Walking to the World Cup, and Other Distractions

New Jersey, Snapping Turtles, and a great book.

Northeastern New Jersey is part of New York City in everything but name. It's culturally, physically, and economically bound to the city, only removed by the Hudson River, but tethered to it by bridges, tunnels, and a shared history, like a sidecar being pulled along. That minority status has made it the dumping ground, literally and figuratively, for the messy logistics needed to keep a city running — the rail lines, the tangles of expressways, the power plants, the newer immigrants — which has further eroded its status. Everyone around the world I've met has visited New York City, or wants to, yet almost none have gone to New Jersey, or want to, unless they had to pass through to get to somewhere else.

I was thinking about all of this when a bunch of memes popped up on social media about the upcoming World Cup, because some games will be played in New York City, which means at the MetLife stadium, which means tourists will have to venture out to New Jersey. That getting there isn’t easy, or inexpensive, has become the latest dust up in the seemingly never ending Euro-poor versus Ameri-poor debate, a debate I just can’t seem to keep away from, no matter how fruitless it might seem.

So, given that I had some time to kill, and like every New Yorker I’ve neglected New Jersey for too long, I decided to try and walk from Manhattan to MetLife stadium, to prove that you can, but more as a troll to highlight that nobody would ever think of doing that because that’s not how the US is built. We have a different model of what felicity means, and prioritizing being able to walk to a football game isn’t an essential part of that. Being the lord of your own manor — having your own home, your own yard, and your own cars — is our national blueprint for success, and so you drive to the game, or catch an uber, or go to the sports bar down the block and watch it on giant screens.

My walk, which started¹ at the George Washington Bridge in upper Manhattan, was a little shy of fifteen miles, and took me across three additional bridges fording a canal, a river, a railyard, and an interstate, because this part of New Jersey is carved up into a jumble of segments by logistics. While it wasn’t exactly pleasant, there was always a sidewalk, and the bulk of the time I was passing through residential neighborhoods, with more parks and war memorials than industrial blight. While Garden State doesn’t quite describe the scenery, a state with lots of yard gardens, VFW halls, and Korean take-out stores does, although that probably wouldn’t fit on a license plate.

As I found out during my last New Jersey walk, its embrace of car culture, rather than public transportation, doesn’t mean there’s not localized community. I did this hike for speed, as a task to complete, so I only stopped to talk to a few people, but I could have spent several days, lingering in parks, restaurants, and neighborhoods, gabbing away. Every city is a confederation of small communities, and New Jersey is no different, despite the infrastructural mayhem.

In Fort Lee I met a Croatian-American couple watching their toddler’s t-ball game, along with hundreds of other parents, almost all recent immigrants. It was about as idyllic a picture of the American Dream as could be, but played out only a stone’s throw from a tangle of interstates. She was a mother of two, one of whom was on the field, and he was a cop whose parents came to Jersey in 1970, escaping Tito. They both spend their summer vacations on a dot of an island in the Adriatic (Otočić Školjić) with other families from the neighborhood with a similar past. It’s where they plan to retire, to a house they are building. As he said, “Isn’t it funny that all of our parents left Croatia to come here, and now their children are going back.” Indeed, if that’s not the American Dream, then what is?

He was confused why I would want to walk to MetLife stadium, a very natural reaction. When I asked him who would he root for if Croatia ended up playing the U.S., I knew the answer already, Croatia, because that’s probably the last vestige of ethnic pride assimilation erodes. A harmless thin cultural difference that the U.S. accepts, as long as you buy in to the larger purpose, which he clearly has. Work hard, play by the rules, build a life where you spend your weekends at the local ballpark with your children, and make enough to build a house on an island that your parents could only dream of.

In Ridgefield I met D (cover picture), a retired barber, oil salesman, mechanic, and more who came from Cuba sixty years ago, fleeing a different communist regime, who was doing his personal best to make New Jersey the Garden State, at least his little part of it. I didn’t need to ask him who he’d support in a U.S. versus Cuba match, his flag, shirt, and “Super Trump” yard signs told me that, but he wanted to make sure I knew that if you come to America you better come loving it, all of it, and if you don’t, then don’t bother coming, because what’s the point. His other sign, nestled among blooming roses, read,

“WHEN THE PEOPLE FEAR THE GOVERNMENT IT’S TYRANNY”

“WHEN THE GOVERNMENT FEARS THE PEOPLE IT’S LIBERTY!!”

