so tender they could be cut with a fork; and the memory of the chicken pot pie still makes me hungry. The Monon took pride in the fact that its main line served St. Joseph’s, Purdue, Wabash, DePauw, and Indiana University. It carried dignified scholars on academic missions and roistering students and alumni to athletic contests with heedless impartiality.

The Monon also provided vital service including all-Pullman specials to the French Lick and West Baden resort hotels. I remember seeing at Kentucky Derby time the railroad sidings between French Lick and West Baden filled with Pullmans and private cars. During such peak seasons, the cloakroom at Brown’s, the principal casino, was crammed with ermine and sable coats.

The French Lick Springs Hotel under the owner-management of the Taggart family was truly one of the grand hotels of the world. As one entered up the long, canopied stairway, a row of blooming potted plants on either side created a joyful mood in every season of the year. The service was highly personalized and impeccable. Typically the hotel was filled with interesting guests. In season the spacious gardens, all meticulously maintained, were among the most beautiful in the world. The tanbark-covered footpaths through the woodland invited exercise. In those days the food was incomparable for an American-plan hotel. I remember with nostalgia the French lamb chops perfectly broiled that were regularly offered on the breakfast menu.

Before I had my cottage in Brown County, I would use the French Lick Hotel as a weekend retreat or sometimes for a longer period to secure the peace and quiet of the place for uninterrupted work. The hotel had a distinctive personality: all the mystique of the grand hotel yet all the spacious comfort of a resort. And still it managed to be truly a Hoosier institution. I enjoyed every occasion I was there. It was a happy hotel—smart, elegant, good mannered, and at the same time relaxed. I knew the hotel long before I had experienced the grand, luxe hotels and spas of Europe, but unless my memory deceives me French Lick during that era held its own with the best anywhere.

The 1925 Grand Chapter of my college fraternity was held at West Baden Springs Hotel during the Christmas holidays. I was a member of the committee responsible for the formal dinner and ball. Since we needed beautiful girls as dates for our brother delegates, it was arranged that coeds from numerous campuses who were spending their holidays in Indianapolis would be transported to West Baden via Pullman cars on the Monon. The formal ball was held in the Great Rotunda of the hotel and many believe that it was the most glamorous Grand Chapter ball in the history of the fraternity. The Monon made it possible.

In the heyday of transatlantic ocean travel there was year-round regular service between New York and Europe, the Cunard Line alone running weekly service both ways and, in high season, two or three ships each way weekly. The French, Holland-American, and German lines offered frequent service. There were also many ships from New York plying the southern route to Italy, Greece, and other Mediterranean ports. I have been privileged to experience travel on the great ships during that era, particularly those on the transatlantic run, which were the finest and fastest that man has ever built. Through the years I sailed repeatedly on the Queen Mary, the Queen Elizabeth, and, more recently, the QE2. I have crossed on the Nieuw Amsterdam of the Holland-American Line, the Liberté and the Ile de France of the French Line, as well as the United States of the United States Line. The United States was the fastest passenger ship ever built and a marvel of advanced engineering, providing a smooth crossing and the ultimate in safety. I crossed only once on the Independence, departing from Algeciras after having taken the boat train down from Madrid. It was a slow, leisurely crossing in off-season when passengers receive extra service and attention to their comfort. I had a veranda room at a single-cabin rate, and a severe cold confined me to my private deck most of the time. The doctor, who was a bit of an alcoholic and lonely, spent a great deal of time in his cups recounting to me his sorrows and the problems of the world. I nearly missed a trip on the Italian Line, which sailed between New York and Italy. Fortunately, I was able to go to Algeciras on the Michelangelo on one of her last crossings. Having been refurbished, she was in fine condition though losing money and was taken out of service soon thereafter.

