I.Asimov: A Memoir

by Isaac Asimov

  One result of the lost time was that we passed through Utah by day, instead of during the previous night as we ought to have done. Janet pays no attention to her Mormon heritage, but her parents were born in Utah and lived there into their twenties; she has many relatives there; the family homestead was there; and she had visited members

  of her family in Utah. She was therefore very excited at being able to see the state by daylight, so I decided the delay had been worthwhile.

  The stay in California was successful. My two talks went well, though my own views were out of sympathy with die ones that seemed to prevail among die people at Pebble Beach. (I remember defending New York vigorously against the onslaught of non-New Yorkers who tiiought of die city as a subbasement of Hades.) At the talk at San Jose, I met Randall Garrett for die last time and received the “Clone Song” from him.

  Janet was reunited widi her brother and sister-in-law for a satisfactory period of time and I rented a car (for die first and, so far, only time in my life) so that we could venture into die redwood forests and see the big trees. I marveled at diem and thrilled with anger at recalling one of Ronald Reagan’s many, many fatuous remarks to the effect that if you had seen one redwood tree, you had seen them all, and that therefore there was nothing wrong with chopping down those grandest of all the members of the plant kingdom. (Presumably, though, he was only repeating what someone had written down for him on one of his note cards.)

  After my talks were done, Janet and I drove the rented car down the coastal highway and I stared at miles of the Pacific Ocean. I can’t say I liked the brown countryside. Janet explained that there was a period in spring when it all turned “Kelly green,” but I want my countryside either green or with a snow cover—not brown. We eventually arrived at San Diego, where we had arranged with the managers of the San Diego Zoo for a guided tour the follow ing day, December 17, 1978. Looking at the sky, I asked the hotel doorman if it were going to rain. He laughed heartily. Rain in San Diego, you blighted Easterner? I could hear him saying. Of course not.

  The next day it rained buckets all day long. We couldn’t very well miss the San Diego Zoo just because it rained, so we went there anyway, and it all turned out very well. A high official of the zoo turned up in storm gear, looking like the captain of a whaling vessel, and we got our tour. (We were well dressed for the occasion too.) Whereas ordinarily the zoo would have been crowded with people and we would have had difficulty in moving about and getting a good look at the animals, this time we were in relative isolation, and since we didn’t mind the moisture, conditions were ideal.

  The next day we drove to Los Angeles, and Janet insisted we stop at Disneyland. I did so with the greatest reluctance, and, to my shame and horror, I enjoyed it tremendously.

  They had the exhibit of “It’s a Small World After All” that I had enjoyed at the New York World’s Fair in 1965. I didn’t know that, and as we walked into Disneyland, I said to Janet, “Where’s the ‘It’s a Small World After All’ exhibit?” I asked it just to be disagreeable, so that when she said it didn’t exist, I could make derogatory remarks about Disneyland, California, and the Universe.

  But she said calmly, “Right there, in that building.” Naturally, I insisted on seeing it. The seats were full of children aged seven to ten, sitting in moribund silence, plus one child of fifty-eight who couldn’t contain his excitement and kept pointing in glee to the various puppets we passed.

  In Los Angeles, the rain had temporarily cleared the air, so the Angelenos had their once-a-year chance to see blue skies and cumulus clouds. The weatherman on TV excitedly showed views of the clouds and explained what they were, while in the streets people stared in amazement at the sight of distant mountains, visible in air that was suddenly transparent. (And they knock New York!)

  And then we returned the car, took the train, and reached home on December 22. We were away for three weeks altogether, which meant an accumulation of three weeks of mail, three weeks of telephone calls, three weeks of advancing deadlines. When ordinary people go on vacations, their work gets done by an army of assistants, secretaries, helpers, family members, and so on. When I go on vacation, no one does my work. It all waits for me and it all has to be done in double time when I return. So what good is a vacation? may I ask. (Incidentally, I have not obliged Janet in all her longings. She also dreams of Vancouver, Canada, and Kyoto, Japan, and I have never taken her there and I suppose I never will.)

