Wednesday, September 11, 2019

September 11, 2001 - A Remembrance

It's hard to believe that 18 years have passed since that horrific day in September of 2001. Eighteen years. In a way, it seems like it occurred a lifetime ago, but in another way, it feels like it was much more recent.

As many of you know, I was in my office in downtown Manhattan on the morning of September 11, 2001, about five blocks away from the World Trade Center.  Shortly before the first anniversary, I sat at my computer and wrote 21 pages of stories about things that occurred on that day and in the year that followed. I had passed on all offers of grief counseling, preferring instead to cry by myself periodically, usually while in the shower. My stubbornness may have been a mistake at the time, but I'm the son of a native Greek father who only went to the doctor when he had an appendage to present for re-attachment. Actually, not even then. So writing about what I'd experienced was, I believe, my catharsis.

I had a feeling, as I was memorializing those stories, that one day they'd appear in a book. Seven years later, I published a volume on the professional lines insurance industry, and those stories comprised the bulk of the chapter on September 11th.

A large number of people employed in the commercial insurance industry perished on that day, including former colleagues of mine.

There are many memories that I didn't record in those 21 pages; maybe someday I'll reduce those to writing as well. It was a very surreal time in the lives of most Americans.

The first event which made me realize how screwed up things had become was when, on September 12th, I saw a Michigan State Police car cruising along Third Avenue in Gramercy Park, not far from where I live. Did New York City really need help from that far away? I'll also never forget emerging from my normal downtown subway stop on the way to work in the weeks after 9-11 and seeing the remaining shell of the World Trade Center Towers smoldering. The entire Ground Zero site emitted an odor of burnt wire and rubber. During the first couple of days, I had to show my business card to National Guard troops in order to be allowed into the area where my office was.

One of the more emotional moments, at a time when such were plentiful, engulfed me as I was on the phone with a woman at Hertz trying to rent a car. It was a couple of days after September 11th and I wanted to drive from Manhattan to my sister's house at the Jersey Shore. When the rental agent, who, I believe, was in Oklahoma, realized that I was calling from Manhattan and had been living through the event and its aftermath, she suddenly dropped her businesslike tone.

"What's it like up there? Are you OK? Can we do anything else to help you?"

Her genuine concern and kindness struck a chord deep within me. It was at that moment that I took a break from thinking about the craziness around me to realize that September 11th was not a New York catastrophe, or a Pennsylvania or Pentagon catastrophe, but truly a national catastrophe that affected every single American in a profound way. Those who were close to the events of that terrible day have no special ownership of its tragedy or an enhanced right to receive sympathy. All of our lives were changed immeasurably on September 11th. Some of us, I believe, have a duty to report what we experienced so that other Americans, current and future, may have a better idea of what transpired on that fateful day.

With that in mind, below is a brief excerpt from the September 11th chapter of my book. If you would like to read the entire chapter, please e-mail me at and I will send it to you, free of charge, in a Word document. Your e-mail address will be used for no other purpose (The LG Report does not send junk e-mails; we save all our junk for our postings.)

This will be one of the few times, if not the only one, when The LG Report does not attempt to provide a humorous posting.

[Excerpted from "Claims Made and Reported: A Journey Through D&O, E&O and Other Professional Lines of Insurance," Soho Publishing November 2008; All Rights Reserved ( Click Here For Book's Webpage)

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love

– Bruce Springsteen “Into the Fire

“Into the Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2002 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP.) Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

VIII. September 11, 2001 

[Note: This chapter is a revision of a piece that I wrote just prior to the first anniversary of September 11, 2001, well before I knew that I would be writing this book. I attempted to memorialize many of the events that I had seen and heard about on September 11th and during the year following that unfathomable tragedy. Given that so many commercial insurance people died on that dreadful day, I thought it appropriate to include those writings in this book. One-quarter of this book’s net proceeds will be donated to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum.]

The morning of September 11, 2001 began like most other mornings for me at the time. I woke at 6:30 am and spent 32 minutes riding my exercise bicycle in my living room on East 18th Street in Manhattan while watching TV. I then showered and got ready for work at AIG’s downtown offices. Every morning, just before leaving my apartment, I’d rip a page off my horoscope-of-the-day calendar to see what the stars were predicting for me. This routine was attributable to my mother, who passed away in 1993. She used to put a horoscope-of-the-day calendar into my Christmas stocking every year starting in about 1980. After my mother died, my sister Maria continued the tradition. My guess is that I had read my daily horoscope almost every morning for 21 consecutive years.

