The Little Olive Amuc's (The Legendary Little People of the Andes))Peru)

The Little Olive Amuc’s


Ah, little olive fellows from the Andes
Or some internal caves therein:
From Ticlio, or Bone City (La Oroya),
An underworld civilization!

According to the very best of legends—
From the Wanka to the Inca times—
They live in the crust of the earth
And in the hard cold mineral mines!

They followed the miner’s footsteps
From barbarity nights to dawn
A dwindling civilization
With cities of gold and bronze!

By them are the treasures well-known;
Hidden in underground temples;
From Machu Picchu to the Mantaro Valley
To the Nazca Peruvian Lines!

With all of this ponderous mystery
It’s distressing these earthly Amuc
Reveal little sign of their whereabouts
But provoke our most curious thoughts.

Such mystery with humans and pixie’s,
The problems of peace a pauper,
Relations between goodwill for both,
Or misdeed and rebuke therefore!

So when we look for treasures dim,
And find problems of where and when,
Simple find an Olive Amuc and pray,
He will by your very best Friend!


#1795 4-18-2007

Note: Legend has it these Amuc of the Andes, are perhaps a foot to 18-inches tall; some with blond and other with dark hair. It has been said they have iron wings, and live in the mines of the Peruvian Andes. Many older folks who have been in the mines, worked them, have claim they have seen them; or folks that have known folks that have. Myself, I have never seen them, and I’ve been in the Andes, but I’m looking forward to it. And when I do, I of course will let you know. The Wanka to the Inca times, infer, between AD 700 to 1600 (and from the present times: the time of the Miners).

Train to Munich (Parts one thru three)

Train to Munich

(October, 1970)

Introductory Chapter: We had met a girl once from Denmark (met her at the October Fest of 1970, in Munich), and he dated her for a while thereafter by going to Denmark to see her—yes, he had gone to Denmark to date her; I remember meeting her, and she was a doll, dark bronze skin, healthy from the breast to her little toes. Like I said, He met her at one of the big fest with me then Ski went to Denmark to be with her during one of his ten-day vacations; only to come back and say she smoked pot, and took some LSD when he was with her, along with some other drugs, and he tried to reform her and she got mad and told him the relationship wouldn’t work, and to be quite frank, Ski hated drugs, and she was lucky to get away from him. I think when I was with him I really didn’t want to meet anyone, kind of claustrophobic of some form of impending disaster to befall me. But the train to Munich was a blast, there again we almost got into a predicament.

1

Chapter

As we got off the train (Ski and I) we were distinguishable as a sack of brown potatoes, amongst white laundry bags, walking through the train station, out its doors, then outside onto the sidewalk, at 5:00 AM, I witnessed right away young folks walking, waking up, from few hours sleep in the corners of the train station, sacks in their hands, or laying beside them, or laying on them, the renowned October Fest, in Germany was going on, and this was the place to be, or at least the place I wanted to be. No reservations needed, just ones body.

Several young Germans were walking on the opposite side of the sidewalk; several blocks from the train station, where Ski and I crossed over to the other side, “You speak English?” asked Ski, to the group. They looked at us strangely; we simply wanted to find our way to the fairgrounds. Ski was abrupt with his way of producing or trying to produce, dialogue.

“American GI´s” a voice from the group said. Ski lifted his eyebrows, I figured this would be a fight, or it was at least in the makings.

“No, we’re reporters from New York City…”said Ski. Thus, we got a lot more respect instantly. “We’re from a …” (a magazine, can’t remember which one he said, but they were impressed, and so was I that we could get away with such a fib).

I felt something like a volt of electricity in the air, after this mirage was created.

Chapter II

—We then walked about Munich for a number of hours, I saw an old bum laying drunk on the sidewalk, everyone just stepped over him or around him, and I stopped and starred at him. “Come on…!” Said Ski, let’s get on to the fest. And so I did. And then we found a big beer hall, and we couldn’t pass it, or I couldn’t, and we stopped in it and had a few beers. Then we got to the fest, the October Fest, and it was huge, with big beer tents. It was perhaps 11:00 AM. We walked about for a while, I didn’t want to get drunk too quick, so I slowly drank, and found a place to rest under a shade tree, on an embankment, where a lot of hippies were, that evening, Ski and I would return there to rest again, and watch all the hippies sack out for the evening, having their own personal picnics.