I well remember a crossing on the Nieuw Amsterdam. Atlantic hurricanes, which usually originate in the Caribbean, sometimes sweep as far as the North Atlantic shipping lanes. On this crossing the Nieuw Amsterdam was forced to sail through the upper end of a hurricane, albeit at reduced speed. Mother was confined to her cabin, wretchedly seasick, as were most other passengers. The dining room was largely deserted. Fortunately I am a good sailor, and I remember vividly some hours spent on the top deck near the bridge with one of the officers watching the great waves come crashing up the height of the ship, though the Nieuw Amsterdam was huge—eight or nine decks high. It was a beautiful and thrilling sight, furnishing me not just excitement and beauty but also a new understanding of the destructive power of wind and wave.

I have witnessed a change in the pattern of travel. In Indiana fifty years ago hotels were located in nearly every county seat and town with a railroad junction. Business, professional, and commercial travelers needed good hotels every twenty-five to fifty miles to fit their mode of travel. When modes and patterns of travel changed, the result was the demise of most of the country hotels of yesteryear. Once it was unthinkable to go fifty or seventy-five miles for an appointment or a speech and return the same night. One’s trip included an overnight stay in a hotel and usually several stops on the way to or from the destination, traveling either by car or train or, as I did in the early days of my travel, by steamboat between Cincinnati and Louisville with stops at certain riverports that were almost isolated because of the poor local roads. The Greene Line maintained daily service between Cincinnati and Louisville with comfortable berths and a good dining salon.

Indiana has been blessed with some excellent hotels. The grand dowager of them all was the Claypool in Indianapolis. It deserved its reputation as one of America’s great hotels. It had an elegant lobby and other public parlors, spacious and immaculate bedrooms, superb food in its beautiful dining rooms, and the benefit of an owner-manager who knew what a great hotel should be. The Claypool was the scene of most of the important statewide public dinners. Generally such functions were held in the beautiful Riley Room on the mezzanine floor. In some uncanny fashion the Claypool chef could serve filet mignon to four hundred diners in the Riley Room and each filet would be hot, juicy, and properly pink. Better crusty rolls could not be had even in New York. The waiters were highly proficient. When a well-starched, white napkin slid off a corpulent lap, it was instantly and unobtrusively replaced with a fresh one.

I lived in the Claypool for a couple of years in the late 1920s, when it was in its prime, and experienced the comfort of its suave service and its magnificent cuisine. John L. Lewis, chief of the Indiana and Illinois division of the miner’s union and beginning to rise in prominence as a labor leader, lived there at the same time. I remember distinctly that he sat nearly every evening after dinner in a particular chair in front of a big marble column in the huge, three-story-high Claypool lobby. Thus enthroned, he held court—acquaintances, politicians, labor leaders, newspapermen, all stopping by to pay their respects and to chat.

Another notable Hoosier hotel of that era, a close second or perhaps even equal to the Claypool, was the McCurdy in Evansville, owned and operated by one of America’s most colorful and flamboyant hotel operators, Harold Van Orman, active not only in hotel circles but also in political and social circles in the state. He served for four years as lieutenant governor, in which capacity he presided over the Indiana Senate. He was a noted raconteur, much sought after as a master of ceremonies and after-dinner speaker. On such occasions he delighted his audiences by asserting that as lieutenant governor he presided over the greatest legislative body that money could buy.

But first and foremost Van Orman was an incomparable hotel operator. He infused into his staff a sense of the importance of the guest. He himself spent long hours in the lobby greeting people. The hotel was beautifully designed and appointed and had a spectacular riverfront location with a huge porch on which one could rock while looking across the garden to the Ohio River. Although a commercial hotel, it had such a delightful location that it could have been a resort hotel as well. Harold Van Orman had a real flair for food, and I remember to this day the magnificent breakfast menus that always included fried, old Tennessee ham with red-eye gravy, grits, and eggs along with soda biscuits—a touch of the South in recognition of Evansville’s distinction as the southernmost important city in Indiana.