That day, something very strange happened even before I left my apartment. I was about to rip off September 10th’s page to read the new day’s prediction when I said to myself, for no discernible reason, “The world is different now, I’m not going to read horoscopes anymore, I don’t believe in them.” With that thought, I unceremoniously threw the entire calendar into the garbage. This was the first time in 21 years that I knowingly refused to read my daily horoscope.

Outside on Third Avenue I flagged a cab and headed south to my office at AIG in the financial district, in keeping with my routine. I want to emphasize here that I don’t claim to have ESP or any special ability to see the future, but there was an unusual aspect to my commute. Riding down Third Avenue (which turns into Bowery Street in lower Manhattan), there was a point in Chinatown, called Chatham Square, where the Twin Towers would become visible from the cab after being obscured earlier by buildings. In my mind’s eye, I would regularly imagine the Towers exploding from a high floor just as I entered Chatham Square. I didn’t know what would cause an explosion and I certainly never thought that a plane would be responsible. Nonetheless, I was envisioning a large eruption of gray and black smoke. This vision was the only reason that I knew the name of Chatham Square (whose sign was rather obscured): I felt strongly that someday it would be an important detail and I took special note of it. Over the previous three years, whenever I’d arrive in Chatham Square to see the Towers unharmed I would literally breathe a sigh of relief. Even on September 11, 2001 I had that (false) sense of security upon seeing them intact.

My next significant memory of that morning occurred shortly before 9 am. My home phone service had inexplicably been malfunctioning for a few days and I finally got around to calling Verizon. I was dialing customer service when a colleague, Jason Brown, entered my office to tell me that he heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center Towers. I looked out my office window and saw dense clouds of paper fluttering high across the sky towards Brooklyn. It reminded me of the many ticker tape parades that I had seen along lower Broadway after a championship season or during a world dignitary’s visit. But I knew there was no parade that day. Something was wrong.

A bunch of us went downstairs to get a better look. Standing on the sidewalk in front of 175 Water Street with an ever-growing crowd of upward-looking gawkers (much like the throngs in a 1950s science fiction film watching descending UFOs on a city street), I remember thinking, or perhaps hoping, that helicopters with fire hoses would show up…of course, they didn’t.

Mesmerized, a colleague, John Feniello, shook his head and said, “That fire is going to burn for days.” Of course, he had no idea, nor did I, that the fire would burn not for mere days but for months – but not high in the sky, rather much lower, among the ruins of the Towers. But it seemed logical at the time; it was the only thing that we could believe.

When the second plane hit the South Tower, any doubts I had that this was a terrorist attack were immediately erased. We knew the country was under attack. Shrill screams could be heard and genuine panic started to set in, even though the worst was yet to come. Security guards announced that our building was closing for the day and told everyone to leave the area immediately. Much of the crowd started heading toward the ferries that were gathering at the foot of Wall Street. Others started walking uptown toward subways or buses that might, or might not, be in service. People also began walking across several bridges to escape the city.

It was a horror movie coming to life.

But I couldn’t leave, not at first anyway. I wanted to watch the firefighters battling the blazes. There’s no rational explanation, but I didn’t want to move until I knew that the situation was under control.

After a while of just staring up at the Towers, I heard a deep rumbling, like gigantic concrete bowling pins colliding. The noise didn’t last long, maybe five seconds at most. Before I knew what was happening, the South Tower slipped down out of my sight. It just disappeared…like a high-rise house of cards, its base kicked out from under it by an angry child. Moments later, the three-story building in front of us stood taller than the 110-story tower in the distance that had just been compressed back into its foundation. It was the sickest feeling, one that I don’t think I can quite explain. I saw it and I heard it and I felt it but I still can’t believe it. The Twin Towers seemed like the 100-year-old oak trees in your front yard: they couldn’t be moved or bent. If anything, they held up the sky. They anchored lower Manhattan and provided a sense of direction for every New Yorker who’d ever lost his bearings.

The collapse and disintegration of the South Tower seared my brain. I sincerely hope that I never see anything as stomach-churning again. People around me started screaming and crying. Everyone on the sidewalk knew someone who was in the Towers – a relative, a friend or a business acquaintance. Some people threw down briefcases and started running. I kept staring in shock. At that instant, I think everyone on the sidewalk knew that we had just witnessed the death of an unimaginable number of people. It occurred to me almost instantly that even the most battle-hardened soldiers never see so many people killed in a single instant. The aircrews who dropped the atomic bombs in World War II were not five blocks away at ground level when their payloads did their dirty work. And five blocks was relatively far in a sense; hundreds of firefighters, police officers, emergency medical technicians and other heroes were right on site. One firefighter later described the scene in this way: “Everything was on fire, everything you saw was burning. It was what I imagine Hell to be like.”