Then we went on to the big beer tent. I was getting drunk now, and ended up dancing on the tables with folks I never knew. I was talking to a woman later on at the entrance of a beer tent, I had said a few words in German, and she rattled on for an hour, and she thought I could understand her, but I could only understand ever fifth word or so, which I suppose was good enough. Then Ski came along, said he had met this gal, and he’d introduce her to me shortly, and we both went to the bathroom, and some guy took a picture of us, urinating, and Ski blew up, grabbed his camera and broke it in front of him, and the guy almost cried. “Let’s get out of here,” I told Ski, in case the police took his side. And we left the tent, and then the gal showed up, and he introduced her to me; lovely as could be, bronze and youthful, with a nice shape.

Our ride back to Augsburg, on the train would not be so exciting, we were both tired, and wanted to rest somewhat. Which was good for me because I didn’t want to be confronted by the conductor, and his crowed again like on the way down; We ended up in his cabin, because Ski wanted something, and pushed the porter, and a fight right in his cabin was mounting, and there was three or four of them, and two of us, but I was ready, and Ski was more than ready, but I smoothed it out, at the last second.

The Cliffs to Torre Torre (Huancayo's Envy))Peru))

The Cliffs to Torre Torre
(Huancayo’s Envy))Peru))



Prehistoric Geological Monument near Huancayo


Tall up by the cliffs, in the township of Huancayo, stands
A cluster of piercing stone like pillars, lightening rods
From the Ancient-gods, with thousands of years being:
weather worn and torn and blistered;
These pillars of stone reach—heavenward.
Around this cluster, an engulfing, natural enclosure
Like an old cemetery guarded with erect towers and tombs;
Brownish rocks, baked by the sun, washed by the rains
from the heavens:
It is called ‘Torre Torre’ and rests below the cliffs of Huancayo,
alone.
It is the envy of the Valley, where both warrior and poet seek.

#1788 4/13/2007

Note: The poem, ‘…Torre Torre’, is not referring to the island called ‘Bora Bora’ in the South Pacific, it is a geological wonder in and around Huancayo, Peru, beyond the Andes, in the Valley of Mantaro. How it got its name, I don’t know, but I’ve been to the site a number of times, and it is always fascinating to see the course the wind, and weather have taken on this geological wonder, how they worked to mold such things as these stone towers; primeval geological erosion. Fascinating I say, for surely they’ve been here longer than the city of Huancayo, habitants by some 325,000-citizens; an old Wanka culture once roamed this area, perhaps dating back to 1000 BC. The stone pillars are more tucked away in what I’d call a gorge. One can go down to see it, and actually walk through it, or one can go onto the cliffs above it, and look down over it, and if more adventurous, climb down into it, or like me, just observe it from a close distance, both ways.

For folks who wish to visit the site: Torre Torre is a geological formation of enormous towers of clayey soil, molded by the winds and rain, located very near to Cerrito de la Libertad.

Tale of a Heart and Soul (a Lyric)

Tale of a Heart and Soul


This is an odd story (or tale)
to say the least,
where I came upon any angry old man once
in Garmish Germany, back in ‘73—.
We walked together in the surrounding hills
and thus, spotted two young boys—
with silver-white hair, perhaps three or four
years of age, playing with a wolf,
that was peaceful, joyful, quite happy….

“Awe,” said the old man in fright and spite,
Just what do we have here?”
Spooked in admiration he was,
angry for whom, knows what!
He said to me, irritatingly, “If I were that
wolf beast, I’d be wild, free and happy!
I wish, I wish, I wish I could be!”

And I do believe, sometimes when we
wish hard enough, God grants us just
that, what we want, but shouldn’t have…
a lesson perhaps, to be learned,
if not by the ‘wisher’ hopefully by others.

And then, all of a sudden, the old man
was calm, peaceful, joyful, singing a song,
wanting to play with the boys, haply,
as if he really knew them…!
(something was very wrong);
then the angry wolf, attacked him—
not me, perhaps (so I thought at the time)
it was the Old man, inside the wolf’s skin,
and the wolf inside the man,
and the wolf killed him,
and I shot the wolf…!