In that same section of the state along the Ohio River was the William Tell in Tell City, an attractive, white-clapboard country hotel of approximately one hundred rooms, rather simple appointments, but bountiful table. A little north was the Ideal at Huntingburg, also a simple structure—austerely so—but owner-managed and noted for the lavish, American-plan meals served in its dining room. In retrospect I would say the Ideal was more for the gourmand than for the gourmet. When I first visited the Ideal as a brash young man, I said to the clerk that I wished to have a room with bath. He nodded and assigned me a room. It was the policy in all country hotels of that time for guests to remain below and to leave their bags in the lobby until they were ready to go to bed. Bedtime was early, after the guests had dined and visited with each other in front of the hotel in the summertime or, in the wintertime, in the lobby. As I was a newcomer, when it came time for me to go up to bed the clerk condescended to show me my room. As we entered, I looked around for the door to the bathroom and then asked where it was. He said, “Right down the hall, of course.” When I explained that I had expected a private bath he said, “Well, young feller, we ain’t that fine yet.”

Up the Ohio River at Lawrenceburg the Reagan Hotel, even with its primitive plumbing, had such hospitable owner-management and such an excellent country dining room that experienced travelers arranged their itineraries to include it regularly. Farther north was the Sherman House in Batesville, still blessed with the benign ownership of the Hillenbrand family, which is justly famous for the quality of its table. In the far northern part of the state there was an admirable country hotel in Goshen, the Hotel Goshen, with about one hundred rooms, which the experienced traveler sought out for its comfort, the warmth of its owner-management’s welcome, and its bountiful table. Then scattered throughout the state were hotels of more modern vintage, erected mostly between the two world wars—the Hotel Elkhart in Elkhart, the Oliver in South Bend, the Keenan in Fort Wayne, the Graham in Bloomington, the Terre Haute House in Terre Haute, the Roberts in Muncie, the Fowler in Lafayette, and the Leland in Richmond. These were all well run and each was a real haven for the weary traveler. More sophisticated in service than their country cousins of which I have spoken, they usually contained a barber shop, a coffee shop as well as a dining room, a newsstand, a beauty parlor, room telephones, and private suites. A somewhat special member of this group was the Hotel Gary, erected I think just after World War I by the United States Steel Corporation as part of its program to make Gary a model city. It was indeed a beautiful hotel, comparable in its physical appointments to any large city hotel, well run and an adornment to the city. It was also a community center where most important community functions were held and where quarters were provided for the principal private club of the city’s business and professional men.

Samuel Johnson once pontificated, “There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.” I can subscribe to the Johnsonian dictum. I love hotels, I like to explore for new ones while remaining passionately faithful to old friends, and in a sense hotels are one of my collecting interests. I like to collect comparative impressions and experiences in hotels. But what makes a good hotel?

Clearly, what one person regards as a good hotel another may dislike, but there is considerable general agreement. A good hotel must have a combination of superior facilities, a happy location, owner-management or at least management of the highest order, an alert and skilled staff beginning with the front desk and including the bellmen and the chambermaids, an imaginative cuisine, and that elusive quality known as personality. Hotels have distinctive personalities just as individuals do. A hotel without a personality affronts the traveler needing refreshment of spirit and relief from tedium. It has been my privilege to stay in many of the great hotels in the United States and abroad. A few stories from a sampling of them will illustrate the enjoyment they have supplied.

In San Francisco the Palace was once the top hotel; its magnificent garden-court dining room is still beautiful. When I had the privilege of hosting a tour by the International Association of Universities (IAU) Board of Directors to Canadian universities and American west-coast universities, I arranged to have them stay at the Palace, then in its heyday. It is very much in the European “Grand Hotel” tradition, and the members of the IAU board took to it as a kitten takes to cream.

Mother and I wished to do something personal for the group, and knowing that the Palace was noted for its wine cellar and especially for its selection of top-grade California wines, I planned a surprise dinner for the members of the board. Several members, particularly the French and German members of the board, considered themselves great wine connoisseurs, one coming from Dijon in the heart of Burgundy. Earlier in the day while ordering dinner, I described my guests to the maitre d’ and asked him to use exclusively California wines of the highest quality but to make sure the guests did not know that it was California wine when it was being served. So there was a superb California white, a good sound red, and then champagne with dessert. All during the meal the connoisseurs kept commenting on the wine and the food. Impressed, they were all trying to guess whether the wine was French, German, or Italian, and the year, the chateau, and so forth. At the end I called the maitre d’ and asked him to give them a list of the Californias that he had served, and they were dumbfounded while we enjoyed our moment of chauvinistic triumph for the U.S.A.