Quickly, certainly more quickly than I’d have imagined, a thick white cloud of smoke came rolling at us. It was a five-story-tall fog and it was moving fast. For a few seconds I froze. The bright September sky was being obscured. Then a guy not ten feet away from me breathlessly shouted “Run…ground smoke…it could kill us!”

I suddenly realized that there might have been deadly chemicals in the plane. There was no rational basis for this belief; but then again, nobody knew anything for sure at that point. The frenzy spread instantly: people dropped briefcases and bags and started running, screaming, just trying to get away from the smoke as quickly as possible. I remember thinking, “Those bastards, they might get me too, this could be how I die…” The fear of death was real and it was everywhere.

About two or three hundred of us ran straight toward the East River, only a block away, and then north past the South Street Seaport. I’ve since heard that some people actually jumped into the river to avoid the smoke but I didn’t see that. As we ran up the closed FDR Expressway the dense white fallout followed us. We formed a seemingly endless herd of stampeding business suits. Burning smells and the piercing screams of emergency vehicles joined to assault our senses. It was a war zone, although until that moment I don’t think that I had ever actually thought to imagine one. The word that describes it best and one which I’ve never truly experienced before: Bedlam.

I was alternately running and walking with four coworkers as we headed to my apartment about two miles away on 18th Street. A friend from San Francisco who was in town on business, in the lobby of the North Tower when the first plane hit, had – by some unbelievable stroke of good luck – noticed me amidst all the confusion and joined our group. When we were about halfway up the FDR, a guy who had been listening to a hand-held radio via earphone yelled out “The second tower just fell.” People gasped but we all just kept running. A few looked back.

When we got to my apartment, I wanted to tell the outside world the names of those who were safe. However, I still had a dead home phone and cell phone service was, at best, sporadic. Fortunately, my computer’s internet connection was working so I sat down and composed a message to everyone in my e-mail address book. To this day, many years later, I have not re-read that e-mail because I know that it will bring back many painful memories. But, I later learned, it was forwarded around the globe to those interested in first-hand accounts of the events in New York City on that dark day. My friend’s wife, who is an elementary school teacher, said that she used it in her classes as an example of a first-person account of September 11th. Here is that note:


Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2001 12:58 PM
Bcc: Everyone in my address book
Subject: The Surreal Events of Today

I am shaking like a leaf in a windstorm as I type this. I cannot believe the events of today, as I'm sure you can't. I was in my office at 8:50 this morning when a colleague came in and said 

that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center and papers were flying everywhere. I looked out the window of my office and saw a ticker-tape-parade type stream of papers flittering across the sky. After a few short minutes and various reports, some erroneous, a group of us descended in the elevator to the ground floor of our building, where we exited and looked to the left a bit where we saw Two World Trade Center, five blocks away, ablaze from the top third of the building. It was unreal. The black smoke and red flames framed against a clear blue sky. 

The crowd on the sidewalk grew exponentially until we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, at least 300 people staring upwards. One of my colleagues had just been in the lobby of One World Trade when the plane hit. He said smoke immediately came shooting down the elevator shafts and filled the lobby as people exited in terror. Pandemonium. He ran back to our 

building, covered with soot, where he stood with us to watch in horror. We all stood around gaping at the flames, not aware of any possible danger to us. I sat and thought about how many people I know in those two towers who have no doubt perished. I'm aware of at least seven people from my subsidiary of AIG who were in one tower on a high floor. We do a lot of 

business with Aon, an insurance broker on the top three or four floors of Two World Trade Center. As I type this, emergency vehicles are swirling by on the street outside my apartment on 18th Street. The massive cloud where the WTC used to stand is visible out my living room window. 

As we watched the flames, after about twenty minutes, all of a sudden World Trade Center Tower One, which we could only see above the 40th floor or so ,collapsed before our eyes. It was the sickest, most surreal, most stomach-churning thing that I have ever seen in my life. My nerves became electrified, in a bad way, and I felt almost like I would collapse as well. Other people did. People started crying and getting hysterical, obviously because they knew people in WTC One and/or know any of the many, many police and firemen and rescue workers who were in and around the building trying to extinguish the fire and save lives. I just heard the mayor on the radio and he said he can't even get a rough estimate of how many firemen and police and EMTs died in the two WTC Tower collapses, he just said the number would be very large, staggering. 

This whole day is unfathomable. 

As I type this I continue to shake. I think about all the people who I know in those two towers and I can feel tears well up. There will be far too many funerals to attend. Many bodies, I'm sure, will never be identified. It is unbelievable. At least 50 to 100 people I know died today. Can you imagine that? Unless you're in a war, which I think we will be soon, that doesn't 

happen. Many of you too, if not all, are in a similar situation, maybe you know even more who passed. Hopefully many of our friends and acquaintances were away on business or vacation, or running late. Our lives are changed forever and I don't think I'm being dramatic in saying that. 