  After we returned from the trip, Janet wrote an article on the difficulties of crossing the continent with a man who hated traveling and would not fly. She sold it to the New York Times’s travel section, to my surprise. The article appeared in the February 25, 1979, issue of the Sunday Times, and it attracted a lot of very favorable reader comment.

  One person stopped me on the street and asked if I were Isaac Asimov, and when I admitted it, he said, “Would you tell your wife I really enjoyed her article?” I stopped at the nearest phone and called her. “Janet,” I said, “this nuisance must cease.”

  Foreign Travel

  I never expected to leave the borders of the United States after having been brought here in 1923. Even when I went to Hawaii, I hadn’t done so, for Hawaii (not yet a state then) was an American territory. That I did so the first time was because Gertrude had been born in Toronto and every once in a while I had to oblige her wish to see it. We drove there on two occasions, and once to Quebec.

  We were advised to take our citizenship papers, and sure enough, we had to show them. This bothered me, as a matter of principle. Native-born Americans, on returning from Canada, simply had to state they were native-born. They weren’t asked to show their birth certificates, and their word was considered good. But since I was a naturalized citizen, my word wasn’t good and I had to present my citizenship papers. This is second-class treatment for someone who is as American as anyone else, and I resented it.

  We went to see Niagara Falls, and as I drove up to the town of Niagara Falls, I worried out loud whether we might not get lost and miss the falls somehow. Even as I said it, I turned a corner and there they were. That first, totally unexpected sight was magnificent. We stayed on the Canadian side and watched the Horseshoe Falls in silent awe as the very last of the winter’s ice pitched over the precipice. The next day, there was no ice, only a blue cascade of water, falling into thunder.

  What I remember most clearly, though, is my getting ready for bed in a motel right near the falls, where we could hear it plainly, and my sudden realization that they did not turn off the falls at night. The roar continued throughout the hours of darkness, but it was “white noise” and after a while I got used to it and slept well.

  Naturally, we took the children with us, and on our trip to Quebec, David was particularly excited because I had mentioned that the people of Quebec spoke French. David had never heard a foreign language spoken, and he could hardly wait. He spoke of nothing else but the chance of hearing a foreign language spoken.

  Once in our hotel room in Quebec, he turned on the television set, of course, and listened to a cascade of French. He seemed completely nonplussed at that.

  “That’s French,” I explained. “That’s what you were waiting to hear, David.”

  And he said, “But I don’t understand it.”

  I had neglected to tell him that a foreign language was not to be understood by those who did not know it. I’m afraid it ruined the trip for him.

  In 1973, the World Science Fiction Convention was held in Toronto and my book The Gods Themselves was nominated for a Hugo, so I went to Toronto with Janet, even though we were still some three months short of being married. Janet and I have been to Canada three times since then. We visited Quebec as part of a QE2 cruise and made land trips to Montreal and Ottawa. I gave talks on all three occasions.

  On the whole, I am fond of Canada. I found the cities clean and the people friendly. There was a very nice Russian restaurant at which we ate in Montreal and it smote me sadly that I would never
eat there a second time, for I felt certain I would never be in Montreal again (there are disadvantages to being a nontraveler too).

  In the course of the various cruises we have been on I have occasionally set foot on dry land off the North American continent. In the trips to the Caribbean, Janet and I spent a few hours on each of different islands, including Martinique (where they have a statue to Napoleon’s empress, Josephine, who was born there), Tobago, one of the Virgin Islands, and so on. These islands tended to be hot and humid, except for Barbados, which, apparently, had no central mountain peak to catch the rain and where we really had an excellent time.

  In the course of one cruise, which docked at a Venezuelan port, everyone went off to look at natural wonders inland, but Janet and I contented ourselves with merely getting off the ship and standing on the pier for a while so that I could say afterward that I had set foot on the South American continent.