I have had the privilege of enjoying many of the fine resort hotels in the United States. Fortunately, most of these accommodate small conferences and therefore I have had an opportunity to enjoy their facilities in connection with attendance at business meetings. On other occasions I have sought them for vacations.

In Honolulu I consider the Kabala-Hilton one of the most comfortable and beautiful hotels I know in the world. Its lobby juts out toward the ocean, giving a guest the sensation of being on an oceanliner; the service is deft and prompt; the rooms are beautiful, spacious, and well maintained—altogether a laudable hotel.

The Ahwahnee in Yosemite National Park is a remarkable hotel, rustic in construction, luxurious in comfort and food, and singular in its setting. A huge window at the end of its lofty dining room affords a spectacular view of the mountains. Until recently it was operated by the Curry family, natives of Bloomington, who went to the West Coast with David Starr Jordan when at the turn of the century he left the Indiana University presidency to found Leland Stanford University.

Nearer home, the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island is unique in many respects. It is a well-appointed resort hotel dating from the 1880s, situated in flower-filled grounds, beautiful, successful, delightful, with a magnificent view of the Mackinac Straits. It bears the stamp of its inimitable owner-manager, W. Stewart Woodfill, a native Hoosier and truly a “Gentleman from Indiana.” ¹ While I was chairman of the board of the Federal Home Loan Bank of Indianapolis, one meeting of the board each year was held at the Grand Hotel in conjunction with the annual meeting of the Michigan Savings and Loan Association. It was my custom to remain a few days after the conclusion of the meeting to enjoy the beauty of the island, the clear air, the great swimming pool, and the special courtesies extended me by Stewart Woodfill that typically included drives around the island in his own smart, horse-drawn rig (no automobiles are allowed on the island), and cocktails with him at his lake-front home below the hotel, during which I enjoyed his animated conversation.

The Greenbrier at White Sulphur Springs in West Virginia with its distinctive Dorothy Draper decor of white, green, and splashy red is a distinctive and luxurious hotel. The Williamsburg Inn at Williamsburg, Virginia, furnished entirely in beautiful period furniture with spacious public parlors and luxurious bedrooms deserves its great popularity. Its superb dining room features a justly famous hunt breakfast. But perhaps the top resort hotel in America for my taste is the Homestead at Hot Springs, Virginia, sitting in the midst of a great estate of thousands of acres affording beautiful vistas in every direction. An owner-operated establishment with marvelous food, charm, comfort, relaxed and gracious atmosphere, it is one of the few places in the world where tea is still served every afternoon at four—and that in a flower-filled lobby with a string ensemble playing semiclassical music. Its spa facilities include the natural warm springs used by George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. A half-hour spent in this pool with springs bubbling up around me is pure joy for my arthritic joints.

European hotels in contrast to American hotels depend in part for the distinctive quality of their service upon the concierge. I agree with Joseph Wechsberg’s description: “A good concierge has a diplomat’s tact, a banker’s discretion, a scientist’s encyclopedic knowledge, and the ability to forget certain things and never to forget others . . . . He’ll advise you what to do, where to go, whom to avoid. He never says, ‘I don’t know.’ If he doesn’t know, he’ll find out.”

In Europe, one of my favorites through the years has been Claridge’s in London. It is only one of several top hotels there, but certain things have endeared it to me. I like its quiet, its pure linen sheets, its highly individualized service, its spacious rooms, and its old-fashioned courtesy and methods of operation, including tea in the parlor each day and an out-of-view bar from which drinks are served. A spirited small orchestra entertains during cocktails, and after-dinner coffee and cognac are served in the lounge adjoining the main dining room.