A few seconds after WTC One collapsed, a large, probably five-story high plume of white smoke erupted, far denser than any fog I'd seen living in San Francisco. All of a sudden, someone yelled "ground smoke, run, it can kill us!" and people began panicking, although, I must say it was a controlled panic if there can be such a thing. Hundreds of people began running, although not trampling each other, actually helping each other to some extent. Although one friend of mine asked a car service to give him a ride to Westchester (the car was empty but for the driver) and he said, "Sure, $2,000." I'll let that statement stand as its own condemnation of mankind, or at least one (hopefully small) segment of mankind. 

As we walked/ran up the East Side under the FDR, past the South Street Seaport, the white cloud of deep dust/soot/whatever, followed us intently. It was moving at a good pace and, I must say, I feared for my life briefly, either from dying of smoke inhalation or being trampled. I don't think I was 

alone in that feeling, it was very, very scary, and my words don't do it justice. We continued running and walking up the East Side, myself and four co-workers. All of a sudden I heard someone say "Larry Goanos!" I looked and it was Fran Higgins, a friend from San Francisco who's brother-in-law, John Doyle, works with me at AIG. He was scheduled to be in a meeting at Two WTC at 9 am and was running late, it took him an extra hour to get in from his sister's house in Westchester and he was in the lobby when the first plane hit. He ran outside and saw debris falling and three people actually jumping off high floors in order to kill themselves via the impact rather than await being burned by the intense flames. Reports are that many other people jumped as well. Fran didn't know where to go so I invited him to join me in the trek to my apartment about two miles north. He had two heavy bags but lumbered on. His father narrowly missed the bombing at WTC in 1992. Two bullets dodged by his family at the WTC. 

Cell phones weren't working. People were screaming out names. It was sick (to re-use a phrase again and again; it is, sadly, the most appropriate.) The FDR expressway was closed. People were running everywhere, keeping an eye on the large cloud following us. Some were ready to jump into the East River to escape the smoke if need be. As we got about six or eight blocks up the FDR someone who had an earphone of a radio in their ear reported that WTC 2 had just collapsed as well. The whole thing was the sickest, most twisted, surreal, screwed up thing that I had ever heard or imagined. 

Eventually we made our way to my friend Jim Riely's place on East 22nd Street. As fate would have it, my phone had gone out of service last night and I was going to call Verizon to fix it this morning. My cell was working only in spots because of the great strain on the system. At Jim's we found Jim, Dan O'Connell, Colleen Dempsey (Doreen, Jim's wife, works uptown and ,I'm sure, is safe) and Chris Doyle, Jim's partner. Because a lot of you know a lot of these people, here are the names of people who I know are safe beside those above (a lot of phones are down but my internet cable connection is working, at least for now): Dennis Gustafson, Rose Mosca, Peter Wessel, John Feniello, Sandy Nalewajk, Kirk Raslowsky and Jennifer Raslowsky and their young daughter Alexandra (who they were just about to drop off in day care at the WTC when the first plane hit; they made it our office in tears, clothes askew, Kirk had just thrown down his briefcase, grabbed his wife and daughter, and ran) John Iannotti, Ray DeCarlo, Greg Flood, Mike 
Mitrovic, Kris Moor, John Doyle, Susan Eagan, Gail Mazarolle, Dawn Paolino.

If you know any of their families and don't know if they've been contacted, please call them if your phone works. 

Many more are safe, I'm sure, it was just hard to get a gauge with all the smoke and pandemonium. There are now six of us in my apartment watching CNN.

I stopped and picked up more bottled water on the way here because people were saying there are rumors of chemical warfare and possible contamination in the water (probably not true but why take a chance.) Things seem to be calming down a bit now (I've been taking a break between typing to let others send e-mails) but I'm sure our lives will never be the same. The tranquility of life in America has been shattered, we have been dragged into the trenches with the rest of the world. Our soil is no longer sacred, protected ground. Anyway, the people who I've mentioned are all safe, as am I. God bless America and God bless us all.

My friend Dennis and I met twenty five years ago, when we were both in college. He came to live for a summer with the Campaniles, close family friends of ours who live down the block from my childhood home at the Jersey Shore. A Virginia native, Dennis was interning for the summer with Kidder, Peabody on Wall Street. He is now Father Dennis, a Catholic priest in the New York Archdiocese. One of Father Dennis’s good friends, Father George, was an auxiliary chaplain with the New York City Fire Department in September of 2001. He was summoned to the World Trade Center shortly after the first plane hit on the morning of September 11th. That day, I was told, marked the first time in the history of the New York City Fire Department that all 30 auxiliary chaplains were summoned to a single fire. They gathered at St. Peter’s Church on Barclay Street, about two blocks north of the burning towers.