#1784 4-8-2007 (D) Sometimes things happen for reasons beyond our comprehension, and simply not knowing why, so we guess at its internal structure, its motivation, reasoning, motives for being, happening, when it is the simplest of all to say what you really think and feel, and that is usually right. As in this case, perhaps the man got his wish, and envy got its revenge, one of the deadly seven sins.

The Hanging Gardens at Babylon

The Hanging Gardens at Babylon
(Its Ecological Miracle)

There they lay, under the sway
Of King Nebuchadnezzar’s
Magnificent city, Kingdom,
In the 6th Century B.C.;
To enchant the world,
And his home sick queen
(Median Princess Amytis)
The city with the legend, of:
The Hanging Gardens at Babylon—:
Primeval City of the world;
Here humanity marveled
At its city gardens, its Water
System—now but a mystery;
Now but a crumbled city
In the desert sun, in Iraq…
But one needs to look deep
Deep down in the callers beneath
The palace (deeper than they have)
There they will find the riddle
Of how and why: three shafts
Sided by side, and a chain-pump
Structure, there resides…
Seven levels high the
Gardens stood (some 365 feet
Above the ground (the days
Of a year)) water pushes water
And magnetic gravity with the
Help of the moon, pulls: up,
Up to its roots, helping
This ecological miracle, and
This magnificent city’s fable?

#1784 (4-5-2007)

A Note: It has puzzled folks for centuries on how the Gardens were watered in Babylon, back in 604- to about 560 B.C., perhaps too much so. And I suppose they need to do more digging to find out exactly the correct method, but it doesn’t seem all that complicated to me. When it was built on levels, 365 feet high with several pumps to help it along, and man power was next to free, and add simple gravity to the picture, and a touch of the pull from the earth’s moon. In the out skirts of Cajamarca, Peru is an aqueduct, called El acueducto de Cumbe Mayo, 3000-years old, water runs up hill (the aqueduct is 9000mts; thus, there is nothing new under the sun.)

Historian Maria Rostworowski and Poet Dennis L. Siluk (In Spanish and English)

SPANISH VERSION


Diálogo Narrativo y Reunión
de :
La Historiadora María Rostworowski y el Poeta Dennis L. Siluk


Por Dennis L. Siluk
(Traducido por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)


Avance: Una reunión histórica, puede ser llamada esta entre la renombrada historiadora, María Rostworowski (de Diez Canseco), de Lima, Perú, y Dennis L. Siluk, poeta y novelista (quien vive parcialmente en Perú, y en su tierra natal Minnesota, EE.UU.); María tiene medio siglo investigando y estudiando el pasado histórico del Perú, y una audiencia mundial con sus incontables libros sobre su cultura, tradiciones, y datos históricos; algunos libros traducidos del español al inglés (por ejemplo, “History of the Inca Realm”).

La madre de María era una dama peruana y su padre era de Polonia, como fue mencionado durante la reunión entre ella y Dennis. María nació en Barranco, Lima, Perú; cuando tenía cinco años ella fue con su familia a Europa—y vivió en Francia, Polonia, Inglaterra y Bélgica, y volvió al Perú cuando tenía 19 años. Similar a la experiencia de Dennis, en la que él se enamoró de Perú (particularmente del Valle del Mantaro, y ahora ha venido a Perú a radicar parcialmente)

Ella se casón con un polaco en Polonia, así como Dennis se casó con un peruana de Huancayo, Perú, aventurándose en Lima, en 1999, cuando ellos se conocieron y se casaron unos meses más tarde, en febrero del 2000.

María se volvió una historiadora autodidacta. Así como María, el entusiasmo que tiene Dennis lo han conducido a explorar Perú y escribir seis libros sobre sus costumbres, tradiciones y cultura, en forma poética, y recibir reconocimientos de la Universidad Peruana Los Andes, en Huancayo, por su contribución cultural; además, le concedieron la Gran Cruz de la Ciudad de San de Jerónimo Tunán y fue nominado Poeta Laureado de la ciudad, y le fue concedido el Premio Nacional de Perú, “Antena Regional”: El Mejor del 2006 por promover la cultura.