Claridge’s is the kind of place about which stories and legends collect. I have a true one. Once, when I arrived in London late at night from New York and was shown to my room, I noticed that there was an interesting double bed in the room and that the room itself was different from the typical room with double bed that I always requested. Claridge’s keeps a record of all its regular customers’ special wishes and makes a great effort to observe them without being prompted. The next morning I commented to the Irish maid when she came into my room that the bed was the most comfortable in which I had ever slept. In her brogue she replied, “Faith and it should be a good bed.” It seems that my reservation came in late, all the rooms with double beds were occupied, so the twin beds in this room were removed and a bed was brought from storage. “This,” she said with a flourish, “is the bed we keep for the Queen of Spain when she visits.”

On two occasions Mother and I had the opportunity to follow the typical route of an Edwardian grand tour of the Continent. We did not do it all in one trip, but we covered most of it in the course of two trips, and these took us invariably to the great, comfortable, old Victorian piles typically known as the “Grand” or the “Palace” throughout Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and France, as well as in the Low Countries. If I were writing a travel book I would include some of these with fond recollection; here I have confined myself to a few favorites.

The Brenner’s Park Hotel in Baden-Baden is certainly on anybody’s list of the ten best hotels in the world, and Mother and I have had happy days there in comfortable rooms just over a little stream whose music lulled us to sleep. On our first visit there, in 1963, we flew from Stockholm to Frankfurt and motored to Baden-Baden, arriving late in the afternoon on August 7. We were soon comfortably situated. Upon entering the hotel I had noticed a plaque stating that the famous Russian novelist Turgenev had resided and worked in a house near the Brenner’s Park from 1862 to 1870. A few days after we arrived, I received in the mail from my old friend and colleague, Michael Ginsburg, a copy of The Vintage Turgenev, volume one, containing Smoke, Fathers and Sons, and First Love. I casually glanced at Smoke and was astonished by its opening sentence: “At four o’clock in the afternoon of August 10, 1862 very many people were assembled outside the famous Konversationshaus in Baden-Baden.” The account continues with a description of Baden-Baden as it was in 1862. Here was I, on August 10, 1963, a part of a similar scene being enacted 1o1 years afterward. Seldom have I received so thoughtfully chosen and opportune a gift as that, and I read it, of course, with great pleasure during my days at Baden-Baden.

On my last visit to Baden-Baden, I found the hotel’s standards maintained, its facilities augmented by an indoor swimming pool, and the service and food as great as ever. Baden-Baden hardly seems real. Its spacious, flower-filled parks are an ideal setting for outdoor band concerts. Its truly magnificent spa facilities, its miles of walks cushioned by the needles of Black Forest pines, its chic boutiques and voluptuous pastry shops, its glittering casino patronized by beautiful people in evening dress—all add up to a never-never land. Best of all, at least at the Brenner’s Park, the international clientele consists of people who have nothing to prove.

Returning for a moment to my travels with Mother—once when we were in Zurich, Mother expressed a wish to drive to Interlaken to have lunch at the Hotel Victoria-Jungfrau. Believing this to be her last trip to Europe, she hoped to see the Jungfrau once more. On a previous visit, she had had a front room facing toward the mountain and had enjoyed the view. I tried to explain to her that we would probably not be able to see the mountain since its peak is covered by clouds much of the time, but she insisted. Just as we had anticipated, when we arrived the mountain was wholly shrouded by clouds. However, as we were beginning our lunch on the terrace, someone looked up and, miraculously, the clouds had parted. Here was the magnificent Jungfrau’s snow-capped peak in all of its grandeur as if displayed for Mother’s pleasure. It stayed unveiled for about thirty minutes, long enough for her to feel justified in having insisted on making the trip.