Father George said that virtually every fire truck racing to the World Trade Center stopped at St. Peter’s so that the crews could confess their sins (the majority of NYC firefighters are Roman Catholic) before charging into the flaming buildings. The commanders admonished their subordinates to skip confession because of the magnitude and urgency of the situation, but the rank-and-file firefighters paid no heed. These men forced almost every truck to stop at the St. Peter’s on what would be the final fire call for most of them. Father George sensed that these brave men did not necessarily foresee the Twin Towers collapsing, but they knew that they would very likely lose their lives saving others and they wanted to square up with God first. So many firefighters stopped for this final holy sacrament – despite the unprecedented importance of their mission – that the priests had to absolve them of their sins en masse as they jumped off the trucks. There was no time for individual confessions. These courageous public servants knew that they were going to die, and yet they pressed onward to discharge their duties. In the face of the fiercest fires anyone had ever seen, they had no thoughts of their own safety, only of saving others. Ironically, St. Peter is believed to usher the deceased through the Gates of Heaven. Perhaps on September 11, 2001 his work began for 343 firefighters at a church bearing his name.

I have not seen the story above – every word of which I believe true – anywhere in the media. Despite that, I think it’s an important account to record. The same holds true for most of the other entries in this chapter, collected during that fateful day and in the year that limped along behind it. In most cases I have not changed the temporal references so that it’s clear these were the thoughts of someone writing just a year after September 11, 2001. Every New Yorker, and every American, has vivid recollections of personal experiences connected to those attacks on our nation. As we all know, it was not merely a New York tragedy or a Washington, DC tragedy or a Pennsylvania tragedy; it was an American tragedy which left no citizen untouched. This chapter is one New Yorker’s attempt at documenting some of the events of that horrific day and its aftermath in the following year.

The Call

My friend John works at Marsh’s world headquarters in midtown at Sixth Avenue and 45th Street. On the morning of September 11th he and his colleagues heard the reports of a plane crash and looked out their midtown windows to see the flames and smoke consuming the WTC North Tower that housed additional Marsh offices. Frantic calls to coworkers in the World Trade Center went unanswered.

By early afternoon Marsh management decided to survey their World Trade Center employees’ families to determine who was accounted for and who wasn’t. They asked for volunteers to call employees’ homes to see if they had checked in with their families. John, wanting to help out in some way, volunteered. He was given a list of names and phone numbers. He called the first few numbers and got only answering machines. Then a woman finally answered at one residence. “Hi, this is John, I work for Marsh,” he began, “I’m calling to see if your husband has contacted you to say he’s OK.”

The woman who answered the phone began crying. “I thought you were him,” she said through her tears. She hadn’t yet heard from her husband. John gave the woman two Marsh hotline numbers. His stomach twisted into a knot as he hung up the phone. John dialed another couple of numbers but then turned in his list, unable to make any more calls.

Michael Cahill

Mike was the one I knew the best out of the three Marsh FINPRO victims whose memorials I attended. When I worked at Marsh for two years in the mid-1990s I had called Mike often for his advice on fidelity insurance matters (about which I knew nothing and he was an expert.) When I returned to working for AIG, I dealt with Mike from the other side of the table. The universal opinion on Mike was that he was a great guy who was always willing to help out and had as much integrity as anyone in the business. He was the kind of guy who you knew would be an exemplary brother or teammate; Mike was always there for you when you needed him.

Mike’s memorial service was held at St. Aidan’s Church in East Williston, New York (Long Island) on a morning in early October of 2001. The place was already jammed 20 minutes before the start. In retrospect I recall a rainy and gloomy day but I’m not sure if my memory is accurate or simply clouded by the general nature of the proceedings. Like hundreds of others in the packed church, I filed in quietly and found a seat. What transpired over the next hour I won’t recount in detail, although I can tell you that the first three to speak at the ceremony (Mike’s parish priest, his brother and his boss at Marsh, Tom Vietor) all rose to the occasion and did an admirable job under staggeringly sad conditions. The last eulogist however, Mike’s wife Colleen, left to rear their two beautiful young children herself, took it to another level. She spoke with unparalleled eloquence, passion and composure.

I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand from where Colleen drew her strength (the inspiring memories of Mike, no doubt, had much to do with it), but I have never witnessed such a display of courage and composure in the face of a tragedy of this magnitude.