That resonated with me, because I understood the sentiment, but with Government replaced by cyclists. What should have been the most enjoyable part of the walk, crossing the George Washington Bridge with its stunning views of the city and the Hudson Valley, was the most unpleasant, thanks to a surfeit of obnoxious cyclists. Someone will have to explain to me why weekend cyclists are such jerks, especially around New York City, treating pedestrians like they claim cars treat them, assuming everyone else is in their way. You're on a weekend ride, not the Tour de France, relax spandex boy.

The rest of the walk was uneventful, more a trek through the banality of suburban life, with a mix of light industry thrown in because it is New Jersey. I made it to MetLife stadium four and a half hours later, and contrary to online memes, I was able to do it entirely on sidewalks.

The walk was never intended to prove that you could do that, except to the most pedantic, because for the actual games, pedestrians will be barred from entering Meadowlands Sports Complex, presumably for safety reasons. And anyways, let’s be realistic, as the father at the T-ball game noted, nobody will want to make that walk, because again, that’s not how the U.S. is structured or what we value. We believe in a different model of living than Europe, or Asia. You have your home, a democratized version of the lord’s manor, and you keep a carriage, or many carriages, and you drive yourself to events, and if you can’t do that, you call someone else to drive you, or deliver stuff to you.

As I’ve written before, modern suburban life can be viewed as,

the democratization of the lordly life for the well-to-do, but still decidedly not nobility, plebes. A fenced-in home that is yours and yours alone, on a quarter-acre yard, with a two-car garage, is a version of the manor, complete with “having a carriage,” for the masses.

That’s what the highly scorned McMansions aspire to, but fall short of achieving. They are, like all suburbs, an attempt to replicate the English manor life, without the resources, historical background, or full cultural infrastructure.

The American model wasn't designed with World Cup fans in mind, the U.S. was chosen because it's the richest media market on earth, not because you can walk to the stadium. This is a television event that happens to have stadiums attached. Holding it in the U.S. is a square peg in a round hole thing. It, like everything Fifa does, is about making money and marketing. The U.S. is the richest country in the world, and the biggest media market, and consequently it’s a great place to broadcast a global event, with the ancillary benefit that Fifa believes it will help make the U.S. as soccer crazy as the rest of the world.

This World Cup will look great on TV, the fans will have fun outside of the game, and it will accelerate interest in soccer in the U.S., something that’s happening already, because the U.S. is huge, and even if it is our fifth favorite sport, that’s a bigger, and wealthier, market than being first in most countries.

Sports, especially soccer, are now big business, the top players millionaires with little connection to their birth country.

If you want the more personal connection to a sport, then go watch a high school game, or as I was fortunate to do, Faroe Islands play Macedonia, in Tórshavn. Or better yet, go watch a t-ball game in a Fort Lee park. Or, do what ninety-eight percent of the world does, and go to the local bar, and root for whoever you root for. That you can walk to, and it’s far cheaper. Although this being the U.S., most people will drive their SUV to the sports bar down at the strip-mall, where they can relax in air-conditioned comfort, complete with plenty of high definition replays.

Reginald Returns

If you followed me for several years you know I have two “pet” snapping turtles that live in my pond, Reginald and No-Name. For over a decade I’ve been feeding Reginald (and for five years No-Name) who appear every spring, after the ice cover melts, to get their evening hot dogs, or grapes, or chicken, but mostly hot dogs. It’s now our ritual. I tap on the water a few times, and they come racing to snap up whatever I put in front of them. They’re not discerning gourmets, more given to attack and eat mode, having grabbed a camera tripod and dragged it off into the pond before.

Reginald contemplating his options

This year was different, because my pond suffered a winter-kill. Which means it iced over longer than normal, oxygen was depleted, most of the fish in it died, and when the early spring thaw hit carcasses floated to the top. Several weeks later I spotted Reginald sunning on the edge of the lake. He'd survived, but after a few days of thought, he bolted, slowly trudging off to the surrounding wetlands to find a pond without dead fish. I was happy he survived, but a little miffed he didn't have a little more gratitude for our ten-year friendship. I hoped he would eventually come back when he realized that other ponds don't come with a weird tree on the bank that taps its branches in the water, and then when you approach it, sheds hot dogs.