María, en Lima se conoció y se casó con don Alejandro Diez Canseco, su verdadero amor y juntos condujeron una vida muy orientada a la cultura, quizás como Dennis y Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk lo han tenido estos años pasados, ya que Rosa ha viajado alrededor del mundo varias veces, y por muchas partes de Perú.
Aunque la mayor parte de las poesías culturales de Dennis es sobre muchos aspectos de Perú, otros son sobre el Guerrero Wanka y la Guerra del Pacífico, Dennis siendo un Veterano de Vietnam decorado de la guerra (1971), y también poesías sobre el Valle del Mantaro; como con María, en mayor grado es sobre el Imperio Incaico.

María, puede quizás ser llamada, o mencionada como la “Josephus” de Perú; mientras Dennis ha sido referido en Perú, como Julio Verne (refiriéndose a todos sus viajes y libros relacionados con viajes, y su estilo cultural de poesía, y sus escrituras), y de vez en cuando, como el Poeta Trotamundos, denominado por los periódicos y revistas en Perú.

Y ahora para la narración y reunión:



El Diálogo Narrativo y Reunión


Nosotros (mi esposa Rosa y yo) llegamos al edificio del Instituto de Estudios Peruanos a las 10:50 de la mañana del día Jueves 22 de Abril del 2007, en Lima, Perú (Jesús María); justo después de acabar de llegar hablamos brevemente con la persona encargada de la seguridad, y nosotros estábamos ya con veinte minutos de retraso para la reunión, debido a que nuestro taxi se malogró en plena carretera (Panamericana) y tuvimos que salir de allí a buscar otro taxi en la calle transversal. Mientras nos apresurábamos a subir las escaleras, llegamos a una pequeña oficina, que el guardia nos había indicado, allí estaba ella sentada detrás de su escritorio, yo la reconocí al instante, había visto una fotografía de ella, ella lucía lo mismo, pensé que era una fotografía de cuando ella era más joven, por eso estuve sorprendido, ella lucía más joven de lo que pensé: ella llevaba una blusa de seda multicolores (negro, rojo y blanco principalmente). Ella tenía 91 años, pero parecía más bien de 67 años, pensé que estaba muy conservada. Ella, María dio la vuelta por su escritorio, saludándome y a mi esposa, mientras nos pedía que nos sentáramos, en aquel momento le di dos de los libros que había escrito sobre Perú, ella leyó los títulos verbalmente, mientras miraba cada uno, los leyó en inglés, “Spell of the Andes”, y “The Magic of the Avelinos”, después ella sonrió (más adelante le diría a una amiga, refiriéndose a los libros “son maravillosos”), podía ver que ella estaba orgullosa de ser peruana, aun cuando yo averiguaría que ella tenía raíces polacas por el lado de su padre, y peruana por el lado de su madre.

Yo sabía que era muy difícil conseguir una cita para hablar con ella, ya que ella había estado enferma una semana antes, y no permitía a muchos visitantes, en primer lugar, lo que fue confirmado por un número de personas antes de mi llegada, e incluso el guardia estuvo sorprendido que ella me permitió visitarla, así que me sentí más que afortunado.

“Siéntese por favor”, ella dijo con su delicada mirada fuerte, pero ojos suaves y severos.
Mientras me sentaba la pedí que firmara uno de sus libros para mí, “Historia del Tahuantinsuyu”, y mientras me puse a firmar mis libros para ella, ella dijo modestamente con un poco de humor, “Intercambiaremos firmas”, y otra vez vino esa sonrisa misteriosa, que era cálida y natural.

(Durante los pocos minutos siguientes me levanté, y mi esposa Rosa, tomó dos fotos de ella y yo, y yo se los mostré en mi cámara digital, y ella me miró un tanto y dijo, “tengo 91 años”: No dije nada, quizás nada que decir, ella lucía 25 años más joven. Ella lucía muy bien para su edad.)

Después vino, conversación suelta sobre la comida de Huancayo, ya que yo había empezado ese tema diciendo que “mi esposa era de allí”. Me gusta “cuy colorado”, le dije, y ella contestó, “¿ha probado cuy chactado?” y contesté, “¡Ah si…la esposa del profesor Pedro de Huancayo lo hizo para mí, estaba muy bien!” Entonces añadí, “me gusta Huancayo pa…pa…” y antes de que yo pudiera terminar la oración, ella me preguntó, “quiere decir, ¿papa a la huancaina?” Sí, reafirmé.

(Pienso que María estaba descubriendo, que amaba a Perú y a sus culturas misteriosas tanto como ella lo hizo, atrás cuando primero descubrió esta tierra antigua.)