Her eulogy was funny, endearing and engaging. It was simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking. It captured the essence of Mike perfectly, at least as I knew him, which only magnified our sense of loss. She recounted, among other things, that the story of who-pursued-who in the relationship differed depending upon whose version you heard, Mike’s or Colleen’s. They had met as summer-share housemates in the Hamptons. According to Mike’s version, Colleen sat by the pool reading a paperback with eyeholes cut right through the book so that she could follow his every move.

Colleen’s eyes, amazingly, remained dry throughout the eulogy. Both her words and their deliverance were truly inspirational. The final piece to Colleen’s tribute was an REM song, one of Mike’s favorites. St. Aidan’s graciously allowed the family to play the recording over the church’s loudspeakers as the memorial concluded and people filed out even though, strictly speaking, it was against church policy. I don’t recall the title, but it was about a guy who, smitten with a woman, calls to ask her out but gets her answering machine. It mirrored in a way Mike’s own courting of Colleen. As the song played my eyes were drawn to the couple’s innocent children fidgeting in the front pew of the church. It was a sledgehammer of sadness and it found its mark in most of us. As Colleen walked up the center aisle to exit, the previously-muted sobs of the crowd began to rise in unison, unabated. All but those few souls who had already cried themselves out were in tears as the church emptied.

Again, for a copy of the entire chapter, please e-mail

For information on the National September 11 Memorial & Museum, please go to

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Four Perfecto Days in Barcelona 

Ok, Ok, LG knows, nothing is perfect, even four days in Barcelona. But this is social media, where everything IS perfect. Everyone is beautiful, fashionable, young and scores 100% on all quizzes no matter what their porn name might be. 

So when LG, The Wife and two friends took a mini-vacation to Barcelona earlier this month, it all was perfect. And LG has the photos, and snarky captions, to prove it. 

What's a vacation without taking the obligatory out-the-airplane-window photo that screams to your fellow passengers, "This baby is going on social media!" Mission accomplished. Oh, and those are the Pyrenees, the mountain chain separating Spain from France. But you already knew that since you score 100% on all social media trivia quizzes. It's hard to believe how smart you are at such a seemingly (from your photos anyway) young age.   

The Barcelona beachfront was man-made (must be true, the tour guide told us...) in advance of the 1992 Summer Olympics. That small sand peninsula sticking out on the left was meant to symbolize Michael Jordan's tongue as he went up for a Dream Team dunk. Ok, that part is BS, but the first part is (supposedly) true.  

You don't want to miss the main food market in Barcelona (St. Josep La Boqueria for those of you who can't read Spanish.) Actually, the co-official language of Catalonia, the region of Spain of which Barcelona is the capital, is Catalan [Click Here for More on Catalan]. It's very similar to Spanish, but different enough to be annoying to those who only know high school Spanish. LG, of course, is fluent in Spanish and 32 other languages (see, e.g. his Facebook trivia quiz results). 

The market contains a veritable orgy of foods, everything from fish and meats to fruits and desserts. In a nod to food porn, LG will take a break from commentary while you feast your hungry eyes on the chow depicted below:   

There was much more, including restaurants and snack bars, both ringing the market and interspersed among the food stalls, but LG's 110 Instamatic camera ran out of film. For those of you with squeamish stomachs, don't look too closely at the squab (fancy name for pigeons), rabbits, chicken and other formerly-cute, 6th-grade-class-pet-type animals hanging from the racks above.  

Barcelona's anti-smoking campaign includes large "no smoking" symbols floating on hot-air balloons throughout the region. Oh, wait, sorry, that's just a sticker on the bus window. This is a mundane photo of an unsightly industrial plant. Hey, they call can't be winners. It's a nice break from beautiful vacation scenery, no? 

This is the Santa Maria de Montserrat Abbey, a monastery located on the mountain of Montserrat (translates as "serrated mountain"), about 30 kilometers (look it up if you want the mileage translation Einstein) west of Barcelona. It was founded in the 11th century (when Bernie Sanders was still in high school) and rebuilt in the 1600s (not wired for cable at the time.) There are about 70 Benedictine monks in residence in this mini-city with its own hotels, stores, restaurants and police department. More at:

A view through an arch at Montserrat. Legend has it that you shouldn't get into a disagreement with your traveling companion here or they'll become...wait for it.....your arch enemy. 

The inside of the main church at Montserrat. It's hard to discern from this photo, but in the lighted area above and to the right of the crucifix (in the center of the photo) tourists are in a hallway viewing a Black Madonna (Click Here for More Info) which they visit to make requests for blessings, such as to appear on an internationally-prestigious blog like The LG Report. Miracle granted people!  