He didn’t come back, up until several days ago, when I found him hanging in his usual evening spot, waiting to be fed. I have to say it made me surprisingly happy. His absence was depressing, because I’ve become attached to him, and really all snapping turtles, and I’ve yet to see No-name, so there’s still a small turtle-sized black cloud hovering over me.

Everyone ends up with some eccentric cause as they age, and mine has become advocate for turtles, snappers in particular². The world loves sea turtles, but snappers are too common, too ornery for adulation. But they are survivalists, and I admire that, and while I'm not sure I'd call them intelligent, they've got a tenacity, and a cunning built from millions of years of adaptability, that makes them interesting and admirable. And as I've learned, they actually do have personalities. Subtle ones, various shades of brutishness, but I could pick out Reginald from a snapper line-up based on behavior alone.

They also lead a more varied life than I’d realized. I’d assumed Reginald, being a male (I’m sure of that based on tail and shell size), has spent almost all of his thirty plus years in my pond, buried under the mud in the winter, and trolling around for refuse during the summer, but I’ve now spotted him hundreds of yards away, on walkabouts. The internet tells me that’s not uncommon. Even the most content snapper, and Reginald has it all in the turtle world, periodically checks out their surroundings to see if they can “level up.” I’m assuming his latest stroll was because he sensed a change in the pond’s chemistry, and was more motivated. Whatever the reason I’m glad he came back.

On my daily walks here in my town, I run into a few snappers every week, either laying eggs by the side of the road³, or crossing it. If you do, and you want to help, then grab them just in front of the back legs, where their long neck can’t reach, and carry them to the other side, in the direction they were headed. That might sound obvious, but I grew up in a time and place where someone was as likely to swerve to hit it, for fun, as to try and miss it. Few stopped to help them across the road, other than eccentrics. Life is a lot less brutal now than it used to be, in big and small ways.

So, join the pro-snapper club. It’s small, the utilitarian benefits are not clear, but it will make you a happier person. Really.

Upcoming plans and a great book

I usually plan for the next several months, airline tickets are the cheapest at that point, and as I get closer, I fill in the details. I’m posting this from the airport, heading to Las Vegas, for the McDonald’s Worldwide 2026, a biennial meeting of McDonald’s management and franchise owners. I’ve been invited as a speaker, along with Gary He, author of the spectacular McAtlas.

I’ve never been to Las Vegas before, so I’m excited to see the city, but I’m especially excited to go to the convention. At some point in the last few years McDonald’s realized I’d been to over two thousand of their restaurants, and I offer a unique perspective on what makes them work. I’m going as an unabashed fan, and as a regular. I wrote Dignity in my local McDonald’s, and that’s where I write most of my pieces. At my corner booth in the New Paltz franchise, where I go every morning at six a.m., to get my latte, read, write, and be social.

I’ll write a lot more about the convention next week, but if you are in Vegas this week, please reach out to me. I’ll try to do a meet up on Friday night if there’s enough interest.

The rest of my upcoming schedule is,

June 1st to 6th: Las Vegas

June 12th to 20th: Estonia — Tallinn, Narva, and Tartu, with a final stop in Helsinki

July 11th and 12th: “Another Life is Possible” conference at the Bruderhof commune in Rifton, NY.

July 27th to August 26th: Australia again. My plan (if you can call it that) is after a week in Perth make my way to Sydney on buses, via Newman, Broome, Darwin, Alice Springs, and a few points in-between⁴. And there are only a few points in-between. If you know Australia, that’s a rather audacious plan, and while my last long bus ride across the Australian interior was my favorite trip of last year, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull it off. Regardless, I’ll be bouncing around Australia for most of August.

After that, I’ll be going back to South East Asia, for six weeks, probably starting in October. I’m not sure exactly what I will be doing, other than revisiting Hong Kong, which I felt I short changed the last time, and finally going to the Philippines.

For the Korea leg of my trip, I want to do something different than staying in Seoul and visiting my favorite LP bar, and my girlfriends. I’ve become motivated by a fantastic book I’m reading, The Imjin War, by Samuel Hawley.