The Grand Hotel in Rome is also one of my favorites: quiet, with superb food and service. It afforded me a memorable dinner, remembered as much because of the circumstances preceding it as for the dinner itself. I had been in the Third World for two or three weeks and was hungry for familiar food, in fact almost counting the hours until I could have a good dinner. But I was fated to have a long wait. On the morning of my scheduled departure from Kabul, I awoke to find a heavy snow falling on an already deep accumulation. Word soon came to the guest house where I was staying that the airport was closed. The members of our Indiana University technical-assistance team concluded that my best chance to reach Rome reasonably soon was to drive to Peshawar and fly from there via Rawalpindi, Lahore, and Karachi to Rome—a roundabout, arduous route. The drive to Peshawar in one of the mission’s station wagons was through the picturesque but hazardous Gorge Road, then through the fertile valleys of southern Afghanistan, and across the Khyber Pass. A hard rain and fog had closed the Peshawar airport, however, and my perilous journey continued in a beaten-up taxi with dim lights over a poor road that we shared with occasional flocks of sheep and unlighted carriages. A delay in our air departure from Lahore made it doubtful that I would make my connection in Karachi for Rome, and I sat tensely throughout the flight. At last, however, my fortunes changed: a representative of Qantas Airlines met our plane, escorted me through customs and onto the already loaded plane, held for my arrival.

When I arrived in Rome thirty hours after leaving Kabul, I was exhausted. Again I was fortunate: the Grand Hotel, its tradition of hospitality undisturbed by my delayed arrival, had a delightful demi-suite ready—lights on, bed covers turned down, and fresh flowers scenting the air. Soon I went down for dinner and explained to the maitre d’ that I wanted a good dinner but that I was so weary I needed to go to bed very soon. What I wished was a light but delicious supper. He immediately understood my requirements and there followed my long-awaited meal. First came an excellent clear consomme, then a marvelous dish of pasta made in the hotel kitchen and served at my table with only hot butter and shredded cheese. This was accompanied by a salad made from fresh dandelion leaves with a delicate, savory dressing. The dessert was fresh pears of just the right ripeness, over which the maitre d’ squeezed a generous amount of fresh lemon juice and then added a bit of sugar so that the juice of the fruit, the lemon juice, and the sugar made a sauce. It was so delicious that I have had this dessert served at home from time to time since then. The dishes were accompanied by a lively, white Italian wine. Altogether, this rather simple but skillfully prepared fare was precisely what I needed right then, and the combination served to etch it in my memory.

Among other favorites is the famous old Raffles Hotel in Singapore. It is memorable to me because of several incidents such as a chance meeting I had in the bar with John D. Rockefeller III and his wife, with whom I had a delightful conversation concerning Indiana University’s exhibition of Thai art that he had helped finance. The Raffles has rooms built around a garden, and on one of my visits Somerset Maugham was a guest, making another of his farewell trips to Southeast Asia. He made as many farewell trips to various parts of the world as Nellie Melba made farewell concert tours. I remember his majestic progression, trailed by his secretary, across the garden. He had the unique capacity of creating by himself the illusion of a procession. I have a memory also of having tea in that garden, as the petals from frangipani blossoms dropped around me and recalled to me that the frangipani was plucked for a rhyme in Indiana University’s Alma Mater—”Gloriana Frangipani.”

Still another favorite hotel, similar to Raffles but of much finer quality, is the Peninsula in Hong Kong. Beautifully sited at the waterfront and yet close to fine shops and other attractions, it is incredibly luxurious. Tea is served each afternoon in the open-court lobby by a horde of deft waiters spurred by the surveillance of assistant managers in striped trousers. Not only is the service in the grand style, but tables are filled with characters seemingly right out of a Somerset Maugham novel. Its rooms are spacious though sleekly modern, and each room has its own room attendant, who anticipates the guest’s every wish almost before he expresses it. Gaddi’s, the hotel’s intimate main dining room, illuminated by crystal chandeliers, is world-renowned for the quality of its cuisine. Within the hotel are branches of some of the great luxury shops such as Cartier, Hermes, Gucci, and Ferragamo. The Peninsula in many respects is perhaps the number-one hotel in the world.