Another 30 minutes west of Montserrat, LG, The Wife and traveling companions (The LG Report didn't secure rights to reveal names or provide photos of said traveling companions) took a tour of a local winery. This is a long-distance view of the serrated mountains from a balcony at the winery. The small-batch wine is not available in the United States, so don't ask.  

The French are widely-renowned for having the best culinary skillz in Europe, if not the world, but Spain can certainly hold its own with high-end establishments such as this! 

For those who get tired of eating great food and lugging around a lot of extra cash, there's this restaurant, Alta Marea. It bills itself as having the "best views" of Barcelona. That's probably true, but the food was mediocre at best and the prices were Manhattan-On-Steroids. Not fine dining, but fine viewing. The LG Report suggests you stay away. Pro Tip: If you could bring a bucket of the Colonel and a six pack up here, it would be perfect! You can also partially offset the high cost of the food by stealing small items from the restaurant. Not that LG did this, of course... 

This, my friends, is Sagrada Familia, a humongous, unfinished basilica in Barcelona that is probably the city's #1 tourist attraction. It was mobbed on a weekday in mid-February, so one can only imagine the crowds during tourist season. Construction was begun in 1882 and is slated to be completed in 2026, the 100th anniversary of the death of the main architect, Antoni Gaudi. He was hit and killed by a self-driving Tesla while looking at his Palm Pilot. It's an architectural wonder. Most tourists will need to purchase tickets in advance. For an additional price, you can take an elevator up about 55 stories to the top of one of the towers. Here's another of the many differences between Europe and America: In the elevator on the way to the top of the tower (no BS), the elevator operator tells you -- for the first time (there are no warning signs) -- that you will have to walk down to the ground floor. And the spiral stairway is exceedingly narrow, not for the faint of heart. If someone stops along the way, everyone behind that person must stop, there's no room to pass someone.  In the United States, you'd see six written warnings before you get in line for the elevator and you'd be forced to sign three waivers before walking down the 55 flights. Not in Spain though, surprise! For more info on Sagrada Familia, click Here.  

 One of the towers with its ornate top. The building abounds with symbolism, none of which The LG Report cares to explain. You're welcome. 

Not sure why LG took this shot but here you have it. 

Impressed? You should be. 

The photo doesn't do it justice. 

The beachfront in Barcelona stretches for miles and boasts a wide variety of restaurants, hotels, stores, marinas and more. Plus some graffiti. The Spanish built this wall to keep immigrants from swimming ashore and accessing the city (just in case Donald Trump is reading this.) 

A W Hotel is on the Barcelona beachfront. The building resembles a ship's sail, LG assumes that's intentional. If not, it's quite a coincidence. For those of you who don't speak Spanish, "W" translates into English as "W." A while back there was a massive earthquake and this was the "M" Hotel temporarily. 

Some ne'er do-wells strolling the beach midday and midweek. Probably plotting to pickpocket some tourists (speaking of which, pickpocketing is a common crime in European cities, beware American tourists!) The two males on the right of the photo are merely shadows of their former selves. 

The Wife procured one of these yoga rugs, displayed on the beach by enterprising businessmen, for 12 Euros. We saw same exact rugs later in a store in the Barcelona shopping district for 5 Euros. But that was of no concern to The Wife since LG paid the 12 Euros, not her! Pro Tip: Get someone else to pay and all souvenirs are reasonably priced.  

LG rented a sailboat and, while representing the New York Yacht Club, won the 2019 Barcelona Sailing Cup in 2:04:28.  Ok, not really, LG took this picture from the beachfront and had to come up with an interesting caption. If you believed that first sentence, please slap yourself in the head while holding a heavy metal object. Thank you. 

 Another view of the beachfront. But you knew that. 

This is a building in Park Guell, the most famous park in Barcelona. It's built on the side of a small mountain. Comfortable walking shoes and a CPR kit are recommended. "Park Guell" translates into "grueling park that will make you sweat even in February." 


A shot of Sagrada Familia from a distance. Another difference between Europe and America: Construction continues, with cranes lifting heavy loads, as tourists scurry around below. A personal injury lawyer's idea of Heaven! 

LG's friends had the presence of mind to purchase, in advance, tickets to an FC Barcelona soccer game. It was an amazing experience. The stadium, Camp Nou, seats just under 99,000 people and it appeared to be sold out for a run-of-the-mill game against a much lesser opponent, Valladolid.   

LG captured a photo of the only goal of the game (yes, honestly), scored by none other than Lionel Messi, FC Barcelona's international star from Argentina. Messi is considered to be to soccer what LG is to blogging, i.e. one of the best ever (proof can be found by clicking Here).  