I’m embarrassed I’d not read it earlier, because the 1592 invasion of Korea by Japan is so central to the history of the region. You can’t understand Korea especially, without understanding the war. It’s still foundational to Korean identity, and their hero of that conflict, Admiral Yi Sun-sin, still factors into Korean pop culture, with one of the top-grossing Korean movies ever, Roaring Currents, being about him.

Two weeks ago I wrote about a trio of books on the Japanese European “conflict” of the 16th century, and that’s how I found this book, which unlike the other three, gives a different perspective into the “clash of cultures.” Japan, Korea, and China were not backward cultures “found” by Westerners, but equally successful ones, although with a different definition of that. It wasn’t obvious in 1550 that the Europeans would colonize Japan, Korea, and China, because while they were certainly further along the path towards capitalism, and consequently the Industrial revolution (that’s one argument), they were not more advanced when it came to the arts, many of the sciences, and social structures.

As Samuel Hawley notes, the Japanese invasion force was larger in manpower (up to five times), and more advanced, than the Spanish Armada that sailed to England only four years earlier. The Japanese were armed not only with more guns than the Spanish carried, but better weapons, because in very Japanese fashion they had centralized the manufacturing of them, so all the parts were interchangeable, and standardized.

The romantic notion, central to narratives like Shogun, that Japan needed a Western barbarian to unlock its military potential in 1600 gets the history backwards — by then Japan was one of the most heavily armed societies on earth, and while it had gotten there by initially borrowing the matchlock musket from the Portuguese fifty years earlier, they achieved their military might on their own terms, in their own way.

So I want to do a Japan/Korea trip that traces the route of the invading forces, from Kyushu, through smaller islands in the Sea of Japan, into Busan, and then up to Seoul, where all along that route there are memorials, museums, and relics from the war.

While I’m a lifelong reader of history, I’ve been too flippant about going into a country without doing more research. The past informs the present, and you can’t ignore it to the extent I have.

Regardless, I urge everyone to read the book, or at least google “Turtle ship of Korea.” I say that both as a fan of Korea, and turtles.

As usual, if you happen to be in any of the places I mentioned, please reach out to me.

Until next week, enjoy!

1. Two readers walked with me. Will and Nabeel, because they were the first two to say they wanted to join when I mentioned I was doing this on Twitter. They were great company, and very helpful. Thanks Will and Nabeel!

2. I got into reptiles close to three decades ago. Initially it was frogs, which was because I was trying to calm a child. As I wrote just before discovering Reginald,

When my first daughter started getting teased for her obsession with sharks I comforted her by lying that everyone had an animal they especially loved. When pressed I randomly chose frogs (I was hung over and just wanted quiet), which started a pro-frog avalanche: Walls filled with frog paintings, desks with frog playdoh figurines, and my birthday cakes with green and yellow frosting and frog-related presents. It worked. Five years later I was decidedly pro-frog. My Brooklyn apartment had three terrariums and each month I received both Reptile Magazine (under subscription for Dr. Jumpy Arnade) and a shipment of live crickets.

3. Laying eggs by the side of the road is apparently common, because it’s often the first ground they can dig in they find when leaving a wetland. I found this mother recently, and I stuck around until she was finished (half an hour), before helping her across the road. I don’t think it’s the best location, as a maternity ward, but perhaps it’s the turtle equivalent of giving birth in the back of the car on the way to the hospital.

4. Here is the detailed plan, which seems to be possible. As in, buses (and flights) exist.

1. Fly to Perth

2. Bus to Newman (Leaves Tues 10:30 pm, arrives Wed 2 pm)

3. Fly to Port Hedland (Friday 12 pm flight, arrive 1 pm, then leave again at midnight)

4. Bus to Broome (get on at midnight Friday, arrive Sat morning),

5. Bus to Kununurra (get on 6 am Tues, arrive 7 pm Tues)

6. Bus to Darwin (get on at 8 pm Thursday, arrive 8 am Friday)

7. Bus to Alice Springs (every week day, leave at 10 am, get in 7 am next day)

8. Fly to Sydney

   or alternatively, from Darwin

9. Bus to Mount Isa (only Monday, leave at 10 am, get in next day at 11 am)

10. Fly to Brisbane

11. Fly to Sydney