The temptation is strong to write about great restaurants of Europe. That I have resisted, but I wish to mention two for illustration. The Hercher family ran a distinguished restaurant in Berlin but emigrated to Madrid to escape Hitler. They were even more successful in their new environment, and they seem to have been able to maintain their traditional standards of excellence even with the pressure of enormous patronage. I last dined there in 1976 with Karen and Peter Fraenkel. It was a delectable dinner: a delicious poached turbot with hollandaise served with an excellent house white wine, tournedos à la bordelaise on an artichoke heart with pureed mushrooms, soufflé potatoes, excellent red wine, and a crepe for dessert—with ice cream, fresh strawberries poached in various liqueurs, and whipped cream—all followed by an excellent brandy. As we concluded a man came from an adjoining table to say that his girlfriend thought she might know me. He invited us to join them for a brandy. She turned out to be Jean Hardy Brown, Indiana University class of’63. It was 12:30 before we could break away from the enjoyment of reminiscing. Our dinner had started at 9:30, an early hour for Madrid diners.

Some of the best restaurants are located in the French countryside and one of these, one that some critics consider the finest at the present time, is located in Alsace not far from Strasbourg. It is L’Auberge de l’Ill at Illhaeusern, romantically sited in a country village on the banks of the river Ill. The weeping willows border the stream and the surrounding gardens are fastidiously maintained. The dining room is in light colors, highlighting the polished antique furniture and silverware. In the summertime dinner is served on the terrace and in the garden. I was there in the fall, however, and had the privilege of having a great dinner consisting of a delicate consomme and the restaurant’s famous fresh salmon topped with a pike mousse glazed in a white wine cream sauce—a dish for the gods. We finished with the magnificent soufflé citron and the house petits fours, all accompanied by a delicious white wine—an unforgettable meal. The pain of its cost was mitigated by its superb quality.

The mere mention of these places, hotels, and modes of transportation brings to mind the fabulous world of travel: the chateaux of the Loire Valley in the spring with the peach, plum, and pear trees in bloom; Holland ablaze with fields of jonquils, the blossoms being cut as one would mow hay since the flowers were grown only for the bulbs; the grey mist of the North German plain in winter; the sparkling beauty of Stockholm in the summer light when even the medieval buildings seem fresh; the riot of flowers in spring in the English countryside; the grandeur of the snowcapped Swiss Alps; the splendor of the fountains and gardens at Versailles; the blaze of color from the deep red tuberous begonias omnipresent in the vast green parks of Leningrad; the exuberant architecture of Bavarian villages; the tropical beauty of Bali; the awesome monuments of ancient Egypt; the brilliant colors of the desert and of the mountains of Arizona and New Mexico; the way stations along the route across northern Spain, evoking the intensely religious spirit of pilgrims as they traveled to Santiago de Compostela by the millions during the Middle Ages; and the unforgettable splendor of fields of blooming lupin enroute to Milford Sound in the South Island of New Zealand.

I have had the good fortune to travel throughout the world seeing new sights, hearing new sounds, savoring different cultures, meeting a variety of peoples, and, I hope, thereby gaining a perspective to understand better my own land and culture. Notable also in my memory are the visits to the great museums at home and abroad, the National Gallery in Washington, the Chicago Art Institute, the Metropolitan in New York, the National Gallery in London, the Alte Pinakothek gallery in Munich, the Hermitage in Leningrad, the Louvre in Paris, the Prado in Madrid. Each visit to one of these great institutions has been stimulating and mind-stretching. Music and theater in the capitals of Europe as well as in the centers of culture in the United States similarly have brought a refreshment of spirit and inspiration. I have had great pleasure in my travels, and, strange as it may seem, they have not only given me enjoyment but also have provided me with some of my best ideas. When I travel I am freed from the day-by-day routine and stimulated by new sights and sounds and experiences. Generally my mind begins to teem with ideas. And so I come back from every trip with a long list of things to do, opportunities that have been overlooked or ideas that may bear fruit. As Kipling wrote in “The English Flag,” “And what should they know of England who only England know?”

There is more than one way to see the world. It can be seen through the eyes of others who write of their travels; it can be seen through the minds of others whose ideas have been stimulated by various cultures; and it can be seen by dint of one’s own effort. Travel is not easy. Someone has said, “If you wish to be entirely comfortable, stay at home.” But it is rewarding; at least it has been for me. I have always had itchy feet and I hope to keep traveling as long as I live.

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1. Mr. Woodfill has just announced the gift of the hotel and other properties to his nephew, R. Daniel Musser.