  I found that on my cruises I liked to be at sea. Docking at a foreign port always bothered me. It meant that I might have to get off the ship. I found that moving from the ship to shore meant “traveling” and I didn’t like it. Once I had been on the ship for a few hours it became “home” and I didn’t want to leave it. If I had to leave it, I always returned to the ship with the same feeling of relief with which I would return to my own apartment.

  I can only suppose that I attach a strong feeling of security to whatever I consider “home.” Perhaps it was built up over my first twenty-two years, when, indeed, I virtually never left home (except to go to school) and when my parents were always home too. Any place but home was alien territory, and that may account for my reluctance to travel.

  There were times when I refused to get off the ship at all. On the Canberra eclipse cruise, I did get off at the largest of the Canary Islands. I carefully insisted on accompanying two young women. After all, I was convinced they could find their way back to the ship when the time came, so that if I never let them out of my sight I would be sure not to find myself lost and stranded. I wandered with them into some retail establishment where they tried to buy something and found themselves stymied since they could not speak Spanish and the storekeeper was innocent of English. I knew no Spanish either, but I managed to conclude the transaction by means of sign language, and gained a great reputation as a linguist in consequence.

  However, I refused to get off at Lagos, Nigeria, when the Canberra docked there and, as a result, I have never been able to say that I once stood on African soil.

  My reluctance to leave reached its apogee when we stopped off at the Dominican Republic, especially since the QE2 was too large to stop right at the port but had to remain out at sea and take people ashore by tender. I actually agreed to let Janet get off the ship without me. It did me no good. I retained the security of the ship, but I had lost the security of Janet. I was resdess all the time she was gone, and about an hour before the tender that was to bring her back was due, I was down at the gangplank anxiously waiting for it.

  Our “Astronomy Island” cruises also took us to Bermuda a dozen times, where I gave a lecture to the astronomy fans from the ship plus the Bermuda astronomy group. Beautiful Bermuda soon became familiar enough to me to serve as a kind of home, and I found I could leave the ship without trouble.

  When Victor Serebriakoff talked me into rejoining Mensa, he had more in mind than the rejoining. He began a studied campaign to get me to come to Great Britain and talk to Mensa there. I refused, of course, but he kept up the pressure and in time I got to thinking about the matter.

  Janet and I are both Anglophiles, since each of us had spent our youth reading through the rich heritage of British literature. British history and geography was almost more familiar to us than the American equivalents. So I agreed to go if someone from British Mensa would consent to drive us about Great Britain, show us the sights, and make all the arrangements for room and board. They agreed to that, but we still had to get boat tickets and passports (my first) and, on the whole, I grew more and more frightened at the prospect. Janet listened to my outcries of concern and finally said, “Look, Isaac, you always tell me that there may be things I have agreed to do that I don’t really want to do, but that, once having agreed to it, I must do it with good grace and a smile. Well, if you can’t do that yourself, let’s cancel the trip.”

  It struck me to the heart, for she was dead right. I have indeed lectured to all my nearest and dearest on the necessity of doing what you have agreed to do with good grace and a smile. The trouble is that I am one of that common breed of human being who finds it very easy to strew noble little homilies far and wide but considerably less easy to follow those homilies himself. After Janet had told me this, I must admit I remained just as frightened as before, but I was careful not to let it show.

  We embarked on the France on May 30, 1974. It was the last cruise for the France, for just before landfall, the announcement reached us that the French government was tired of taking a loss and was selling the ship.

  We remained in Great Britain for a week and a half and then sailed back on the Queen Elizabeth 2. The whole trip took three weeks and, if we except my army career, this was the longest time I ever stayed away from home, though it was equaled four years later by my California trip, which I have already discussed.

  I must admit we greatly enjoyed the luxury of the giant ocean liners and, in particular, the food. On the QE2, I devoured caviar every chance I had, while Janet loved the chocolate souffles. We both reveled in beef Wellington, and a lucky thing too, for, as we found out, as one grows older tiie doctors take you off any kind of food that tastes good, and it’s just as well we ate it while we could.