This is a picture of a particularly rowdy fan section behind the FC Barcelona goal. Surprisingly (although sensibly), no alcohol is sold at the games, yet fans sing loudly and wave flags and banners non-stop throughout the game. Something tells LG that most fans pre-game, as they say.  

Seen in one of Barcelona's shopping districts. Looks like Melania's handwriting. 

Certain business names in Spain would not translate well in America. Although maybe two former U.S. presidents would disagree. 

On a 50-degree day in February, two naked men were speaking on their cell phones on the beach. LG attempted to restore order by yelling out, "Hey, buddy, this isn't a JUNK yard!" but to no avail. Our thanks to LG Report intern Anne S. for blocking out the Sagrada Familia Jewels with her Photoshopping skillz. 

A final photo as the sun sets over Catalonia and this LG Report blog post comes to a close. We hope you enjoyed this brief overview of Barcelona, a wonderful city with a lot to offer!* 
*And no, we won't send you the unedited photo of the guy on the beach. 

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Just the Fax - Halifax, Nova Scotia That Is...

LG and The Wife went to Halifax, Nova Scotia on Canada's eastern coast for a long weekend recently, eh? We chose mid-October because it's an ideal time to go if you like avoiding crowds of tourists and high prices, eh? We also avoided warm weather and many restaurants and attractions which close down in September, eh. You can't have it both ways hoseheads!  

Anyway, here's a photographic of LG's Halifax holiday (play your own soundtrack of Canadian musician/singers Neil Young, Bryan Adams, Justin Bieber, Drake, Celine Dion, Anne Murray, Rush or Gordon Lightfoot, et al. in the background as you look at the pictures. Eh?)   

This is the lighthouse in Peggy's Cove, a town of 35 year-round residents about a 40-minute drive from Halifax on winding country roads. The town is very picturesque and chocked full of souvenir and arts/craft shops, eh?  Is my repeated use of the Canadian "eh?"  annoying you yet, eh?  

 This is a church in Peggy's Cove. It can hold up to 200 collection-plate contributing tourists. 

 This is a memorial to the people on SwissAir Flight #111 who died when their plane went down off the coast of Nova Scotia in 1998. It's about a mile from Peggy's Cove.  A major part of the recovery operations after the flight went down were run out of Halifax. There were no survivors. 

 This is the town of Lunenberg, about an hour's drive from Hailfax. Quaint and charming little burg with the usual line-up of tourist traps and faux artsy fartsy venues. 

Speaking of "fartsy," every cultured individual knows what a "Dutch oven" is [in case you don't: It's when you pull the covers over a bed mates head and let loose with flatulence.] Who knew that you could actually cook in that hot space? Another life hack! This gives a new meaning to the phrase "rump roast." 

Another photo of Lunenberg, eh? 

Nova Scotia, being just north of Maine, is home to a lot of delicious seafood, including the fabled flying lobster fish. This one is just about to swoop in on some Japanese tourists to steal their cameras.  

Canada is relatively advanced technologically, but still behind the times at the pump, where locals still buy their gas for their Model T's from Esso. Hey, without a full tank how are you going to drive to the Blockbuster Video store?  

This is Merlin, the resident macaw at the Maritime Museum in Halifax. Macaws can live to be 90 years old when Colonel Sanders isn't around.  

Many of the 700 or so survivors of the Titanic's 1912 sinking were brought to Halifax, as were the dead bodies and some of the wreckage. This is one of the few remaining deck chairs from the Titanic. LG tried to rearrange it in accordance with that old saying about trying to repair failing enterprises ("It's like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic") but the museum's security would have none of it. Not pictured: Celine Dion. 

LG won't insult you by telling you that this is the entrance to Halfax's Public Gardens. Oops, too 

LG was pleased to run into another American at the Halifax Public Gardens. He appears to be an expatriate with American roots, although we are unaware of the family tree. 

Oow, aaaah. Go ahead, say it, eh? 

Two model boats on the pond in the Public Gardens are pictured shortly before LG re-enacted Pearl Harbor on them. 

LG had a really witty caption for this one but he can't remember it now. Somebody pass the Fritos. 

They have some unusual comic books in Canada. No offense intended to Jimmy's offspring. 

In case you forget where you are after consuming some of the now-legal local cannabis, it always helps to look at a local flagpole, eh? We're told that flag is made of hemp.  

And, finally, a symbolic photo showing man's struggle for solitude in an increasingly crowded world, adrift in a sea of confusion. At least that's one interpretation of this picture but, hey, whatever floats your boat. 

Until next time kidz, this is The LG Report signing off...