“¿Cuál es su origen?” ella me preguntó, sabiendo que yo era de Norteamérica.
“Ruso e irlandés”, le contesté, añadiendo, “y su apellido no es...peruano ¿no?
“Ciertamente no”, dijo ella, “es polaco”. Entonces añadí, “Yo también soy polaco de parte de mi abuela, ruso de parte de mi abuelo, e irlandés de parte de mi padre”. Un tanto repitiéndome yo mismo.

“Es una mezcla” comentó ella. Creo que omití el decir que era polaco debido a eso, demasiado condimento en el pastel. (Y hablamos brevemente sobre esto, cómo la vida en mi clan familiar, sacó el polaco y ruso en el círculo familiar.)

Después, mi esposa y yo la invitamos a tomar desayuno diciendo, “Martina va a ir el miércoles a tomar desayuno (y su amigo)”

“¿Quién es Martina?” dijo ella, con una pizca de ingenio, ella estaba muy dinámica para ser una mujer de 91 años.
Mi esposa le explicó, que ella era del Centro de Antienvejecimiento en Lima, y ella reconoció el nombre enseguida, diciendo, “hay una reunión la próxima semana allí”. (Pensé, qué memoria tan aguda, mejor que la mía)
“Estoy muy vieja para desayunos” dijo ella, “tengo que comer comida especial, pero gracias por la invitación”

Entonces comprendiendo que el tiempo había pasado rápidamente, simplemente dije, en voz baja; “No deberíamos de tomar más de su tiempo, usted ya nos ha dado la mayor parte de este, y estoy seguro que usted tiene muchas cosas que hacer” y entonces nos disculpamos, y ella dijo en seguida, “encantada de conocerlo”, ella estaba de pie, cuando habló, y ahora comenzó a sentarse, mientras nosotros comenzamos a marcharnos.

Esta fue una reunión muy cordial, y una que siento, sacó la predecibilidad de una persona, una que no está encerrada en una caja debido a la profesión de uno. Esto fue bueno pensé: hay una gran humanidad sobre esta renombrada historiadora.













ENGLISH VERSION



The Narrative Dialogue and Meeting of:
Historian Maria Rostworowski and Poet Dennis L. Siluk

By Dennis L. Siluk
(Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)



Advance: A historical meeting, it can be called between renowned historian, Maria Rostworowski (de Diez Canseco), of Lima, Peru, and Dennis L. Siluk, Poet and novelist (who lives part time in Peru, and part time in his home state of Minnesota, USA); Maria has a half-century of investigating and studying Peru’s historical past, and a world wide audience with her countless books on its cultures, traditions, and historical data; a few books translated from the Spanish into English (i.e., “History of the Inca Realm”).
Maria's mother was a Peruvian lady and her father was from Poland, as was brought out during the meeting between her and Dennis. Maria was born in Barranco, Lima, Peru; when she was five-years old she went with her family to Europe—and lived in France, Poland, England and Belgium, and returned to Perú when she was nineteen-years old, similar to Dennis’ experience, in that he fell in love with Peru (particularly the Mantaro Valley, and now has come to Peru to retire here part time).
She married a Pole in Poland, as Dennis married a Peruvian from Huancayo, Peru, adventuring in Lima, in 1999, they met, and married a few months later, in February of 2000.
Maria became a self-taught historian. Like Maria, Dennis’ enthusiasm has lead him to explore Peru, and write six books on its customs, traditions, and culture, in poetic form, and receive awards from the Los Andes University, in Huancayo, for his cultural contribution; in addition, he was awarded the Grand Cross of the City of San Jeronimo, and appointed Poeta Laureado of the city, along with Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture.
Maria, in Lima she met and married Alejandro Diez Canseco, her true love and together they lead a very culture-oriented life, perhaps like Dennis and Rosa Penaloza de Siluk have these past several years, for Rosa has traveled around the world several times, and throughout Peru.
Although much of Dennis’ cultural poetry is on many aspects of Peru, a great deal is on the Wanka Warrior and Pacific War, Dennis being a decorated Vietnam Veteran, of the war (1971), and the Mantaro Valley, as with Maria, to a great extent is on the Inca Empire.
Maria, She perhaps can be called, or referred to as the Josephus of Peru; as Dennis has been referred to in Peru, as the Jules Verne (referring to all his travels, and books relating to travel, and his cultural style of poetry, and writings), and at times, the Globe-trotter Poet, dubbed by the newspapers, and magazines in Peru. And now for the Narration, and meeting:




The Narrative Dialogue and Meeting



We (my wife, Rosa and I) arrived at the building about 10:50 AM, Thursday, morning, March 22, 2007, in Lima, Peru (Jesus Maria, district) at the cultural center (Peruvian Learning Instituted); right after we arrived we talked briefly with the guard, and we were already twenty-minutes late for the meeting, our cab was stranded on the highway, and we had to jump off it, and catch another on the side road. As we hurried up the stairs, we came to a small office the guard had pointed out to us, there she was sitting behind her desk, I knew her instantly, had seen a picture of her, she looked the same, I thought it was a younger picture at the time, so I was surprised, she looked younger than I thought she was: she wore a silk like multi colored blouse (black, red and white for the most part). She was 91-years old, but looked more like 67, I thought, well kept. She, Maria came around her desk, greeting me and my wife, as she asked us to sit down, at which time, I gave her two of my books I had done on Peru, she read the titles verbally, as she looked at each one, read them in English, “The Spell of the Andes,” and “The Magic of the Avelinos,” then she smiled (later on would say to a friend, “These are marvelous books…”), I could see she was proud to be a Peruvian, even though I would find out, she had Polish roots, from her father’s side, and Peruvian from her mother’s.
I knew it was most difficult to get a visit to see her, she had been sick a week before, and did not allow many visitors, in the first place, thus confirmed by a number of people prior to my arrival, and even the guard was surprised she allowed my visit, I felt more than lucky.

“Sit down please,” she said with her strong looking frailness, soft but stern eyes.
As I sat down I asked her to sign one of her boos for me, ‘Historia Del Tahuantinsuyu” and as I went to sign my books for her, she said, modestly, and with a little humor, “We shall interchange,” and again came that mysterious smile, that was warm and unspoiled.

(During the next few minutes I stood up, and Rosa my wife, took two pictures of her and I, and I showed them to her on my digital camera, and she looked at me somewhat, and said, “I’m 91-years old:” I didn’t say anything, perhaps nothing to say, she looked 25-years younger. She looked good for her age.)


Next came, loose talk about the food from Huancayo, since I had brought up the subject of my wife being from there, “I like Cuy Colorado,” I told her, and she replied, “Have you tried Cuy Chactado?” And I replied, “Oh yes…Professor Pedro’s wife in Huancayo made it for me, it was very good!” Then I added, “I like Huancayo po…ta..” and before I could finish the sentence, she corrected me, “You mean, Papa a la Huancaina?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.

(I think Maria was finding out, I loved Peru and its mysterious cultures as much as she did, back when she first discovered this ancient land.)

“What is your origin?” she asked me, knowing I was from North America.
“Russian and Irish,” I said, adding, “And your name isn’t Peruvian...?”
“Of course not,” she said, “it’s Polish.” Then I added, “I’m Polish also, from my Grandmother’s side, Russian from my Grandfather, and Irish, from my father.” Somewhat repeating myself.
“It’s a mixture,” she commented. I think I left out the Polish because of just that, too many spices in the pie. (And we talked briefly on that, how my extended family life, brought out the Polish and Russian in the family circle.)

Next, my wife and I invited her for breakfast saying, “Martina,” was going to be over Wednesday for breakfast (and her friend).
“Who is Martina?” she said, with a speck of wit, she was quite lively for a 91-years old woman.
My wife explained, she was from the Center of Anti-aging, in Lima, and then, pondering a bit on the name, and center, she recognized the name, saying, “There is a meeting next week there.” (I thought: what a sharp memory, better than mine)
“I’m too old for breakfast” she said, “I have to eat special food, but, thank you both for the invitation”

Then realizing the time had gone by quickly, I merely said, in a low voice; “We shouldn’t take anymore of your time, you’ve already given us much of it, and I’m sure you have things to do,” and so I excused us, and she said promptly, “Nice to meet you,” she was standing, when she talked, and now started to sit down, as we started to leave.
It was a most cordial meeting, and one I feel, brought out the ordinariness of a person, one that is not locked into a box because of ones profession. This was good I thought: there is a great humanness about this renowned historian.