  In England, we saw bluebells in the New Forest and a magnificent double rainbow in the Forest of Dean. We visited Stonehenge, Stratford on Avon, and every cathedral we came across. I ate every kind of traditional English food I could find, from shepherd’s pie to sausage rolls and from steak and kidney pie to treacle tarts.

  In London, I visited Faraday’s laboratory and lecture hall (just down the street from Brown’s Hotel, where we were staying). When we visited Westminster Abbey, I cried at Newton’s grave and saw in its vicinity the graves of four others of the world’s greatest scientists.

  Quite by accident we saw Queen Elizabeth in a coach with horsemen in red uniform before and after, and discovered something about such equine processions I never saw or heard mentioned. They left the street awash in fresh horse manure.

  I signed books in London and in Birmingham and, of course, I gave a talk to Mensans, with Arthur C. Clarke introducing me with genial insults (which, you can bet, I returned in my own speech).

  After I began giving lectures on the QE2, Janet and I made two more Atlantic crossings. Since I had no interest in remaining in Europe, we planned to stay on the ship, but that could not be done. All passengers had to get off the ship in Southampton, even if only to spend one night ashore and then get back on. The ship was officially “dead” while in Southampton, with all power turned off.

  So though my second trip across the Atlantic on the QE2 was delightful, I lived in apprehension over what would take place at Southampton. What if we somehow didn’t manage to get back to the ship the next morning and it sailed without us? As usual, these foolish fears of mine turned out to be more foolish even than they sounded. We did not miss the ship but returned in time.

  I cannot explain, by the way, why I should have this constant fear of being late or getting lost or both. I have almost never been late for anything in my life and I have never been seriously lost. Why I should treat with such anxiety troubles with which I have had no experience?

  Might it be because my mother was always so anxious over me that I knew I must never stay away even one minute over my allotted time or she would die a thousand deaths? Very possibly! My own anxiety over the possible lateness of Robyn or Janet has communicated itself to them, so that they are never late either, at least under conditions when I am expecting them. It seems a silly and eve
n wicked way of burdening those you love, and since I was always conscious that my mother’s fears were an unwelcome pressure on me, I’m amazed that I should, in my turn, have done it to wife and daughter. —But it’s no use lecturing me, I couldn’t help it.

  I even trained Gertrude in the great doctrine of “Never be late.” She objected at first, saying it was ridiculous to hurry, but I reminded her that on the most recent occasion we had met a train, we got there with just one minute to spare before the train left and we had to sprint down the station, dragging our baggage. “We get there early,” I said, “to avoid hurrying,” and she saw my point.

  But to get back to our trip— We had a great time in Southampton, which to New York eyes seemed extraordinarily clean. We even did a little traveling and looked through Winchester Cathedral and visited Nelson’s flagship, Victory, in Portsmouth Harbor. One taxi driver, a young woman, said, “You don’t want to take a taxi for that trip. It would cost you five pounds.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m a rich American.” So she took us where we were going and I tipped her generously for her concern for my wallet against her own best interests.

  The third time we made the Atlantic crossing on the QE2, Janet petrified me by suggesting that we get off at Cherbourg, France, where the ship docked before it crossed the Channel to Southampton. We could then remain in France for a full day and a half before it would be necessary to board the ship again. What’s more, Janet proposed to use the time to go to Paris in the evening of our disembarkation, on September 18, 1979, stay the night, the next day, and another night, and then come back to Cherbourg to catch the return trip.

  I did not expect to like Paris, having been told that the French despised anyone who couldn’t speak French fluently and that they particularly despised Americans. I was all set, therefore, to get into a rage at the Parisians, but as a matter of fact, I loved Paris. A friend had given me two tickets to the Folies-Bergere, but I saw no point to it. Unclad French girls looked no different from unclad American girls. Instead, we walked slowly down the full length of the Champs-Elysees on a perfect night and observed the passing parade. We saw the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. I wouldn’t go up the Eiffel Tower because the structure looked too open and rickety.